The Trident Deception

by Campbell, Rick

  Tom could tell the muzzle hatches for tubes Ten and Twelve were inoperable; each pair of hinges, which connected the missile tube hatches to the pressure hull, had been shattered by the explosion. He shined his flashlight across the chunk of missing superstructure, trying to examine the aft hinge of tube Eight’s hatch. But he was too far away, the black hinge too indistinguishable in the darkness to make an assessment. They would not be able to conduct their inspection from the safety of the Missile Compartment deck.

  “We need to go inside the superstructure,” Tom announced reluctantly.

  Unfortunately, there were no safety tracks to hook into once they were inside the superstructure, and their lanyards weren’t long enough if they remained hooked to the safety track topside. The only way for them to inspect the hinges on tubes Eight and Fourteen was without safety harnesses.

  He turned to Reynolds. “Phone talker to Control. Request Captain’s permission to enter the superstructure without safety harnesses.”

  Reynolds relayed Tom’s request to Control, and a moment later, the Captain’s permission was obtained.

  Without hesitation, Tryon panned his flashlight back and forth across the deck until he located a two-by-two-foot access hatch. Pulling a T wrench from his belt, he loosened the bolts, then lifted the hinged hatch out of the way, laying it backward onto the deck.

  “Kreuger, Santos,” Tom called out above the ocean noise, his voice almost drowned out by the large, frothy waves roiling down the sides of the long submarine. “Inspect tube Eight. Tryon and I will inspect tube Fourteen.”

  Tom removed his safety harness, dropping it onto the deck. The other three men did the same, while Reynolds, with his harness still snug around his body, remained hooked into the safety track at his feet. As the ship rolled from side to side in the rough seas, Tom was the first man down the access hatch, descending a narrow ladder that disappeared into the superstructure.

  * * *

  Seven feet down, Tom’s feet hit the pressure hull, and he shined his flashlight back and forth inside the black, dripping metal skin of the ship. Although they had surfaced twenty minutes ago, nothing had dried; the humid ocean air condensed on the cold steel, and the pressure hull remained wet and slick. While the deck above was flat and its paint embedded with rough nonskid material, the pressure hull below was curved and smooth. Working inside the superstructure at sea, without a safety harness, was treacherous at best. If he slipped and fell, he’d continue sliding down the side of the submarine into the ocean, through the small gap between the superstructure and the pressure hull. Recovering a man overboard without a safety harness in the dark of night would be almost impossible, the ocean current pulling him away from the ship, lost forever.

  Tom shifted his weight back and forth, testing the grip of his sneakers. They held. But he was standing on top of the submarine, where the surface was almost flat. Moving fore and aft along the center passage would be relatively easy. Unfortunately, he needed to travel down the side of the submarine to where the muzzle hatch hinges were welded on the outboard side of the tube. There the pressure hull sloped off to a forty-five-degree angle, and the grip of his sneakers would almost surely give way at an angle that steep. As he contemplated the difficulty of the task, Petty Officer Tryon landed gingerly beside him.

  Tom and Tryon headed aft toward tube Fourteen while Kreuger and Santos descended behind them for their trip forward to tube Eight. Upon reaching tube Fourteen, Tom and Tryon stopped, both shining their flashlights down the sloping side of the submarine to where the muzzle hatch hinges were welded to the pressure hull. It was a mere twelve-foot trip, but each step would be exponentially more dangerous than the last. With a pair of deep, nervous breaths, the two men headed down the submarine’s slick pressure hull, one on each side of the missile tube.

  The hull began to slope away and Tom’s sneakers slipped on the wet metal. He held firmly onto the superstructure support stanchions, grabbing the next one before releasing the last. But as he moved down the side of the submarine, the spacing between the stanchions increased. Halfway down, the next stanchion was just out of reach. He would have to let go of one before he had a grip on the next. After testing the grip of his sneakers again, he let go, praying he didn’t slip in the short interval between handholds. He made it safely to the next stanchion, and after two more treacherous steps, reached the outboard edge of the missile tube. He draped his arm around the last stanchion to hold himself steady in place. Tryon reached the forward hinge a few seconds later.

