The Trident Deception

by Campbell, Rick

  This mess was going to be her fault, if Hardison had his way. In their conversations throughout the night, she could tell he was jockeying for position, probing her about the CD she’d found and her role in the debacle. He would take advantage of her involvement—her decision to withhold knowledge of the CD, and her arrival in NMCC after the message was transmitted—somehow twisting things around to pin the blame on her. Hell, she had almost stopped it. Yet Christine knew that somehow, it was all going to be her fault.

  Hardison’s eyes bored a hole through her body as she approached the conference table, and she returned his stare as she and Brackman sat opposite him, her eyes locked with Hardison’s until the president cleared his throat. Turning her attention to the commander in chief, Christine thought he had aged overnight. Although he had entered office with salt-and-pepper sideburns, the gray was now throughout his full head of brown hair and the lines in his face were more deeply creased. The decision the president would make this morning would no doubt add more years to his appearance.

  As the president began to speak, Christine’s eyes flicked back to Hardison. His malevolent gaze was still fixed on her, and she steeled herself for the worst. She would restrain herself in conversation with the president, but if Hardison opened his mouth, she was coming out swinging.

  “Considering your role in this mess…,” the president began.

  Here it comes.

  “… you handled the situation extremely well.”

  Christine was caught off guard. Had Hardison actually complimented her, praising her actions? Or had he criticized her as usual, with the president giving him the Heisman this time, stiff-arming his attempt to demonize her, deciding instead to give her the credit she deserved? Her eyes went to Hardison again. His expression hadn’t changed—still the same disapproving frown. Figures. The president had overridden him.

  “So where do we stand on terminating this launch?” the president added.

  Christine shrugged off her surprise at the unexpected compliment and answered the president’s question. “We’ve been transmitting the cancellation message for the last nine hours, but so far the Kentucky hasn’t responded. We have to assume she’s had a Radio Room casualty, or worse, sabotage, and that either way, she hasn’t received the cancellation message. That means she’ll execute the strike order, launching her missiles eight days from now.”

  “Do we know who’s behind this yet?”

  “We have our suspicions, given the launch is directed at Iran, and that the perpetrator’s wife was an Israeli national, killed by Palestinian terrorists while visiting Israel a few years ago. Everything points to Israel, but we have nothing concrete so far.”

  The president’s face hardened. “I want this nailed down, Christine. Pull out all the stops.” The president paused for a moment before continuing, “What kind of destruction are we talking about if the Kentucky launches?”

  “The Kentucky carries twenty-four missiles. Each missile can be configured with up to eight warheads, but they’re usually configured with four under the New START treaty with Russia.” Christine paused, glancing at Hardison.

  The chief of staff flashed her a dark look.

  “What?” the president asked.

  Christine’s eyes returned to the president. “The Kentucky is unique in that her missiles are configured with a payload of eight warheads. There are several target packages that require more than four warheads per missile, so—”

  “We’re in violation of START?” the president asked.

  Hardison had been uncharacteristically quiet so far, and Christine wondered if he had expended himself arguing with the president over her culpability, and was now sitting there, sulking. Or was it something else? But then he joined the conversation.

  “Not exactly,” Hardison replied. “Under New START, we can deviate from four warheads per missile, as long as we have proper authorization.”

  “Who authorized this deviation?”

  “You did, Mr. President,” Hardison replied. “You signed the authorization a year ago.”

  “I don’t recall approving this.”

  “I have your signature, sir. But in your defense, it was a thick document, and I may not have pointed out that clause.” Hardison shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

  The president glared at his chief of staff, his jaw muscles flexing. “We’ll discuss this later.” He turned to Captain Brackman. “Put this in terms I can understand. Relative to Hiroshima, how much destruction can the Kentucky’s warheads deliver?”

