Gallagher picked up the ICSAP handset and called Radio, directing them to draft a message to COMSUBPAC and Naval Reactors, informing them of their condition.
After replacing the handset, he turned back to Chief Radek, praising him for his effort, regardless of the outcome. Gallagher regretted his outburst in Control with the Sonar Supervisor. His crew hadn’t failed him; his ship had. The whole situation was unbelievably frustrating. Before the reactor had scrammed, they had been less than a minute away from sinking their target. Now the North Carolina would limp home, a failure, for a lengthy and difficult control rod drive repair.
38
PEARL HARBOR
On the second floor of the COMSUBPAC building, Captain Murray Wilson waited alone in the admiral’s conference room, studying the Gadsden flag framed in a glass case hanging from the wall. Details about when the flag, named after Colonel Christopher Gadsden, with its symbolic American timber rattlesnake and Don’t Tread on Me warning, had arrived at COMSUBPAC and who had donated it, were a casualty of the frequent turnover in military commands. But rumor held that this was the very flag Colonel Gadsden had presented to the Continental Navy’s first commander in chief, Commodore Esek Hopkins, to serve as his personal standard on the Alfred, America’s first warship. It was also purported the flag had been run up the Alfred’s gaff by Hopkins’s first lieutenant, John Paul Jones himself.
As Wilson waited to update Admiral Stanbury on the North Carolina’s control rod casualty, he turned his attention from the Gadsden flag to the other side of the conference room, examining the eight-by-twelve-foot map of the world plastered to the wall. With the North Carolina out of action, Wilson believed COMSUBPAC was out of options. But then the experienced officer’s eyes and thoughts drifted toward the lower left portion of the map—and a potential solution to their dilemma materialized in his mind.
The door to the conference room opened and Admiral Stanbury entered. Wilson retrieved the North Carolina’s message from a folder under his arm and handed it to the admiral. A look of disgust worked across Stanbury’s face as he read the message, then he crumpled up the paper and tossed it across the room, bouncing it off the rim of the trash can in the corner.
“Any word yet from NAVSEA on a fix to our sonar systems?”
“No, sir. They’re still working it.”
Stanbury shook his head. “The North Carolina’s out of action, and the rest of our fast attacks are blind. Looks like we’ve run out of submarines.”
Wilson disagreed. The move would be unusual, but there was another option. Then he hesitated. He had already done enough, hadn’t he? He had done as Stanbury requested, sending their fast attacks after the Kentucky and establishing the antisubmarine barrier in front of Emerald. Was he really obliged to take this extra step? With their submarines out of play, the odds of the Kentucky surviving had gone way up. But then his thoughts went from the men aboard the submarine to the men, women, and children in Iran. Seventy million souls hung in the balance of his decision. Could he so easily dismiss their lives in favor of his son? Could he be that selfish?
“Wilson, what are you thinking?”
The admiral’s question pulled him from his thoughts, forcing him to make a decision. The Kentucky had to be stopped.
“Actually,” Wilson replied, “there is one other option, but we’ll need some pretty high approval and air transport. I can be at Hickam in an hour. Can you have a flight ready by then?”
“Sure,” Stanbury answered. “But what do you have in mind?”
“Australia.”
“Australia?” Stanbury’s eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed in understanding a moment later. “Yes…,” he said, turning toward the map, his eyes settling on the continent in the southern hemisphere. “Australia.”
39
MAKALAPA, HAWAII
A few minutes later, Wilson’s blue Ford Mustang turned onto a cracked concrete driveway in front of a squat one-level ranch house on Makalapa Drive, the main road passing through the senior officers’ quarters overlooking Pearl Harbor. As the sun set to the west, palm trees cast long shadows across the hood of his car, while to the east, clouds were forming on the slopes of Mount Tantalus as the warm, moist trade winds cooled during their climb up the steep mountain slope. As a captain in the Navy, Wilson could have afforded more elegant accommodations than the 1940s-era military housing. However, as he passed through the front door and walked across the uneven wood floor, passing walls with multiple coats of paint, he felt like he was treading on hallowed ground. It was a privilege to live in one of the houses that America’s World War II submarine commanders had called home.
Seventy years ago, Mush Morton, Dick O’Kane, Eugene Fluckey, and other commanding officers led their crews into battle from Pearl Harbor, returning home to their families and homes in Makalapa. Mush Morton himself, commanding officer of the Wahoo, had lived in the house Wilson lived in now, had slept in the very same bedroom, and had lain awake at night wondering if he would return to his wife and children the next time he led his crew to sea. After leading the Wahoo into the Sea of Japan on his fifth war patrol, Morton and his crew did not return home.
Unlike Mush Morton, Wilson had returned home this evening, passing through the narrow hallway and into his study. Stopping behind the desk that had been his father’s, he retrieved a case of electrical socket adapters from the top left drawer. As he placed the one for Australia in his briefcase, his eye caught the framed portrait of his family sitting on the corner of his desk. He picked up the picture, taken three years earlier, his son standing in the middle with his arms around his parents. Both Murray and Tom wore the summer white uniform of naval officers, the bright white clothing contrasting with the black silhouette of a submarine behind them.
