The Trident Deception (26 page)

That wasn’t what Gallagher wanted to hear. With a dropped rod on the bottom of the core, they were limited to ahead standard, an insufficient speed to successfully engage in combat. Even worse, the
North Carolina
wouldn’t be allowed to operate for long with an uneven flux in the core. Once Naval Reactors was informed the dropped rod couldn’t be relatched, the ship would undoubtedly be ordered to return to port immediately for repair.

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 Control 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.