Tyler measured off the distance on the chart between the Kentucky’s current position and the entrance to Emerald.
“Ten days, sir.”
3
FAST-ATTACK SUBMARINE—USS HOUSTON
“So what have you learned?”
Captain Murray Wilson stood between the Houston’s two periscopes, his arms folded across his chest, glaring at the ten Prospective Commanding and Executive Officers gathered in the submarine’s Control Room. The atmosphere in Control was subdued, with most of the ten PCOs and PXOs staring down at the submarine’s deck. As Captain Wilson dressed down his students, the Houston’s crew sat quietly at their watch stations, painfully aware their performance during the Submarine Command Course had been dismal as well.
“In twenty engagements over the last week, the Kentucky consistently defeated you, sinking this ship every time. A ballistic missile submarine, not even one of our front-line fast attacks, handed your ass to you.” Wilson shook his head, then asked his question again. “So what have you learned?”
One of the PCOs, headed to relieve as commanding officer of the USS Greenville, spoke. “We need to better position the ship, taking advantage of the ocean’s thermal layer. The Kentucky gained her advantage through better employment of her sensors.”
“True,” Wilson replied, “but that’s not the answer I’m looking for.”
An uneasy silence settled over the Control Room again until a second PCO spoke, this one headed to relieve as commanding officer of the West Virginia. “Countermeasures aren’t very effective against our ADCAP torpedo. You have to be more aggressive in your evasion tactics when you’re being shot at with advanced digital torpedoes.”
“Another good observation,” Wilson said, “but still not what I’m looking for.”
Silence returned to the Control Room as Murray Wilson, the most senior captain in the Submarine Force, waited for the obvious answer from one of the students in the twelfth Submarine Command Course under his instruction. Each year, the Submarine Force held four command courses, ensuring each officer tapped to relieve as a submarine commanding or executive officer fully grasped the knowledge and tactical guidance necessary to successfully lead his crew in combat. The three months of intense training culminated in a weeklong exercise at sea, the students split between two submarines, pitted against each other day and night, their Torpedo Rooms filled to the gills with exercise torpedoes.
The Houston was supposed to go head-to-head against another fast attack, the Scranton, but an electrical turbine casualty sent the Scranton to the yards for repair, and the Kentucky was hastily drafted into service. When the students assigned to the Houston learned the Kentucky, which specialized in launching missiles instead of hunting enemy submarines, had replaced the Scranton, their reaction was glib; they were confident they would defeat the Kentucky without breaking a sweat.
They couldn’t have been more wrong.
Wilson’s gaze swept across his now humble students, stopping on Commander Joe Casey, headed to the USS Texas, one of the Virginia-class fast attacks. He’d been the most boisterous of his students, loudly proclaiming they’d crush the Kentucky in every scenario.
“Commander Casey. What’s the most important lesson you learned this week?” Casey looked up, and Wilson knew from the look in the young commander’s eyes that he had learned his lesson.
Casey said, “Don’t be too cocky.”
Wilson smiled. “That’s exactly right, gentleman. Never underestimate your opponent, which is exactly what you did this week. When you found out the Kentucky replaced the Scranton, you expected a cakewalk. Going up against a ballistic missile submarine instead of one of our fast attacks was going to be like what, Commander Bates?”
Doug Bates, standing next to Casey, looked up and answered quietly, “Like shooting fish in a barrel.”
“Things didn’t turn out quite the way you expected, did they? Just because the Kentucky is a ballistic missile submarine doesn’t make her any less capable than a fast attack. All of her department heads have served on fast attacks—and don’t forget, I trained her commanding officer and executive officer. True, her sonar and combat control systems are a generation behind what we have on our fast attacks, but they are capable enough in the hands of a crew that understands the ship’s strengths and weaknesses, and most important, doesn’t underestimate their opponent. When you lead your submarine into the Western Pacific or through the Red Sea into the Gulf, you’ll be pitted against what could easily be considered an inferior adversary, lacking the sophisticated equipment and training you enjoy. But all it takes is one mistake, one incorrect assumption, one torpedo to send you and your crew to the bottom.”
