The Trident Deception (15 page)

“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 the 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.

Reaching across the table, Wilson retrieved the letter and read it again, still finding it impossible to believe. They had been ordered to hunt down one of their own. One of
his
own, in a macabre scenario beyond comprehension. Disbelief, anger, and frustration swirled within as he struggled to come to terms with the president’s directive and Stanbury’s request. Professionally, he could follow through. But personally … The thought of the
Kentucky
engaged in a duel to the death with another U.S. submarine churned his stomach. Even if the
Kentucky
prevailed, they would just send in another fast attack, and another. The end result was not in doubt. He tried not to think about the men aboard the ballistic missile submarine as the cold water dragged the crew—including his son—down to their watery tomb.

Finally, Wilson spoke. “There
has
to be another way.”

Stanbury searched Wilson’s eyes for a moment before replying. “That’s one of the reasons you’re here. The last thing I want is to sink one of our own submarines. I need options.
Anything
that will allow me to carry out the intent of my orders”—Stanbury picked up the folder and waved it in the air—“without sinking the
Kentucky
. But we have to stop her from launching.”

Wilson let out a deep breath, realizing Stanbury had opened the door to alternatives. Now he needed to find one. His mind shifted into analytical mode, and it wasn’t long before he latched on to a solution.

“We’ll vector a couple of fast attacks into the
Kentucky
’s moving haven, and after they locate her, instead of attacking, they’ll communicate with her via underwater comms, telling her she’s had a Radio Room casualty and COMSUBPAC has ordered her to return to port.”

Wilson waited for Stanbury’s reaction. He knew it was a long shot. Trident crews were well trained. Once a launch order was received, nothing would stop them from launching except a Termination order. Not even underwater communications from a friendly fast attack. But it was worth a try.

“Good idea,” Stanbury said as he placed the folder back on the table. “However, the fast attacks need to be weapons-free, in case the
Kentucky
ignores them and tries to slip away. This may be our only opportunity.”

Wilson nodded somberly. “I’ll take care of it.”

“One more thing,” Stanbury added. “I need a plan for the rest of the fleet in case your fast-attack plan fails. I’ll be briefing Admiral Herrell at PAC Fleet later this morning. There’s one additional complication, however. Our orders are clear—we’re to minimize the number of personnel who know the ship we’ve been directed to sink is a U.S. submarine. By no means can we tell the entire fleet their target is the
Kentucky
. But if we don’t tell them the truth, and they classify the target as a Trident submarine, what then?”

“We don’t need to worry about the surface ships and aircraft,” Wilson answered. “Once they detect a submarine, they’ll attack immediately and not wait to determine what class it is. Our fast-attack submarines, on the other hand, could be a problem. It’s possible one of them will recognize the
Kentucky
’s frequency tonals as a Trident.”

Stanbury agreed. “The last thing we want is an attack aborted because there’s confusion over whether they’re prosecuting the desired contact. Do you have any suggestions?”

Wilson contemplated the quandary, searching for a solution. And then it dawned on him. “I think I have a plan, Admiral.”

18

WASHINGTON, D.C.

As the early afternoon light filtered through the tall colonnade windows in the Oval Office, Kevin Hardison struggled to avoid staring at the woman in the chair next to him, across from the president’s desk. She was, without a doubt, the most attractive woman he had ever met. His eyes kept returning for brief glimpses, lingering only for an appropriate period of time, until he finally decided to take advantage of her conversation with the president, giving him the opportunity to thoroughly admire her body. She shifted in her chair, crossing her right leg over her left, revealing well-defined calves, her skirt inching up her thighs, exposing lean, muscular legs. Her hair fell across the front of her shoulders, drawing Hardison’s eyes toward the opening of her blouse, the rounded flesh hinting at full, and undoubtedly firm, breasts.

Even in a conservative business suit, she was undeniably beautiful, and when she arrived at the occasional White House state dinner wearing a formal evening dress that hugged the curves of her body, every head turned, men and women alike forgetting the position she held and the influence she wielded. She would normally wear her hair up, pulled back to reveal the sleek lines of her neck, drawing admiring stares up toward her high cheekbones and glittering blue eyes.

If that wasn’t enough, her incredible physique was easily matched by her intelligence. The woman spoke with the president as an equal, he respecting her opinion, she absorbing his. Confidence was reflected in the tone of her voice, competence in the words she employed and the information she conveyed. The president nodded as she expertly explained the situation at hand. Hardison caught a faint smile on her lips as the president agreed with her assessment; a smile she seemed to reserve for others and not him, a smile that brightened her face, enhancing her almost irresistible attractiveness. Without a doubt, Hardison mused as he examined her body again, she was easily the most intelligent and beautiful woman he had ever met. Unfortunately, there was the issue of the woman’s personality.

If only she weren’t such an obstinate bitch.

Christine turned her head toward Hardison, catching him staring at her breasts. She threw him a withering look as she tugged the lapels of her suit jacket together across her chest. Her icy stare, combined with the vague recollection of someone mentioning his name, brought Hardison’s thoughts back to their discussion. He’d been asked a question, and his mind dragged the words from his subconscious, piecing together the president’s query. “I agree,” Hardison finally answered. “A Chinese ballistic missile submarine is a reasonable proposition.”

“It’s a perfect cover story,” added Brackman, who was seated on the other side of Christine. “The idea is to create a fictional target that has the same sound characteristics as a Trident submarine, so if our fast attacks correlate the frequencies to a Trident, it won’t be a surprise to them.”

“Why Chinese?” the president asked.

“Because the Chinese are notorious for stealing our military secrets,” Brackman replied. “They’ve already stolen designs for some of our older nuclear warheads, and they’ve been seeking submarine construction details for years. Their new
Yuan
-class is a copy of the Russian
Kilo,
and it’s not a stretch to believe they’ve finally collected the necessary information to build an indigenous variant of our Trident submarine. Our first Trident entered service over thirty years ago, so that’s certainly enough time for them to conduct the necessary espionage.”