  Tom examined tube Fourteen’s external components. The aft hinge appeared undamaged, as did the locking ring that rotated around the mouth of the missile tube, screwing the hatch down tight over the tube opening. Likewise, the two-inch-thick locking pin inserted into the hinge looked okay. He found nothing that would prevent the smooth rotation of the locking ring, retraction of the locking pin, and opening of the muzzle hatch.

  Tom yelled forward to Tryon, “How’s it look on your side?”

  “Looks good.” Tryon’s reply was faint, barely audible above the sound of the waves breaking against the side of the ship.

  “Good here too,” Tom said. “Let’s head back.”

  As he prepared to climb back up the slippery pressure hull, Tom realized the trip up was going to be even more treacherous than the trip down. Gravity had assisted him in his trek down toward the hinge, and now it would fight him as he tried to dig his sneakers into the wet, slick pressure hull. One foot slipped out from under him on his first attempt, and he hung on to the support stanchion while he regained his balance. He wedged his left foot against the bottom of the stanchion where it was welded to the deck. As he prepared to push up toward the next stanchion, he heard Petty Officer Tryon’s terrified scream.

  Tom twisted sideways and shined his flashlight toward Tryon’s cry for help. The petty officer had slipped and slid down the pressure hull, and was now grasping the very edge of the superstructure. Half his body stuck out from the narrow gap between the superstructure and the pressure hull, the waves completely submerging him for five seconds at a time as they traveled down the ship’s hull. He held on with one hand, his other arm dangling by his side at an unusual angle, his face contorted in pain. As he struggled to maintain his grip with his good hand, the strong waves rolled up the round pressure hull then back down, tugging him out to sea through the narrow gap.

  It would take two minutes, maybe three, for Tom to work his way up the aft side of tube Fourteen, then down the forward side to assist Tryon. The injured missile tech wouldn’t last that long. Tryon’s only hope was for Tom to travel directly toward him along the outside of tube Fourteen. But the nearest support stanchion along the outside of the missile tube was more than six feet away, too far for Tom to reach. He’d have to make a leap for it. If he didn’t gain hold of the stanchion, there’d be no chance of survival. Tom, and then Tryon, would drift off into the darkness. Neither the phone talker topside nor the other two missile techs below would be aware of their fate until Tom and Petty Officer Tryon failed to return topside.

  But Tom couldn’t stand by and watch Tryon get swept out to sea. He wedged both feet on the inboard side of the stanchion he held on to and shined his flashlight on the next stanchion six feet forward, committing its position to memory. Then he extinguished the flashlight and returned it to the holster on his belt.

  He’d need both hands for the leap.

  Tom peered into the gloomy darkness, then crouched down as best he could, his heart pounding in his chest as he listened to Tryon’s cries for help, drowned out periodically as the waves swept over him. He let go of the stanchion, then sprang forward, his arms outstretched, hoping his aim was correct and his leap far enough.

  He landed on his chest on the hard pressure hull and felt the inside of his right wrist hit the base of the stanchion. He grabbed hold, but his body started to swing down toward the water. His grip started to slip, and he threw his left arm up, hoping to grasp on to the stanchion with both hand
s. His left hand hit cold metal as the grip on his right slipped to his fingertips.

  He hung there, with his chest against the pressure hull, the waves washing up over half of his body as he struggled to gain a firmer grip. He finally succeeded in wrapping both hands around the stanchion, working his way up until he hugged it with both forearms. Pulling himself to his knees, he supported himself with one arm around the stanchion while he retrieved the flashlight from his belt and turned it on, illuminating the inside of the superstructure. Wedging it between the stanchion and the pressure hull, he pointed the flashlight’s beam in Tryon’s direction.