Wilson’s ire began to build as he contemplated the fate of his students. He ought to fail them all, permanently ending their careers, a fitting reward for their inability to lead their crew in combat. But as he scanned the faces of the sullen and embarrassed officers, he wondered if instead of this being his worst class, it was his best. No other group of Prospective Commanding and Executive Officers had learned this critical lesson more thoroughly than the men standing in front of him.
“Excuse me, sir.” The Houston’s Junior Officer of the Deck interrupted Wilson. “The Captain requests your presence on the Bridge. The Kentucky has returned to periscope depth and is requesting release.”
Wilson acknowledged the officer’s report, then finished addressing his students. “When we get back to port, I want a complete reconstruction of each encounter, with detailed analysis of what you did wrong and what you could have done better in each scenario. You have seventy-two hours to complete reconstruction of all twenty events.”
* * *
A moment later, Murray Wilson emerged onto the Houston’s small Bridge cockpit, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the bright daylight, joining Commander Kevin Lawson, the Houston’s commanding officer.
“Looks like I’ve got some work to do,” Lawson said, a look of embarrassment on his face. “I know I’ve got a new Sonar Chief, but I didn’t realize how far the sonar shack’s proficiency had fallen. We’ll spend a few weeks in the sonar trainer before our next deployment.”
Wilson didn’t reply. He knew Lawson would take a turn on his crew as soon as they returned to port. Instead, his eyes searched the horizon for the Kentucky.
“Bearing two-seven-zero relative,” the Lookout behind Wilson said.
Turning to his left, Wilson spotted the Kentucky’s periscope and antenna just off the Houston’s port beam, only a few hundred yards away as the ballistic missile submarine headed out to sea for her long strategic deterrent patrol.
Lawson passed the handheld radio to Wilson. “The Kentucky’s on channel sixteen.”
Wilson took the radio, holding it close to his mouth. “Outbound Navy unit, this is inbound Navy unit, over.”
A familiar voice crackled from the radio; Murray’s son, Tom, responded to the Houston’s hail. “Inbound Navy unit, request release, over.”
Wilson replied, “Outbound Navy unit, you are released for other duties. Godspeed and good hunting, over.”
There was a burst of static, followed by Tom’s response. “That’s not an appropriate wish for this class of submarine, but thanks anyway. See you in a few months, sir. This is outbound Navy unit, out.”
Wilson handed the radio back to Lawson, then watched the Kentucky’s periscope grow smaller as the submarine headed out to sea, finally disappearing altogether as she descended into the murky ocean depths. A brisk wind whipped through the fast attack’s Bridge, sending a chill down Wilson’s spine. He rubbed both arms as he looked up, noting a towering bank of dark gray cumulous clouds approaching from the west, the direction the Kentucky was headed. But Wilson’s son and the rest of the submarine’s crew wouldn’t even notice the storm churning the water’s surface several hundred feet above them.
“The cold front’s rolling in fast,” Wilson said, turning to Lawson. “Let’s get in before we get caught in the storm.”
4
WASHINGTON, D.C.
National Security Adviser Christine O’Connor sat in her West Wing office with her elbows propped on her polished rosewood desk, rubbing her temples with her fingertips in a slow circular motion. As she gazed out her window overlooking the White House south lawn, hoping for relief from her pounding headache, she took no notice of the gray skies and steady rain that had moved in overnight. Instead, her thoughts dwelt on the upcoming meeting with the president’s chief of staff; the reason, she was sure, for her painful migraine.
Searching through her desk, Christine located and then downed four ibuprofen with a gulp of lukewarm coffee. Although she felt far older today, she was only forty-two, not that most people would have guessed; only the thin lines around her slate-blue eyes gave her age away. Still, it felt like her time in the administration had aged her more than it was worth. As Christine brushed a strand of auburn hair away from her face, she wondered, not for the first time, if she had made the right decision.
