The Trident Deception

by Campbell, Rick

  “No, ma’am.”

  Christine exhaled, then hung up the phone.

  “The replacement codes will be here soon,” Hendricks said, “and then we’ll send the cancellation message.”

  Christine glanced at the man who had killed himself, who was still slumped against the wall. “Why would he send a launch message to a submarine that wasn’t in launch range, knowing that we’d send a cancellation message within the next few hours?”

  Hendricks shrugged. “That’s for your CIA friends to figure out, once they track down who’s behind this. In the meantime, you had better inform the president.”

  Christine nodded slowly, then picked up the secure phone, dialing the familiar number.

  * * *

  The conversation was brief and terse, with Hardison interjecting at the end; the president had placed her on speakerphone in the Oval Office so his chief of staff could overhear. Christine’s instinct had been correct, sending the Marines and CIA agents outside NMCC. They would send a cancellation message, and no one would be the wiser. An extensive cleanup, as Hardison had put it, would be required to sweep this incident under the rug. Christine had almost corrected the chief of staff, replacing his choice of words with the proper term, cover-up, but she bit her tongue. There would be a time to debate the administration’s response to this incident, and now was not that time.

  As Christine hung up the phone, one of the Marines knocked, then entered the Operations Center. “Medical personnel have arrived. May we enter?”

  “Come in,” Christine answered. She closed the codebook, the message stuck between the pages. As the Marines and CIA agents reentered with emergency medical personnel, Christine called out to Agent Kenney, motioning for him to join her and Hendricks at the front of the room.

  “I need to keep what happened here quiet for the time being,” Christine said softly as Kenney joined them, “until we figure out how to break this issue to the public. To start with, we need a plausible explanation for this.” Christine gestured to the dead and unconscious men and women around them. “Can you help?”

  Kenney glanced around the room, then up at the air-conditioning vents in the ceiling. “I’ll need Director Ronan’s permission…, but it appears we’ve had a Freon leak from one of the air-conditioning plants. It’s fortunate we arrived when we did, or everyone would have suffocated. I’ll have one of my men…, identify the source of the leak.”

  “Thank you, Agent Kenney.”

  A minute later, Kenney put away his cell phone and began talking privately with the other two agents. As Christine watched medical personnel attend to the incapacitated men and women, her thoughts returned to the launch order just transmitted. In two hours, they’d send a cancellation message and this nightmare would be over. But her intuition told her things wouldn’t be quite so simple. If they were, then whoever orchestrated this had gone through a great deal of trouble to achieve nothing.

  And that didn’t make sense.

  No sense at all.

  13

  USS KENTUCKY

  As Malone leaned over the chart table in Nav Center, he realized his senses had become heightened. The temperature gradient in the room was particularly noticeable, the cold air from the ventilation ducts chilling his body while the heat from the electronic chart table warmed his hands. Against the far bulkhead, the ship’s two inertial navigators, which kept track of the submarine’s position at all times, blinked their agreement, their green lights reflecting off the wall behind them. All around him, the submarine was unusually quiet, the machinery mimicking the subdued demeanor of its crew.

  Malone had retreated to Nav Center to collect his thoughts and measure the distance to the Emerald operating area, and launch range. The Kentucky would be in her assigned moving haven for four more days, followed by another four-day transit through Sapphire before she reached Emerald, where the crew would execute its mission. Someone had to do it, but why the Kentucky? True, she was configured differently from other Tridents, and that was a reasonable enough explanation. But it seemed surprising the new president would want to wait eight days before retaliating when other Tridents were closer. After reading the informational section of the EAM, he could only imagine what it was like back home—the disarray and chaos. And it was his job to break the news to the crew, tell them what had been done to their country and what they would do in response.

  Malone sucked in a deep breath as he prepared to inform the rest of the crew what the men in Control already knew. The entire crew was awake by now, he was sure, word of their launch order traveling like wildfire throughout the ship. But Malone wanted to ensure everyone clearly understood what had happened and when and how the United States would respond.

  He entered Control, stepping onto the Conn. Unholstering the 1-MC microphone, he held it in his hand for a moment, then brought it to his lips.

  “This is the Captain.”

  Throughout the ship, the crew halted their conversations as they listened to their Commanding Officer.

  “We received an Emergency Action Message today, and no doubt many of you are aware of the content and our instructions.” Malone paused. It was difficult to speak. After a moment, he continued. “A nuclear bomb was detonated in Washington, D.C., yesterday. The White House and the majority of the city were destroyed. Over one hundred thousand men, women, and children are dead, including the president and most of his cabinet. Vice President Tompkins has been sworn in as president, and he has authorized the release of nuclear weapons in response. The source of the nuclear bomb has been traced to Iran, and the Kentucky has been directed to strike back. In eight days, we will reach our patrol area and our missiles will be in range. In eight days, the United States will make an example of those who murdered our families and friends and threatened the survival of our country. In eight days, be ready.”

  Malone met the eyes of each man in Control, then eased the microphone into its clip before leaving the Control Room without another word.

  * * *

  On watch in Radio, sitting next to the Radio Division Chief, Petty Officer 3rd Class Pete Greene could not contain his anxiety, his knee jittering up and down.

