The Trident Deception

by Campbell, Rick

  “I’ve already crossed that line, Chris.” Hendricks’s hand twitched at his side. “I’ve already been forced to commit murder by a prying intern who discovered more than he should have.”

  Christine’s eyes widened. “You killed Russell!”

  “I’m afraid so. And now it’s your turn. Into the study.”

  “No,” Christine said firmly.

  Hendricks’s voice turned hard. “We can do this the easy way, in the study, or the messy way, here in the kitchen. The decision is yours.”

  The messy way, then. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Fine. Have it your way.”

  Hendricks’s arm started to swing up toward her, and fear rippled through her body. If there was any hope at all, she had to act now. Once his arm was raised, the pistol pointed at her head, it’d be almost impossible to attack him and avoid a bullet. Another second of delay, another moment of indecision, and her life would be over. Christine’s resolve galvanized, and as the pistol in Dave’s hand rose toward her head, she moved quickly.

  68

  USS KENTUCKY

  39 MINUTES REMAINING

  Five minutes after being assigned as the Kentucky’s Weapons Officer, Tom stood inside the Op Center forward of Control, waiting for Lieutenant (JG) Carvahlo and Lieutenant Costa to open the two-door safe containing the Weapons Officer’s safe combination. Costa spun the dial and opened the safe’s outer door, then stepped back to allow Carvahlo access to the inner door. A moment later, the inner door clicked open. Carvahlo reached inside, retrieved the envelope, and handed it to Tom. The two officers shut and locked the safe doors, then left Tom alone in the Op Center. He peeled open the envelope and pulled out the slip of paper.

  Tom stared at the numbers, committing them to memory, then placed the combination back in the envelope. After a knock on the Op Center door, Carvahlo and Costa entered and opened the safe again. Once the combination was back inside and both tumblers spun, Tom stepped out of the Op Center into Control. The Kentucky was still at Battle Stations Missile, hovering at launch depth. In a few minutes, they would begin the launch sequence again, this time with Lieutenant Tom Wilson as the submarine’s Weapons Officer.

  * * *

  As Tom made his way through Control on his way to MCC, Malone hoped things would go smoothly this time. He had more confidence in Tom than he had in Lieutenant Manning, but it was a lot to ask of the junior officer. In a few minutes, the burden of the missile launch would rest on his shoulders, and Malone would see what kind of mettle the young man was made of.

  After receiving word that Tom had reached MCC, Malone picked up the 1-MC microphone. “Set condition One-SQ for strategic launch. This is the Commanding Officer. The release of nuclear weapons has been directed.”

  Without hesitating this time, the XO repeated the order over the 21-MC. Tom’s voice emanated from the speaker, acknowledging the order with only a hint of nervousness.

  Malone again turned his key ninety degrees counterclockwise in the Captain’s Indicator Panel and flipped up the Permission to Fire toggle switch. The first column of indicating lights on the CIP, with the exception of the missiles in tubes Eight, Ten, and Twelve, began turning red as their inertial navigation gyros spun up again and were informed of their slightly revised position on earth. As the missiles began accepting their target packages, the next column of lights also toggled from black to red. One by one, each gas generator was armed, illuminating the indicating lights in the third column.

  With the CIP in front of him glowing ominously, Malone gave MCC permission to fire, and the order was passed to Tom over the sound-powered phones.

  The crew had done their part again.

  Would Tom do his?

  * * *

  One level down from Control and just aft, Lieutenant Tom Wilson stood next to the Weapons Officer’s safe in Missile Control Center, cold air blowing on him from the ventilation ducts above, adding to the chill that already permeated his flesh and bones. It was quiet in MCC as the missile techs stared at the lieutenant, wondering if he, unlike his predecessor, would execute the Captain’s order to launch. Tom studied the Launch Control Panel, noting the green lights in each column with the exception of tubes Eight, Ten, and Twelve.