Two years earlier, in the incoming administration’s temporary spaces off Pennsylvania Avenue, Christine had sat nervously across from the president-elect, answering pointed questions from the man she’d met only moments earlier. She hadn’t expected the interview to go particularly well; she disagreed with the president-elect’s positions on national security on almost every point and made no effort to imply otherwise. However, there must have been something about her straightforward responses and poised demeanor that sealed the deal for the president. Christine had accepted the appointment, even though she knew it would be difficult working in an administration whose political views she didn’t share. Unfortunately, she hadn’t counted on the animosity between her and the president’s chief of staff.
Kevin Hardison was the kind of type A personality who cared only about results. As the president’s right-hand man, he was unencumbered with the obligation—or the talent—to maintain personal relationships. He didn’t seem to care whose feelings he hurt or careers he ruined in his quest to achieve the administration’s goals. Although Hardison treated the rest of the White House staff fairly, with equal disdain, he seemed to have reserved a special spot in that black void where his heart should have been for Christine.
This wasn’t the first time she had worked with Hardison, and the previous experience had been altogether different. The two had met on Congressman Tim Johnson’s staff, working in his office in Rayburn Hall. Christine, fresh out of Penn State with a political science degree, had been paired up with Hardison, ten years her senior, to learn the ropes. The two had gotten along well, developing what she thought was a strong friendship.
So it was no surprise to Christine that Hardison had recommended her to the president. However, Hardison had assumed she was still the malleable staffer she once was, and that he would be able to force her to acquiesce to his policy initiatives. Hardison hadn’t responded well to his rude awakening once she assumed the role of national security adviser.
As Christine navigated the hazards of disagreeing with the powerful chief of staff, it didn’t take long to determine why the president had selected her for his national security adviser. As a congressional staffer, Christine had specialized in weapon procurement programs, analyzing and recommending adjustments to the budget. Her weapon system expertise had proved valuable to the current administration, as few, if any, on staff knew the difference between a Tomahawk and a Standard missile, between a Sidewinder and an AIM-9X, or even the basic difference between a mortar, a howitzer, and an artillery gun, the latter distinction being crucial to those fighting in the mountainous regions of Afghanistan.
Perhaps even more important was the experience she had gained as the assistant secretary of defense for special operations and low-intensity conflict, along with a two-year stint as the director of nuclear defense policy. Her track record working for both Republicans and Democrats was noteworthy, and her ties to the Defense Department’s congressional supporters were extensive. Her ability to liaison effectively with key representatives and senators on both sides of the aisle had proved useful to the president, who, as a former governor of a Midwestern state, was considered a Washington outsider.
One of the staff secretaries entered Christine’s office with a stack of files in her arms. Seeing the bottle of ibuprofen, the secretary came to a quick and correct conclusion. “You’re meeting with Hardison, aren’t you, Miss O’Connor?”
Christine nodded, smiling weakly. The chief of staff had crafted yet another plan to restructure the nation’s intelligence agencies, no different from the last in any meaningful way, and was awaiting her endorsement. That endorsement would not be forthcoming. She believed the endless reorganizations, despite the impressive names and ambitious proclamations, did nothing more than change the tablecloth. The only way to make significant changes was to break some china. But the venerable intelligence agencies had far too many congressional allies for any meaningful reorganization to occur.
As Christine prepared to review the four reorganizations since September 11, 2001, the secretary clutched the files against her chest, evidently not noticing Christine wasn’t in a particularly talkative mood. Christine was about to politely request the files when she spotted Hardison, headed down the hallway toward her office, a frown on his face.
“Speak of the devil,” the secretary whispered. “And he doesn’t look too pleased.”