His son had developed into quite the handsome young man, with his father’s build, square jawline, and dark eyes, but thankfully his mother’s nose. Smart, athletic, always the overachiever, he had never once disappointed his parents in anything that really mattered. As Wilson stared at the portrait of his family, he reflected on how immensely proud he and his wife were of their son.
“Where are you going?”
Claire leaned against the doorframe, examining him through smoky gray eyes that seemed to change color with the light, her face framed with short blond hair that curled inward just above her shoulders. Even though she was past the half-century mark, Wilson was convinced she looked as beautiful today as when they first met more than thirty years ago.
Wilson placed the portrait of his family back on the desk. “Australia, just for a few days.”
“Oh. Not long, then.”
Wilson nodded as he grabbed his briefcase off his desk and walked toward Claire, still leaning against the doorframe. “I’ve got to pack, then I’m off to Hickam. Military transport this time.” He avoided her gaze, afraid she would see right through him if their eyes met. But she gently grabbed his arm as he walked past, forcing him to stop. Placing her hand on his chin, she slowly pulled his head toward her.
“What’s wrong?”
He could see the concern in her eyes. After thirty years of marriage, she could read him like an open book. She knew he was struggling with what he’d been tasked to do.
“I can’t discuss it now, but we’ll talk when I get back.” He kissed Claire gently on her cheek. Wilson hesitated as he pulled back, wondering if he should tell her now, then decided against it. She would never understand, and it would only make things harder.
As Wilson headed down the hallway, he was already dreading his return trip home.
She would never forgive him.
40
USS KENTUCKY
As the clock approached 6 A.M., Lieutenant Tom Wilson, still on watch as Officer of the Deck, leaned over the chart table next to the Quartermaster. Even though it was early, the Nav was already up, also examining the navigation plot. The CO and XO were in Control as well, standing expectantly on the Conn while the Weapons Officer waited in Missile Con
trol Center for the dual orders.
They had left Sierra eight-five behind four hours ago, no closer now to solving its mystery than they were then. The fire control techs had tracked the object until it faded from their sensors, verifying it remained stationary. Entries had been made in the Kentucky’s patrol report, and the object’s position and sound characteristics would be analyzed upon the submarine’s return to port. But now the officers in Control were focused on the Kentucky’s current position and subsequent actions required.
Satisfied the ship’s location had been correctly plotted and the Kentucky had exited its moving haven, Tom made the announcement. “Entering Sapphire.”
Malone picked up the 1-MC microphone. “Set condition Four-SQ. Initialize all missiles.”
The XO picked up the 21-MC, repeating the same order over a separate circuit. Missile Control Center would respond to strategic orders only when identical directives were given by both the ship’s Commanding Officer and its Executive Officer. The Weapons Officer acknowledged the order, his voice coming back over the 21-MC speaker. “Set condition Four-SQ. Initialize all missiles, Weapons aye.”
Throughout the Missile Compartment, teams of missile techs completed the steps required to bring the missiles online, making them ready for launch at a moment’s notice. The Weapons Officer monitored the progress from Missile Control Center, watching as the Missile Ready indicator lights on the Launch Control Panel turned from red to green.
After issuing their duplicate orders, Malone and the XO joined Tom and the Nav at the Quartermaster’s stand. Drawn on the chart were the Sapphire and Emerald operating areas, each represented by a large rectangular box covering more than a million square miles. On top of the navigation chart, the Nav placed an overlay showing the known ocean fronts and eddies. A second overlay, laid on top of the first, contained the ship’s projected track to Emerald, which hugged the outline of the features drawn on the overlay underneath.
Malone scrutinized the track the Navigator had laid out, verifying the most appropriate path to Emerald had been chosen, then signed the chart, followed by the XO.
As the XO finished reviewing the chart, the Weps approached. “Sir, all missiles have been initialized and condition Four-SQ is set. With the current target package assigned, we will be in launch range when we reach Emerald.”
Everyone turned back to the chart, with the ship’s projected track marked and labeled every six hours. The Nav answered the question in everyone’s mind.
“Four more days.”
4 DAYS REMAINING
41
PENTAGON
Forty feet underground in the Pentagon’s basement, sheltered from the early afternoon sun glaring down on northern Virginia, Christine accompanied Dave Hendricks along the cool hallway toward his office in the Current Action Center. Christine hadn’t seen him since the day the launch order was issued, instead talking with him over their STE phones. But as despicable as Hardison was, he had raised valid concerns about Hendricks, and conversations over the phone could assure her of only so much. Plus, there was something else she wanted to discuss. Hendricks’s appearance outside the Command Center after three years apart had provided an unexpected alternative: someone she could confide in and bounce her concerns off of.
After swiping his ID card and punching in the pass code, Dave led Christine into the Current Action Center, turning left toward his office along the top tier. Like the NMCC Operations Center, where nuclear launch orders were issued, the CAC had been relocated to the basement level during the last phase of the Pentagon renovation. The center was constructed using a similar tiered design, with offices along the top rim and workstations lining each of the ten tiers descending to a fifteen-by-thirty-foot electronic display on the far wall. Unlike the Operations Center, which focused only on strategic missile launch, the CAC handled all aspects of the country’s defensive and offensive operations around the world.