  Brackman answered, “The bomb we dropped on Hiroshima was a twenty-kiloton weapon. Each of the warheads carried by the Kentucky is a four-hundred-seventy-five-kiloton bomb, so each of the Kentucky’s warheads is roughly twenty-five times more powerful than what we used to destroy Hiroshima. Multiply that by twenty-four missiles, then again by eight warheads per missile, and that’d be around … five thousand Hiroshimas.”

  The president’s face paled. “My God. We have to inform Iran.”

  “I don’t recommend it,” Hardison said. “The chaos we’d cause would be almost unimaginable. As long as we have the potential to stop the launch, we don’t want this issue going public. Plus, if the country finds out we issued a valid launch order to one of our submarines, it could topple your presidency.”

  “I don’t give a damn about my administration right now,” the president snapped. “The only thing that matters is turning off this launch.”

  “I understand, sir,” Hardison replied in a conciliatory tone. “But if we can do it while keeping the issue under wraps, it’s important we do so.”

  There was a long silence as the president considered Hardison’s recommendation. Christine knew they could keep this issue quiet for a short period of time, claiming operational necessity. But a long-term effort to conceal what had occurred, if discovered, would carry severe political and even criminal repercussions.

  After what seemed like several minutes, the president spoke. “Who else knows about this?”

  “Right now there are only five persons who know everything,” Hardison answered. “The four of us, plus Dave Hendricks, the deputy director of the National Military Command Center. The Command Center director, Admiral Tracey McFarland, is on travel the next two weeks, and as acting director, Hendricks has agreed to cover for us until the issue is either resolved or we provide other direction. The rest of the NMCC staff has no idea of the content of the message that was transmitted. Christine was wise enough to see to that.”

  The president fixed Hardison with a serious look. “And what makes you think this Dave Hendricks will comply with our desire to keep this matter confidential?”

  Hardison turned to Christine.

  “I requested his confidentiality as a personal favor,” Christine answered.

  The president raised an eyebrow. “And he would do this because…?”

  Christine smoothed a wrinkle in her skirt, then locked her fingers together around her knee. “Dave is my ex-husband.”

  The president leaned back in his chair. “And I assume you divorced on amicable terms?”

  “As amicable as any divorce can be, I suppose. We’re still good friends and he’s agreed to honor our request to keep the content of the message confidential as long as possible.”

  “Why don’t we have Hendricks sign a nondisclosure agreement?” Brackman interjected.

  “I don’t recommend it,” Hardison answered. “It’s not a good idea to have hard-copy evidence of our direction to keep this issue quiet.”

  The president nodded his agreement as Christine picked up where Hardison left off. “Even with a nondisclosure agreement, once we give the order, there’s a high probability this will go public.”

  The president leaned forward. “What order?”

  “Mr. President. The three of us see only one solution, given the Kentucky’s failure to acknowledge the cancellation message. We’re here to ask you for that authorization.”

  “Authorization for what?”


  “To sink the Kentucky.”

  The president’s face went blank. “There must be some other option. You’re talking about sinking one of our own submarines. With our own people aboard.”

  Hardison replied, “She has to be stopped from launching. She hasn’t acknowledged the cancellation message, so we have no choice.”

  “Wait a minute,” the president replied. “The Kentucky is eight days away from launch range. Why do we have to sink her now? Why can’t we keep sending her the cancellation message? Maybe she’ll fix her radio gear and she’ll receive the message.”

  “There’s another issue,” Brackman answered. “The CIP key.”

  “What’s that?” the president asked.

  “It’s a key on board the submarine the crew needs to launch the missiles. It’s kept in a safe that no one on board knows the combination to. Not until they receive a Launch order. Now that the crew has received the Launch order, they have the CIP key and can launch. The question no one can answer is, Is the crew part of this plot and that’s why they’re not responding to the Termination order, or are they not responding to the Termination order because of a Radio Room casualty?”

  There was silence around the table as the president digested Brackman’s words.

  Brackman continued, “Unfortunately, there’s no way for us to figure this out, and the longer we wait, the harder it gets for us to find and stop the Kentucky. So you have to make a decision, Mr. President, and you have to make it today.”

