Shattered Trident

23. DESPERATION

12 September 2016

1000 Local Time

White House Situation Room

Washington, D.C.

“Mr. President, you cannot possibly be considering such a reckless and irresponsible proposal!” blurted Andy Lloyd.

“And yet, you support our direct involvement in the war against China,” Kirkpatrick shot back. “The result is the same, Mr. Secretary. Only the timing differs.”

“Nonsense, Ray! Escalation control may not be an exact science, but we have decades of experience in keeping the lid on the nuclear genie.”

“Try ‘black art,’ sir, a purely academic exercise. We have no practical experience of escalation control under the conditions of open conflict with another superpower—none whatsoever!”

“Gentlemen, please,” Myles exclaimed loudly. His raised voice commanded everyone’s attention, and the shouting ceased. “Thank you. Now, let us turn to the issue at hand. First, Andy, yes, I am considering it. Why? Because Commander Mitchell’s proposal is the only other option I’ve been given other than going to war with China or sitting back and doing nothing. Neither will end the fighting quickly, which is my ultimate goal.”

Lloyd and Kirkpatrick both slowly sat back down; chastised like young schoolboys caught fighting on the playground. Myles looked over at Patterson and waved for her to take a seat at the table. “Dr. Patterson, please join us. You’re the expert on environmental and nuclear issues, I’ll need to hear your views on this option as well.”

Joanna grabbed a chair next to her boss. She was still reeling from the VTC. Jerry’s proposal was shocking, to say the least, but that the president was seriously considering it compounded her amazement. Participating in an honest-to-God discussion on actually using nuclear weapons was surreal.

“All right, Andy, you lead off,” said Myles as he pointed to the secretary of state.

“Mr. President, nuclear weapons are the option of last resort, not the first. A demonstration right off the bat can be too easily misinterpreted, potentially leading to a hasty and poorly thought-out decision by an adversary to retaliate.” Lloyd paused, looking down at the table before finishing his argument. “And on the domestic front, Mr. President, a decision to employ nuclear weapons would be political suicide. Even if Mitchell is correct and the fighting does stop, the damage to your campaign would be irreparable.”

“So, let me see if I understand you,” summarized Myles. “We can’t use nuclear weapons immediately because they are nuclear weapons. We have to fail conventionally first before we can even begin to think the unthinkable. Correct?”

Lloyd initially opened his mouth to speak, but stopped. He wasn’t happy with the president’s summary, and his face showed it.

“Ray, your opinion?” asked Myles, turning away from his close friend.

“I grant the secretary of state’s argument that a demonstration can be misinterpreted. However, his unspoken assumption is that the demonstration is detected before the weapons are detonated. If we can deliver the nuclear warheads with absolute covertness, then the first indication China or the Littoral Alliance will have is when their seismographs start twitching like crazy. At that point, there is nothing to misinterpret. They’ll know the weapons were exploded far from their borders, in the deep sea, but what will grab them by the throat is that we detonated a number of nuclear devices.

“Commander Mitchell’s idea is audacious, brilliant, and will be completely unexpected by the warring parties. The shock value will almost certainly be immense. You will have the world’s undivided attention, Mr. President. You can make your pitch with the assurance that you will be heard,” concluded Kirkpatrick.

“Thank you, Ray,” Myles replied. “General Dewhurst?”

The chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff was calm, but he took a noticeable deep breath before answering. “Mr. President, I am uncomfortable with providing any specific guidance. Quite frankly, this is not something I’ve been trained for or previously considered. However, my personal opinion is that Commander Mitchell’s proposal is very bold and will indeed shock the hell out of people. Just look at the effect it’s had on us. But, Mr. President, you will be letting the nuclear genie out of the bottle. My concern is that the cork may not go back in.”

“Kind of like a champagne bottle, eh, General?” questioned Myles with a slight grin.

Dewhurst chuckled. “A good analogy, Mr. President.”

Facing the secretary of defense, Myles repeated his question. “Malcolm, what are your thoughts?”