Hendricks’s office was a fifteen-by-twenty-foot room with one wall containing a large window looking over the CAC. An oak desk sat against the far wall on top of moderately plush navy blue carpet, with the top of the desk populated with Hendricks’s computer monitor and an assortment of framed pictures to the side. As the door closed behind Christine, the background noise from the CAC disappeared. The room was soundproof, providing more than enough privacy for their conversation.
Christine joined Hendricks in front of the window, examining the monitor on the wall, which displayed a map of Europe and the Middle East, annotated with the current and planned locations of their ballistic missile defenses. Blinking green circles in the Persian Gulf and one in Afghanistan marked the planned positions of the Aegis-class cruisers and the THAAD battery. Blue circles tracked their present locations, the Pacific Fleet cruisers inching up from the Indian Ocean while the THAAD battery glowed steadily in Frankfurt, Germany, as the C-17 it was loaded on awaited refueling. Christine decided to let Hendricks brief her on their ballistic missile defense plans first. Her two topics would come later.
“We’ll coordinate our missile defense from here,” he began. “If we can get to the missiles before they release their warheads, there’s a chance we can take several of them out. But once the first few missiles are destroyed, breaking apart into dozens of warhead-size fragments, our surveillance systems will be overwhelmed. Even more challenging is guiding our interceptors to their targets. Each one of the Kentucky’s missiles will be traveling at fifteen thousand miles per hour—four miles per second—so even if we’re able to ferret the missiles and their warheads from the growing debris field, our antiballistic missiles face the daunting task of intercepting warheads streaking through the atmosphere at twenty times the speed of sound.”
As Hendricks explained the challenges they faced, Christine’s mind grew numb. She had known the task of destroying the Kentucky’s missiles and their warheads was difficult, but only now did she appreciate the futility of the effort. Their only real hope to avoid the destruction of Iran was to prevent the Kentucky from launching. And without their fast-attack submarines, the odds of sinking the Kentucky had decreased significantly. In light of the overwhelming task Hendricks faced, Christine searched for the appropriate encouragement to offer, finally settling for a few simple words.
“Just do your best, Dave.”
“You know I will.”
Christine crossed the room, stopping to examine the pictures on Hendricks’s desk, looking for a segue into her first topic. She was surprised to find a wedding photograph of her and Hendricks in the mix, a black-and-white picture of them outside the chapel in Clemson, South Carolina—Dave in a black tux with Christine wearing a Mori Lee drop-waist gown. No such photos existed in her town house; the memories of their marriage had been filed away.
After a moment, Christine turned toward Hendricks and asked the question point-blank. “Can I trust you?” She had meant to say Can we trust you? but the one word had come out differently.
“In what regard?”
His response instantly grated on her nerves. A man who could be trusted only in certain regards could not be trusted at all.
“Yes,” Hendricks added quickly, picking up on her irritation. “You have my word. I will reveal nothing about what happened in the Operations Center or about our attempts to sink the Kentucky.” He kept his eyes fixed on his ex-wife’s, conveying the sincerity of his response.
“Thank you,” Christine replied, placing her hand on his arm.
Hendricks’s eyes went to her hand, and she saw it in his face; the unexpected physical contact reminding him of the times they’d spent in each other’s arms. Christine withdrew her hand, turning back toward the desk and its pictures. She had seen his reaction to her friendly gesture, and even more, she could feel the same response rising within her. But she pushed it away. This was not the time for those types of feelings to resurface.
Christine forced her thoughts quickly onto the second topic; the real reason for her meeting. She turned back to Hendricks.
“There’s something else I wanted to talk to you about. It’s about the launch order. I’m convinced someone else was involved besides Mike Patton.”
One of Hendricks’s eyebrows rose slightly. “And who would that be?”
“Hardison.” There. She’d finally said it.
Hendricks’s eyebrow rose even farther. “The chief of staff? You’ve got to be kidding.”
Christine shook her head. “There’s no way a simple NMCC watchstander pulled this thing off. He had help from someone high up. I think it’s Hardison. He’s the one who drafted the directive to load the Kentucky with twice as many warheads as the other Trident submarines. Then he whisked it across the president’s desk for signature without even mentioning that small detail.”
Hendricks was quiet for a moment before responding. “That could easily be coincidence. If you decide to look into this, you’ll need to be careful. Your intern was murdered, and if Hardison’s involved, he won’t hesitate to do it again. Whatever you do, don’t confront him directly.”
“Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself.”
Hendricks frowned. “If you’re right about this, you’re wrong about being able to take care of yourself. You’re going to have to go high order, direct to Larson, and fast. And you better be damn sure about it, because your career in politics will be over if you’re wrong.”
Christine considered Dave’s advice. He was right. If Hardison really was involved, she couldn’t pussyfoot around; it was too dangerous. But she also didn’t have enough evidence—really, any evidence—to take to the director of the FBI. She would have to pry this issue apart carefully, find the smoking gun that would implicate Hardison without question.
The Trident Deception Page 20