  The president stood and turned, facing the dark monitor on the Situation Room wall. The silence was unbearable as the president sorted through the options and their outcomes. Finally, he turned back to his advisers; his dark brown eyes had grown darker still.

  “Here’s what we’re going to do. First, continue to limit those who know about the launch order. As this evolves, we’ll evaluate to who and when to divulge information. Inform Williams, as we’ll have to go through the secretary of defense to give orders to the Unified Commanders. Second, keep the vice president in the dark. I want him insulated in case I’m forced to resign over this issue. Finally, it seems we have no other option.” The president’s shoulders slumped, his confident façade crumbling under the weight of his decision.

  “Sink the Kentucky.”

  17

  PEARL HARBOR, HAWAII

  With the sun only a few degrees above the horizon, the waterfront along Pearl Harbor was already a frenzy of activity, every submarine making preparations to get under way. Heavy cranes lifted green warshot torpedoes across the wharves onto loading skids on top of the submarines, while smaller cranes swung pallets of supplies to sailors waiting topside. As Captain Murray Wilson hurried toward Admiral Stanbury’s office, he was joined by the admiral’s aide, Lieutenant David Mortimore, saluting as he approached.

  “What’s going on, Lieutenant?”

  Lieutenant Mortimore hustled to keep up with Wilson as they weaved their way across the busy waterfront. “The orders went out at zero four hundred this morning, sir. Every fast attack in Pearl has been ordered to sortie immediately. Same thing with the submarine squadrons in San Diego and Guam. Everyone’s getting under way. Even the Seawolfs at Indian Island in Washington.”

  “Where are they headed?” Wilson asked, dodging a forklift passing through the legs of the crane they were walking under.

  “Don’t know, sir. No one’s received their OPORD yet. The Watch Officers are busy generating movement orders, but all they’ve been told so far is to route everyone west at flank speed. We’ve got eight fast attacks—”

  “Yes, I know,” Wilson interrupted. “Eight fast attacks at sea, and I know where they are.” He was unable to conceal his irritation. Admiral Stanbury had begun issuing orders in the middle of the night, yet he’d called Wilson only a half hour ago. “What’s the status of under way preps?” he asked, returning his attention to the fifteen submarines still in Pearl Harbor.

  “Start-up preps are under way on all boats, but most of the reactor plants are at cold iron. The Houston and Jacksonville are hot, and should be ready by zero nine hundred.”

  Wilson’s eyes skimmed across the waterfront, identifying the Jacksonville two piers down, several sailors removing shore power. Beyond the Jacksonville, across the channel, were two of the surface ship wharves, a dozen destroyers and cruisers likewise preparing to get under way.

  “Looks like the entire PAC Fleet is surging.”

  “Yes, sir,” Lieutenant Mortimore replied. “It does look that way.”

  * * *

  Turning the corner at pier Sierra One-Bravo, Mortimore left Wilson’s side to assist the Watch Officers while Wilson hurried past the mothballed Dive Tower, the metal staircase winding up the outside of the two-hundred-foot-tall cylindrical structure. He was headed toward an unpretentious two-story cinder-block building built into the side of a small hill. As Wilson passed between a pair of three-foot-tall brass submarine dolphins and climbed the cracked concrete steps, one would not have guessed he was about to enter the headquarters of the most powerful submarine fleet on earth.

  Sixty percent of the U.S. Submarine Force was home-ported in the Pacific, amounting to thirty-two nuclear-powered fast attacks and eleven Tridents, nine of which were ballistic missile submarines while the other two pulled double duty as Tomahawk-guided missile shooters and special warfare platforms for their embarked SEALs. By itself, a single Trident submarine was the sixth most heavily armed country from a nuclear warhead perspective, and all told, COMSUBPAC was the third most powerful entity in the world, surpassed only by Russia and the United States itself.