  They were almost ready to launch. Only two things remained: Open each tube’s muzzle hatch and unlock the safe containing the Tactical Mode Key and Trigger.

  Trying not to think about the ramifications of his actions, Tom reached for the safe’s combination dial. He spun the dial five times counterclockwise, as he had done a hundred times on similar safes, stopping on the first number of the combination. He spun clockwise to the next number, counterclockwise again to the final number, then returned the dial to zero.

  His hand hesitated as he gripped the safe handle, suddenly hoping the safe wouldn’t open, that the Weps had written down a fake combination. As much as he didn’t want to witness the confrontation that would occur if Manning had written down the incorrect combination, the burden would be lifted from his shoulders. Hoping his part in the launch would end right here, he pulled down firmly on the handle. The safe clicked.

  And unlocked.

  He pulled the door slowly open, and the bright MCC lights illuminated the Tactical Mode Key and Trigger.

  Tom reached inside, retrieving the Tactical Mode Key. He inserted it into the Launch Control Panel. Turning it to the Attack position, he closed the electrical circuit between the panel and the submarine’s twenty-four missiles. Reaching into the safe again, he wrapped his fingers around the Trigger, which looked like a pistol minus the barrel, pulling it out of the safe. An electrical cord ran from the Trigger back into the safe, attaching it to the launch control circuitry. The Trigger felt light in his hand, incommensurate with its importance.

  * * *

  In Control, Malone listened carefully as the first order went out over the MCC communication circuit.

  “Prepare ONE.”

  The indicating light for Missile Tube One’s muzzle hatch turned green. The response echoed from the Missile Compartment, confirming their first missile was ready for launch.

  “ONE, ready.”

  Tom’s next action was simple—squeeze the Trigger. But Malone knew it was easier said than done. If Tom could stay focused on the individual steps and not think about the totality of his actions, he would be able to squeeze the Trigger. But Malone suspected that not even Tom himself could predict what he would do.

  Thirty seconds passed, and the indicating light for Missile Tube One stayed solid red.

  A minute passed, and still no green light; no gas generator ignition, no flexing of the ship’s keel as missile ONE left the ship.

  Malone hung his head, wondering what he had to do to get his crew to execute the mission they were trained to accomplish.

  * * *

  Tom stood frozen in MCC, his arm extended, the Trigger in his hand. Nearby, the missile techs waited as the young lieutenant struggled to decide if he would follow the Captain’s order, or refuse like the Weps. His hand was ice-cold and his fingers white, as if the Trigger were sucking the heat from his hand. His heart pounded and his breathing turned shallow, and the lights on the Launch Control Panel began spinning. Reaching out with his left hand, he steadied himself on the edge of the fire control console. He felt light-headed, as if he were about to pass out.

  As he fought through the nausea, an image of his father appeared. It was the day he graduated from the Naval Academy. His father’s arm was around him, his face beaming with pride. Four years earlier, he’d stood in the hot July heat on the tan bricks outside Bancroft Hall, his right hand raised, repeating the Oath of Office, an oath that echoed in his mind today:

  I, Thomas Gerald Wilson, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and that I will well
and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter. So help me God.

  He’d sworn to follow the orders of the president and the officers appointed above him, with the same hand that now held the Trigger. The president had given him an order, reinforced by Malone, and he had an obligation to obey, codified in the solemn oath he’d taken that hot summer day.

  Tom’s finger twitched, almost squeezing the Trigger. But a vision of his wife appeared, standing on the pier the day the Kentucky left for patrol, waving to him as the ship headed out to sea. His twin girls slept peacefully in their strollers next to her.

  Nancy’s image transformed, her hair turning from blond to black, her skirt growing into a long dark dress, a scarf wrapped around her face. She was no longer his wife but a nameless woman in Tehran, her young children clinging to her legs as she stared upward at hundreds of odd red streaks raining down from the sky. She covered her eyes as a bright white flash lit the horizon, and then her body and those of her children vaporized as the heat and pressure wave from the atomic blast destroyed everything in its path.