  Holding on to the stanchion with his right hand, Tom leaned downward, his left hand stretching toward Tryon. But Tryon couldn’t reach up toward him, his left arm broken, his right hand grasping the edge of the superstructure. Tryon struggled to maintain his grip, his strength ebbing with each relentless wave that battered him.

  There was no way for Tom to approach any closer. As desperation set in, a plan began to take shape in Tom’s mind. If he couldn’t get to Tryon, then Tryon would have to come to him. The plan was risky, but it was the only hope.

  Tryon would have to let go as one of the waves washed up the Kentucky’s pressure hull, riding it for a second, hoping to grab Tom’s outstretched hand before the wave fell, sweeping him out to sea. They would have one shot for their hands to meet and for their wet grasp to hold as the wave receded. Tom had no idea if it would work, but there was no time to debate the merits of the plan or the odds of its success; the last wave had almost knocked Tryon loose from his tenuous grip on the superstructure. It was time to break the news.

  “You need to let go!” Tom yelled. “Ride one of the waves toward me. I’ll grab your hand as you pass by!”

  The fear in Tryon’s eyes was evident as he evaluated Tom’s proposal. He would have to time it perfectly, letting go as he felt his body lifted by the wave. Tom knew the questions tumbling through Tryon’s mind—Would he rise high enough as he rode the wave toward Tom? Would the two men’s aim be close enough and would their hands meet? Would their grasp, formed in a split second, be strong enough to support his weight as the wave receded?

  “I understand!” Tryon shouted, just before another wave washed over him. When he emerged as the wave receded, he sputtered, “Next wave!” His strength was fading.

  “Ready!” Tom answered, tightening his grip around the stanchion.

  He held his hand out toward the missile tech, waiting for the next wave. As nervous as he was at the prospect of success, he couldn’t begin to imagine Tryon’s terror once he released his grip on the superstructure and put his life, literally, in Tom’s hand.

  The wave rolled toward them along the ship’s hull, emerging from the darkness into the red light, and Tryon let go just as the wave crested behind him. The wave lifted the missile tech up and pulled him aft along the side of the submarine. Their hands met as Tryon rode the wave past him, and they grasped each other. Their hands slipped as the wave receded, pulling the young petty officer out to sea.

  Then their grip held.

  The two men dangled against the Kentucky’s hull, supported by Tom’s hold on the stanchion. But Tryon’s weight put a strain on Tom’s grasp, and his hand began to slip. He clamped down hard, and they both hung from the stanchion by Tom’s fingertips as the next wave approached, threatening to break his grip and sweep them both out to sea.

  But just before the wave reached them, Tryon managed to place his foot up against the edge of the superstructure, supporting his weight for a moment, taking the pressure off Tom’s grip. Tom dug the bottom of his sneakers against the hull and pushed, and gained traction. He slid upward an inch before his feet slipped, but it was just enough; he grasped the stanchion firmly again. As the next wave hit, he heaved Tryon up as the missile tech was temporarily buoyed by the passing wave, and Tryon draped his right arm firmly around the superstructure support beam.

  As the two men rested against the pressure hull, Tom retrieved his flashlight and examined Tryon’s injury. There was a visible bend in his left forearm; it was clearly broken.

  “I’m going to need help getting you topside,” Tom said. “I’ll be right back.”

  He returned a few minutes later with the other two first class missile techs and a coil of rope, the end of which he tied around his chest and made his way to Tryon, still lying against the hull with his arm around the stanchion. Tom grabbed him under the shoulders, and with the help of Kreuger and Santos pulling on the other end of the rope, the two men slowly worked their way back up the slippery pressure hull. The missile techs lifted Tryon topside and helped him down the access hatch into Missile Compartment Upper Level, where the Corpsman and Emergency Medical Team waited.

  As Tom stood on the Kentucky’s missile deck, untying the rope from around his chest, the adrenaline began to wear off. His hands were trembling. The two of them could have been swept out to sea, adrift in the dark ocean. He let out a deep breath, thankful things had turned out okay.