  “Jesus, Chief. We actually got launch orders.” Greene’s fingers tapped the console in front of him, matching the rhythm of his knee. “We train for this all the time, but I never thought we’d actually have to go through with it.” He studied the radio console display, watching for another message. “Damn, I can’t concentrate, Chief. My stomach is tied in knots.”

  “I’m with you, Greene.” Davidson turned away from his screen. “Why don’t you go to Crew’s Mess and get some coffee for both of us?”

  “Can’t, Chief, I’m on watch. There’s supposed to be two of us in here at all times.”

  “Don’t worry, Greene. It’s the midwatch. We do this all the time on patrol. Get some coffee, and I’ll cover for you.” Greene looked skeptically at his chief, but Davidson nodded toward the Radio Room door. “A dash of cream and a pack of sugar in mine.”

  After scanning his display again, Petty Officer Greene stood, rubbing his sweaty palms on the legs of his jumpsuit. “Yeah, I need some coffee. I’ll be right back.”

  When the door closed, Davidson popped up out of his chair and stepped over to the Antenna Patch Panel, which connected the ship’s antennas to the Radio Room equipment. He unscrewed the knurl knobs, pulled opened the front panel, and examined the maze of circuit boards and wires inside the cabinet. Retrieving a small Phillips-head screwdriver from his pocket, he reached inside the cabinet and loosened two of the terminal connections, rerouting the end of a yellow wire from one terminal to the other.

  Working quickly inside the cramped electronics cabinet, Chief Electronics Technician Alan Davidson found it hard to believe he had slipped through the cracks. Radio Division personnel required a top secret clearance, as did everyone dealing with the receipt and decryption of EAMs. In addition, ballistic missile submarine sailors and officers were screened through the
Personnel Reliability Program, their backgrounds scrutinized to ensure each member was trustworthy and dependable. He had been processed through the system with flying colors.

  Born to Jewish immigrants from Austria, Davison had attended Hebrew day school in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, through the eighth grade. His daily curriculum, which began with the singing of the Israeli national anthem, included not only math and English but also Hebrew, Israeli history, and Zionist literature. At home, his parents followed Israeli news with religiouslike zeal, passing the love for their kin and the Jewish homeland to their son. By the time Davidson attended public high school, the country to which he owed his allegiance was clear. And during the exhaustive security interviews and background checks conducted after he joined the Navy, no one had even asked him that basic question.

  It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate the United States. His family had prospered, and he believed America truly was the land of opportunity. But he had been given a unique opportunity to help defend the Jewish people in Israel. Shortly after his assignment to the USS Kentucky, his sister had introduced him to a friend of hers, Bill Hoover. It wasn’t long before it became clear that he was more than just a guy next door. Davidson’s role in the plan had been proposed, and he had accepted; there was little risk to him.

  Davidson reached behind one of the circuit cards, swiveling into view a circuit board he had installed during the submarine’s last refit. After flipping a small toggle lever on the back of the circuit card, he turned to observe the two Radio Room consoles. The displays scrambled, then resynced a second later, diagnostics scrolling down the screens.

  He was about to close the cabinet cover when the Radio Room cipher lock clicked and the door opened. Petty Officer Greene entered, one cup of steaming coffee tucked under his left arm and another in his left hand. Greene stopped at the entrance with a puzzled look on his face, as the two Radio Room consoles continued their start-up. Chief Davidson finished securing the Antenna Patch Panel cover.

  “There you are, Greene. What took you so long?”

  “Whatcha doing, Chief?”

  “Just running some diagnostics. Want to make sure everything’s working properly. Especially now that we’re receiving EAMs.” Davidson walked over to Greene, reaching for the mug in his left hand. “This one mine?”

  Greene nodded.

  “Thanks.” Davidson glanced over his shoulder as both consoles completed their reboot. “Back to business.” Davidson slid into his chair at his workstation, nonchalantly sipping his coffee. A few seconds later, Greene did the same, and both men were soon busy with their normal watch routine.

  The Kentucky’s communication equipment was severed from its antennas, routed instead to a circuit card preloaded with two weeks’ worth of naval messages, which the Kentucky would download periodically when she went to periscope depth to copy the broadcast. And if the crew tried to transmit, the circuit card would generate a curt response from COMSUBPAC an hour later, telling the submarine to execute its assigned mission and not transmit again.

  The Kentucky was cut off from the outside world and wouldn’t even notice.

  14

  PENTAGON

  “Sir, the Kentucky’s not responding.”

  Christine stood next to Hendricks in the Operations Center, filled again with men and women from the next watch section, listening to the communication specialist’s report.

  “We’ve sent the Termination message several times now, with instructions to acknowledge receipt, and we’ve received no response.”

  “Are you sure our equipment and transmitters are functioning properly?” Christine asked.

  “Yes, ma’am. We’ve verified the message is being transmitted. Other units have received it. Just not the Kentucky, apparently.”

  “Maybe she has but is unable to respond?” Hendricks asked.

  “Could be,” the comm specialist replied. “But there’s no way to tell.”