  Wilson appeared in his mind again, as did Malone, both reminding him sternly of his duty. But then his mom appeared, whispering in his ear, telling him it was time to make a decision. That no one could decide for him.

  She was correct, Tom realized. It was time to decide.

  MCC slowly stopped spinning, and his nausea faded. The lights on the Launch Control Panel steadied, and the sensation of the Trigger in his hand reminded Tom the crew was at Battle Stations Missile, and the next action was his.

  Tom made his decision.

  69

  DAISAN SHINSHO-MARU

  34 MINUTES REMAINING

  For centuries, the captains of sailing ships feared and avoided the Doldrums, the equatorial waters where the winds are light and variable, often absent altogether, stranding ships in the calm waters for days and even weeks without the wind to fill their sails. To the north of the Doldrums lies a region of strong and steady winds that European empires, beginning in the fifteenth century, relied on as they expanded their trade routes. This morning, with the sun shimmering just above the horizon, the air was still on the deck of the Daisan Shinsho-Maru, as the fishing trawler drifted just south of those trade winds, inside the northern edge of the Doldrums.

  Michiya Aochi leaned over the edge of the aging trawler as it bobbed in the calm water, grabbing the fishing net in his gloved hands, heaving upward to retrieve the net they had dragged behind the ship throughout the night. As the graying fifty-three-year-old fisherman wiped the sweat from his forehead, he wished the ship’s captain would buy the mechanical winches the newer boats carried, instead of relying on the difficult, but cheap, process of manually hauling the heavy nets and their catch back on deck. Aochi paused to stretch his back, admiring the sunrise; the breaking dawn had painted the cumulus clouds an iridescent pink, orange, and red. Although the radiant sunrise was mesmerizing, it was not long before the scent of saltwater brine and rust from the trawler’s deck drew his attention back to his work.

  As Aochi leaned over to grab another handful of fishing net, he looked up, his attention caught by a large cylindrical object with a round nose that emerged from the water a few hundred yards away. It hovered for a second just above the water’s surface, then bright red flames erupted from the bottom of the object. It rose upward, picking up speed as it streaked through the sky, leaving a thick trail of white smoke behind. Aochi strained his neck, following the object until it disappeared into the clouds. A minute later, a second object emerged near where the first had appeared, repeating the strange sequence of events.

  70

  ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA

  33 MINUTES REMAINING

  As the revolver in Hendricks’s hand rose toward Christine’s head, she stepped toward Dave and chopped down with her left hand, blocking him from raising his pistol. Curling the fingers of her right hand into a half fist, she threw her arm forward, focusing the strength of her shoulder and the momentum of her body into a vicious jab to the center of his neck, right below his Adam’s apple.

  The attack caught Hendricks by surprise. Her hand connected solidly with his throat, and he staggered backward, gasping for breath, clutching the kitchen island with his left hand to help maintain his balance. Christine stepped forward again, this time grabbing his right wrist with both hands, ducking under his arm while turning in a full circle, twisting his arm up and behind his back. She shoved him forward, slamming his stomach against the kitchen counter, jamming her shoulder into his back, pinning him against the counter as she continued twisting his wrist with both hands. But as she prepared to wrest the pistol from his grip, he let it fall to the floor.

  The gun landed near their feet with a heavy thud. Hendricks kicked it away, and it slid across the floor toward the foyer. Hendricks’s gasps began to subside, and she could feel his strength returning. As his wrist twisted back against her grip, Christine gave him one final shove against the counter, then released his wrist and sprinted toward the revolver. Hendricks spun toward her the instant she let go, lashing out with his left arm. He caught her with the back of his hand, striking her on the side of her face. The blow knocked her off balance, and she stumbled against the counter on the other side of the kitchen. Hendricks continued turning toward Christine, smashing his right fist into her face. Christine reeled from the blow, her body bending back over the counter.