“I’m with the chairman on this, Mr. President.”

Myles became silent. Joanna could see the strain on his face, the magnitude of the decision weighing heavily upon him. After what seemed an eternity, he looked at Patterson and asked, “Joanna, Commander Mitchell said the radiation release would be minimal if we did this properly. Is he correct?”

‘There is a precedent for this concept, Mr. President. Unfortunately, it’s a single data point,” Patterson began. “Back in 1955, we detonated a thirty-kiloton fission device at a depth of two thousand feet. The gas bubble did vent into the atmosphere and the surface water initially showed significant contamination levels, but as the water dispersed, the radiation decreased rapidly. Radiation exposure by the personnel in the test area was minimal.

“If you pursue this option, we’d use a lower-yield fusion weapon, say ten or twenty kilotons, which generates less fallout. If we can get the warheads deeper, that would also help,” Patterson remarked.

Joanna paused briefly as she considered her next statement; it would likely have a major impact on the president. “In my professional opinion, Mr. President, the ecological damage from the detonation of a handful of these warheads would be far less than the spilled contents of a single supertanker.”

Myles nodded slowly. Leaning back into his chair, he looked around the room, his advisors watching him with great expectation. He announced his decision. “I will authorize the use of nuclear weapons for demonstration purposes. We will execute the good commander’s plan. Ray, I’ll need the details on this operation ASAP! No, sooner.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. President!” Kirkpatrick exclaimed. “I’ll have DARPA, DTRA, and ONR work on the size, number, and placement of the warheads.”

“Very good, Ray. But your point about absolute covertness is well taken. How do we deliver these weapons?”

“B-2 bombers will have no problems getting to the drop locations without being detected, Mr. President,” volunteered Dewhurst. “We can have them in the air within a couple of hours.”

Kirkpatrick shook his head. “I’m sorry, my dear Chairman, but stealth bombers aren’t viable in this case. We’d need to use multiple bombers, possibly four or five, perhaps more, to deliver the warheads over such a large area. Our bomber bases are being watched, both China and the Littoral Alliance have eyes on the ground. As soon as the bombers take off, they’ll be reported. We know this has happened in the past.

“Furthermore, I don’t believe there is an air-delivered weapon that will meet the specific requirements.” The national security advisor turned toward Patterson.

“Dr. Kirkpatrick is correct, Mr. President. The best airborne weapon we have is a B61 Mod 11 strategic nuclear bomb. But even with its special delayed fuze feature, that allows only about one hundred feet of penetration in soil, maybe a little more in water. We need over ten times more depth capability.”

“I see,” replied Myles. “So what other options do we have?”

“Mitchell knew,” stated Kirkpatrick forcefully. “Submarines, Mr. President. The only platform that can give us the necessary stealth and deploy a weapon that can get deep enough is a submarine. He didn’t say anything because he knew we’d come to this conclusion. He’s already volunteered for the mission.”

The president looked at Patterson. She silently nodded her agreement. Myles chuckled briefly. “Why am I not surprised? Very well, then, the attack submarines at Guam will carry out the mission. I hate to ask them to do more, but somehow I don’t think they’ll mind. Let’s get this moving, people!”

As the president’s advisors started collecting their notes, Myles called out to them. “One last thing. Andy is also correct that this decision is political suicide. Since the decision is mine to make, the consequences of that decision are also mine. Therefore, I request that you do not discuss with anyone what you’ve shared with me this morning. I consider the guidance you’ve collectively provided me to be for nonattribution. God willing, in a few days we’ll have more mundane things to talk about. Now, let’s hop to it!”

13 September 2016

0730 Local Time

Littoral Alliance Headquarters

Okutama, Nishitama District

Tokyo, Japan

Komamura woke with a blinding light in his eyes. He tried to close them tightly, but that wasn’t enough, and he reflexively threw an arm up to shield his face. The sudden movement triggered an explosion in his head, pain so intense he thought he’d been struck. He tried to scream, but all that came out was a weak “aaaahh.”