  Christine had waited anxiously for the replacement codes to arrive, the minutes slowly ticking by. The agonizing wait had finally ended, the codes delivered by a two-man courier team. But now the Kentucky had failed to acknowledge the Termination message, and the anticipated end to this nightmare scenario had failed to materialize.

  Christine turned to Hendricks. “What do we do if the Kentucky doesn’t acknowledge?”

  “Without a reply, there’s no way to know if she’s received the Termination message and has canceled her strike order.”

  “So what do we do now?”

  “We keep transmitting. But if she doesn’t acknowledge, we have to assume she hasn’t received the cancellation message. And if she doesn’t receive it…” Hendricks looked over at the digital clock at the front of the Operations Center, set to the estimated time before the Kentucky reached launch range. The red numbers ticked steadily down.

  “The Kentucky will execute the last valid set of orders she’s received.”

  15

  JERUSALEM, ISRAEL

  God filled with mercy,

  dwelling in the heavens’ heights,

  bring proper rest beneath the wings of your Shehinah,

  amid the ranks of the holy and the pure,

  illuminating like the brilliance of the skies,

  the souls of our beloved and our blameless

  who went to their eternal place of rest.

  May you who are the source of mercy

  shelter them beneath your wings eternally,

  and bind their souls among the living,

  that they may rest in peace.

  And let us say: Amen.

  As a light morning rain fell over the Har HaMenuchot cemetery, Barak Kogen stood next to his friend and prime minister, holding a large black umbrella over the two of them, the water running off the edges in small rivulets. Kogen listened as the rabbi finished reciting the Eyl Malei Rahamim, watching as the caskets containing Rosenfeld’s two daughters were lowered into their graves. Kogen had been by Rosenfeld’s side three years ago, the older man’s arms around his daughters as they buried their mother. But unlike then, when he pulled his children close and offered soft words of encouragement, today he stood alone. There was nothing left of Rosenfeld’s family, and the condolences of friends and relatives could not assuage his grief. Still, Kogen hoped the news he was about to share would somehow lessen his sorrow.

  The operation had been initiated. As feared, the information discovered by the young intern had fallen into capable hands, and the Americans had discerned enough to threaten the plan’s success. But they had arrived too late, and now there was nothing they could do. With the additional precautions the Mossad had taken, the Americans would not find the Kentucky. Now, all that was left to do was wait for the submarine to reach launch range and execute her order. Kogen leaned closer to his friend, hoping his words would help console him. “I have news, Levi.”

  The older man gave no indication he’d heard Kogen, staring directly ahead as the rabbi began another prayer. The rain splattered against Kogen’s umbrella in a soft, steady tempo as the man’s voice droned on. Located on the western edge of Jerusalem, Har HaMenuchot offered commanding views of Mevaseret Zion to the north, Motza to the west, and Har Nof to the south. But Rosenfeld stared blankly ahead. Surrounded by relatives from both sides of what used to be his family, Rosenfeld stood alone and isolated; the gray, bleak sky overhead reflecting his grief.

  As the rabbi finished his prayer, Rosenfeld nodded for Kogen to continue.

  “The Mossad operation was a success, Levi. Our people will soon be protected from these animals.”

  16

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  An early morning stillness clung to the White House as Christine strode down the West Wing corridor, her footsteps muffled by the plush blue carpet. As she headed toward the stairway leading to the basement, her thoughts never strayed from her all-night vigil in NMCC. She’d finally departed only a few minutes ago to return to the White House and the awaiting president. During the night, her
extensive weapon background had proved useful in assessing the threat the Kentucky posed, but her knowledge of ballistic missile submarines and the weapons they carried was still somewhat limited. Thankfully, the man walking on her right had filled in the missing details.

  Navy Captain Steve Brackman was the president’s senior military aide, a post filled by each branch of the armed services on a rotating basis. Fortunately, the president’s current aide was a naval officer, and even more fortunate, he was a former commanding officer of a ballistic missile submarine. After Christine informed the president of the Kentucky’s launch order, Brackman had been sent to NMCC. Arriving there late last night, Captain Brackman was a sight for sore eyes, in more ways than one.

  Tall and handsome, with dark, penetrating eyes, Brackman had a chiseled body that would make a Calvin Klein model envious. Put his image on a Navy recruiting poster, Christine thought, and the percentage of female enlistments would skyrocket. He wasn’t just good-looking either—as commanding officer, he had received the coveted Admiral Stockdale Award for Inspirational Leadership. Assigned to the administration eighteen months ago, Brackman was approaching the end of his two-year tour. He had never shared the details, but soon after he arrived, Christine had learned he was a recent widower, his wife and son killed in a horrific accident of some type. This morning, however, he would aid Christine in preventing a horrific accident of an undoubtedly different type.

  * * *

  In the basement of the West Wing, Christine followed Brackman into the Situation Room; the air was cold and the tension thick as she closed the door, alone with Brackman and two other men. The president sat at the head of the rectangular conference table, a grave expression on his face, while Hardison, seated on the president’s right, appeared hostile. Hardison had arrived early, no doubt whispering in the president’s ear as they waited. Even though there were more important things to discuss this morning, Christine was ready to defend herself. She would not go down without a fight.