* * *
Hardison entered Christine’s office, wasting no time on pleasantries. He grabbed the remote on Christine’s desk, pointing it at the TV on the wall across the room. A reporter appeared on-screen, umbrella in hand protecting her hair and makeup from the steady drizzle, the spandrels of the Calvert Bridge arching gracefully behind her. “To recap today’s gruesome discovery, the murder victim discovered in Rock Creek Park has been identified as twenty-two-year-old Russell Evans, a White House intern. Police officials have provided few additional details, but we’ll keep you up-to-date as new information is obtained. This is Doreen Cornellier, Channel Nine news.”
Christine stared at the TV in disbelief. Russell … murdered?
The TV went black, and Hardison tossed the remote control back onto Christine’s desk. “Leave,” he said to the secretary, who was still clutching the files.
Christine stood to accept the files. She numbly thanked the older woman, who avoided the chief of staff’s stare as she hurried out of the office.
“When was the last time you talked with Evans?” Hardison asked.
She placed the files on her desk, then focused on Hardison’s question. “Friday night. I stopped by his desk on my way out and he said he’d be working late.”
“What was he working on?”
“I had him reviewing nuclear weapon policy initiatives we have under development. Why do you ask?”
Hardison’s eyebrows furrowed. “Call me paranoid, but someone just murdered your intern, and I’d like to convince myself his death was unrelated to his work. That he didn’t piss off a powerful constituent or lobbyist group.”
“You think his murder was politically motivated?”
“No, it was probably just a mugging gone wrong. But we’re meeting stiff resistance to some of the legislation we’re pushing forward, and I’d like to know if he was working on anything sensitive.”
“I don’t think so, Kevin.” Christine glanced at the dark TV. “Do you want me to look into it?”
“No, I’ll take care of it. Get back to work. Did you approve the intelligence agency restructuring?”
“No,” Christine replied coolly.
Hardison approached Christine behind her desk, stopping a foot away, a scowl on his face. The strong scent of his aftershave assailed her. “Why are you here? Why did you take this job?”
Standing her ground, Christine refused to be intimidated by Hardison’s physical presence. “Because the president asked me to. Because he, unlike you, values dissent, wants to hear the other side of the story and not just the stilted one-sided crap
you feed him.”
The muscles in Hardison’s jaw twitched. “The president has the vision, and I do the heavy lifting. I’ve melded this White House staff into a formidable team, and you refuse to join that team, bucking my policies at every turn.”
Christine glared up at him. “You mean the president’s policies. Or do you?”
“Don’t mince words with me, Christine. Either get on board, or get out of the way.”
Christine pressed her lips together as several inflammatory responses flashed through her mind. Instead, she took a more personal approach. “What happened to you, Kevin? We used to be friends, working together to achieve the same goals.”
“That was twenty years ago, Christine. I’ve become a realist, while you cling to your idealistic dreams. I achieve results, while you do nothing more than make my job difficult.”
It was pointless to continue the discussion. She settled into her chair. “Is there anything else you’d like to discuss?”
“I want your concurrence on the restructuring proposal.”
Christine smiled. “Don’t hold your breath.”
Hardison gritted his teeth, then turned and left.
* * *
Leaning back in her chair, Christine rubbed her temples again with both hands. Maybe Hardison was right. She felt like a salmon swimming upstream, making no headway against the current of well-intentioned, but ultimately damaging, policies being pushed forward. Then again, she had taken the job not because she thought she’d be able to implement policies she believed in, but because she believed in damage control. If she could derail just a few of the administration’s disastrous initiatives, her suffering would be worth it.
As Christine dwelt on her misery, her thoughts turned to Russell Evans. The young man’s mysterious death weighed heavily on her, and her heart went out to his parents. She couldn’t imagine their grief upon opening their front door to a police officer delivering the unwelcome news.
Pushing her thoughts about Evans aside, Christine checked her e-mail, picking up where she’d left off Friday evening. After she’d replied to a few e-mails, her hand froze as the mouse cursor passed over a message with no subject.
The Trident Deception Page 3