  Tom focused his thoughts on his last remaining task. They would open the muzzle hatches for tubes Eight and Fourteen tonight, verifying they functioned properly before submerging and continuing toward Emerald.

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, Tom was back in his safety harness, alone on the missile deck except for Petty Officer Reynolds on the sound-powered phones. Kreuger and Santos had reported that tube Eight appeared operational, the hinges and locking ring undamaged. Inside the submarine, the Weapons Officer was in Missile Control Center, preparing to cycle the two muzzle hatches while Tom observed topside in case something went awry.

  Standing just aft of tube Fourteen’s muzzle hatch, Tom gave the order. “To MCC. All personnel standing clear. Open muzzle hatch, tube Fourteen.”

  Reynolds relayed the order, and a moment later the locking pins retracted from the hinges, the locking ring around the mouth of the missile tube rotated counterclockwise, and the heavy eight-foot-diameter hatch lifted silently upward to the fully open position. Seconds later, the locking pins were inserted, securing the hatch in place.

  Tube Fourteen was operational.

  Tom ordered the muzzle hatch closed, then walked forward, stopping just aft of tube Eight. One down, one to go, and Tom gave the identical order for the second tube.

  The watchstander in Missile Control Center flicked the toggle switch to tube Eight, disengaging the hinge locking pins. Both locking pin lights glowed bright green, indicating they had been successfully extracted. After verifying the locking ring had rotated and the locking pins were removed from the hinges, the missile tech in MCC sent the open command to tube Eight.

  Hydraulic fluid pressurized to three thousand pounds per square inch flowed under the tube’s muzzle hatch opening pistons, pushing the seven-ton hatch open, but part of the aft hinge’s locking pin—sheared in half during the MK 54 explosion—remained in place. A metallic screech tore through Tom’s ears as one hinge moved and the other refused, twisting and jamming tube Eight’s muzzle hatch.

  “Secure from opening tube Eight!”

  Reynolds relayed the order over the loud wrenching sound as the powerful hydraulic pressure tried to overcome the broken locking pin stuck in the hinge.

  Quiet returned to the Kentucky’s deck except for the waves breaking along the ship’s hull. Tom shined his flashlight on the deformed muzzle hatch; the forward edge was pushed up three inches while the aft section remained flush to the deck. The Weps and the Missile Division Chief joined Tom topside to examine the muzzle hatch, eventually agreeing the best approach was to try and shut it. If the locking pins could be reengaged, the muzzle hatch should seal properly. But tube Eight, along with tubes Ten and Twelve, was definitely out of commission. Tom gave the order, and the muzzle hatch closed properly, both sides flush with the Kentucky’s deck.

  * * *

  As Tom dropped down through the access hatch, the last man down, the Kentucky was already turning west again, toward Emerald, preparing to di
ve. He stopped halfway down the hatch, examining the fiery orange of the approaching dawn glowing on the horizon. He wondered if that was what Iran would soon look like from a distance, nothing remaining but the scorched remnants of humanity’s presence, the desert sands turned to glass from the heat of the atomic blasts.

  Reynolds called up to Tom, asking if he needed anything. Tom replied negative, then dropped through the hatch, stopping a few feet down the ladder. He pulled the heavy Missile Compartment access hatch shut, then spun the handle, sealing the crew back inside.

  55

  OAK HARBOR, WASHINGTON

  On the second floor of a white two-story building on the shore of Whidbey Island in the Pacific Northwest, with Canada a short ferry ride away and the picturesque San Juan Islands to the west, Al Culver rested his head in his hands, eyeing the display on his workstation at the Pacific Fleet’s Naval Ocean Processing Facility. In the cold, windowless building located appropriately enough on Intruder Street, Culver and the other three hundred military and civilian personnel assigned to the Whidbey Island NOPF monitored the SOSUS arrays on the ocean bottom and the mile-long arrays deployed from the five SURTASS ships, searching the ocean for submarines. Tracking the length of his watch by the cups of coffee consumed, Culver, a second class sonar tech, accurately concluded he had just completed the fourth hour of his watch.