  He lunged forward, pinning her against the counter with his body, clamping both hands around her neck, his fingers squeezing into her flesh. She tried to breathe, but no air entered or exited her lungs. Hendricks’s hands crushed her larynx shut, his face turning red from the effort. Christine’s arms flailed across the marble countertop, searching desperately for a weapon she could use against him. But in her panic, all she did was knock everything off the counter. The jars of sugar and flour shattered as they hit the floor, ceramic fragments skittering across the tile. The container of spatulas and whisks rolled in a circular pattern, depositing its contents as it spun. The butcher’s block of knives thudded onto the floor.

  As Hendricks’s face strained with the effort to squeeze the life out of her, Christine’s eyes went to the butcher’s block. A carving knife had slid out. Step two of her next plan crystallized in her mind, but she first had to address step one: break free of Hendricks’s grip. His body pinned hers against the counter with his legs spread slightly apart, her right leg between them.

  Christine jammed her knee upward, smashing into Hendricks’s groin. His knees buckled, his face contorting in pain, and his grip around her neck momentarily relaxed. She thrust her arms up though his, breaking his grip, then she shoved him away and dove for the knife. As she landed on the floor, her right hand curled around the smooth wooden handle. She twisted onto her back, hoping to impale Dave if he jumped on top of her, but she was a second too late. He’d already leapt toward her, and he landed on her before she could place the knife between them. But she still had the knife in her hand, and she swung it toward him before he could grab her arm, embedding it two inches deep into his left shoulder.

  Hendricks gave no indication he was in pain. He simply reached over with his right hand and grabbed her wrist before she could remove the knife and stab him where it would do more damage. He pushed her arm back, extracting the knife from his shoulder, the end of the blade dripping blood, then grabbed her wrist with both hands, twisting and bending it backward until she was forced to release the knife.

  The blade clattered to the floor.

  It appeared she was out of options. He sat atop her, his legs straddling her waist, both hands holding her right wrist, the knife on the floor beside them.

  In desperation, she clawed at Hendricks’s face with her left hand, attempting to gouge out his eyes. He grabbed her hand and pushed both of her arms down, pinning her hands to the floor on each side of her head. His face was close to hers, only a foot away, his face red, perspiration on his forehead and cheeks. The
position reminded her of the life they once shared, years ago, the emotion and physical sensation just as intense. But love and pleasure had been replaced by hatred and pain.

  The pain would not last long, as Hendricks was intent on ending her life. But he’d have to release his grip on her wrist to grab the knife. She focused, concentrating on his weight on top of her, his grip on her wrists, waiting for the slightest indication he was going for the knife. The pressure on her right wrist suddenly eased as he released her hand, but Christine was ready. She grabbed his left wrist before his hand reached the knife.

  Hendricks’s hand froze in midair. Staring at her with cold eyes, he pushed his hand toward the knife. He was too strong. His hand inched downward, and his fingers soon touched, then wrapped around the blade handle. After firmly grabbing the knife, he pulled his hand back until it was a foot above her head. Then he rotated the blade until it pointed down, the sharp tip barely three inches from her skin. He overpowered her, driving the knife toward her neck.

  Soon it was only two inches away.

  Then an inch.

  Christine felt the sharp tip against her skin, the pressure increasing as Hendricks drove the blade downward. She could hear her pulse pounding in her ears, feel the warm throbbing of the arteries in her neck against the cool steel of the knife’s blade. The last ten days flashed through her mind; she relived each encounter with Dave, seeing now the indictors of his treason that should have been obvious to her. She wondered if that’s what happened to people when they faced certain death, the life they muddle through becoming clear, if only for an instant.

  She couldn’t believe her life was going to end like this, murdered on her kitchen floor by a man she once loved, a man she trusted until a few minutes ago. There was a time she would have given her life for him. But she’d be damned if she’d let him take it now.