  Reaching the top of the steps, Wilson punched in his pass code and entered COMSUBPAC headquarters, greeted immediately by the admiral’s chief of staff, Captain Errol Holcomb, whose eyes reflected the same irritation as Wilson’s.

  “What’s going on?” Wilson asked, hoping Holcomb could shed more light on the situation than the admiral’s aide.

  “Wish I knew. The admiral’s been holed up in his office since I got here, refusing to tell anyone what the hell is going on. But now that you’re here, maybe we’ll get some answers.”

  Holcomb knocked on COMSUBPAC’s door. “Admiral, Captain Wilson is here to see you. May we come in?”

  “Wilson only,” the voice from inside replied.

  Holcomb raised an eyebrow as he opened the door for Wilson.

  Murray Wilson entered Admiral John Stanbury’s office, and after a single glance at the older man sitting behind his desk, his ire melted away. With hunched shoulders and dark circles painted under hollow eyes, the admiral had clearly been up most of, if not the entire, night. Wilson’s conclusion was reinforced by four empty Styrofoam coffee cups resting on the edge of a nautical chart spread across the admiral’s desk. Wondering where the admiral’s favorite coffee mug, the one he had used since his commanding officer tour on the Memphis, had disappeared to, Wilson spotted the shattered remnants of a ceramic cup lying against the far wall, and above them, a four-inch gouge in the wall.

  “What’s going on, sir?”

  “Close the door.”

  * * *

  As Wilson entered his office, Admiral Stanbury saw the irritation in the younger man’s eyes. He hadn’t been called right away, but in a few minutes, he would understand why. Stanbury admitted it was unfair to place this burden on Wilson’s shoulders, and in the dark morning hours after he’d received the president’s directive, he’d hesitated, going down the list of officers who could coordinate the effort. But the list was short, and none had Wilson’s experience. Finally, he realized he had no choice. Wilson was the right man, regardless of the circumstances.

  Wilson closed the door behind him, but not before he noticed the cipher card inserted into the admiral’s secure STE phone and a bright-orange folder on his desk. Stanbury picked up the top secret folder, motioning Wilson toward the conference table. The admiral handed the folder to Wilson, who pulled out a single sheet of paper, a directive signed by t
he president. After reading it, Wilson sagged into one of the chairs.

  “You’ve got to be kidding. Is this someone’s sadistic April Fool’s joke?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Stanbury answered, pulling up a chair beside Wilson. “Our direction is clear. We’ve been ordered to stop the Kentucky using all means available. We’ve been sending her messages all morning over every communication circuit, ordering her to reply and return to port, but she’s failed to acknowledge.”

  “We’ve been ordered to sink her because she won’t answer a message?”

  “It’s not just any message, Murray.”

  “It’s obvious, Admiral—she’s had a Radio Room casualty. She either hasn’t received the Termination message or can’t transmit her acknowledgment.”

  “Washington isn’t so sure, and now that the crew has access to the CIP key, they’re weighing the likelihood the crew is in on this plot versus the probability of a coincidental Radio Room problem.”

  Murray slammed his fist on the table. “The crew is not in on this plot! I guarantee it! I know this crew better than anyone else on the waterfront. I’ve known Brad Malone since he was a department head on my ship. There’s no one with more integrity than him. And…” A lump formed in Wilson’s throat, and he was unable to complete the sentence.

  Stanbury said nothing for a long moment.

  “I happen to agree with you,” Stanbury said eventually. “This situation is going to be difficult for all of us. I hesitated to call you because your son is aboard the Kentucky, but I need you on point, Murray. You’re the best I’ve got, plus you’ve trained all our commanding officers. No one knows better the tactics the Kentucky will use to evade detection, or strategy for employing our forces to find her. I need you to coordinate our submarine, surface, and aircraft in our effort to find the Kentucky. But if you’re unable to, I’ll understand.”

  Stanbury paused, waiting for it all to sink in.