The spike of pain subsided to a deep throb, and he opened his eyes carefully. Even with his arm protectively shading his face, the light seemed unnaturally bright, and he rolled over, away from its source, and discovered he was in his quarters, in bed, with no memory of how he’d gotten there. Low-slanted morning sunlight streamed through the window.

Like any academic, Komamura cared more about where he worked than where he slept, so his bedroom was small, like a monk’s cell or a dormitory room for a college student. There was a single western-style bed with a nightstand, a standing closet and dresser, and a small desk and chair. Miyazaki Nodoka sat slumped forward at the desk, her head pillowed on her arms, snoring softly.

“Miyazaki-san?” He’d meant to call her name, but it came out more as a croak and he realized his throat was dry, almost painful. He coughed, and that set off his headache again.

His graduate student and assistant stirred at the sound, then sat up, shaking her head to clear it. She looked over to Komamura, and managed to smile while also looking deeply concerned. “Sensei, you’re awake!” She quickly knelt next to the bed. He started to speak, but couldn’t get his throat working, and she picked up a glass with a straw, holding it so he could drink.

The water helped, and she put one arm behind his back to bring him to a sitting position. He said gratefully, “Thank you, child. You’re always supporting me.”

To his surprise, her face fell and she backed away from the bed, still on her knees. Weeping, she fell forward, knees, elbows, hands, and forehead all touching the floor. “No, sensei. I did not. Please forgive me.” She held her pose, like a supplicant, crying and shaking with what? Shame?

“Stop this. Raise your face. What has happened?” He had to ask again before she finally lifted up her head. “It was my idea,” she confessed. “I’m so sorry.”

“What did you do?” he asked, confused and curious.

“Sensei, it wasn’t good for your health. I couldn’t stand seeing you like that, but you had lost your best friend, and we could all understand, but I was worried, and I spoke to the doctor here and he agreed. It turned out Minister Hisagi had even consulted the prime minister. They were considering a psychologist, but I said it was because you’d been working so hard…”

“Please, Nodoka-chan, what are you talking about?”

Her expression started to dissolve again, but she pulled herself together. “Your drinking. After two days and two nights, I couldn’t bear it anymore. The doctor gave me something and I added it to your drink, to make you sleep. You passed out right away, and we all brought you to your room so you could rest.”

Still on her knees with her head down, she backed up several feet, then rose to take something from the desk. Back on her knees, head down, she held out a folded paper in both hands. “Please, sensei, accept this.” He looked more closely at it. It was neatly labeled Resignation.

“No,” he said, shaking his head and immediately regretting the gesture. Then, as his brain began fitting the facts together, he asked, “How long have I been asleep?”

Still on her knees with her head bowed, she glanced up at the clock. “About twenty-nine hours. Doctor Ono has visited you several times, and gave you vitamin and fluid injections so you wouldn’t get dehydrated.”

“How long have I been asleep?” he repeated, anxiety rising. “Over a day?” He looked at the clock. It was morning, on the 13th!? Panic rising, he sat up quickly, and again regretted the sudden movement.

Miyazaki saw his pained expression, rose, and retrieved a bottle from the desk. She shook out a pair of pills. “For your headache,” she explained, and helped him swallow them with water. After she put the glass down, she was still holding the resignation, and turned to offer it to him again. Her expression was a model of unhappiness.

Still striving for coherent thought, he said quickly, “Put that away,” but when her expression became even more miserable, Komamura stopped himself and said more gently, “Your resignation is not accepted. I cannot forgive you, because you have done nothing wrong.”

There was a knock on the door, and it opened a little. He heard another of his graduate students, Saotome, ask softly, “Miyazaki-san, do you think…” As he cautiously peeked around the edge of the door, he saw the professor and said brightly, “You’re up!” and closed the door.

“Minister Hisagi and the admiral wanted to be notified the moment you woke,” she explained.

“Then I’d better get dressed,” he said, rising unsteadily to his feet. “Child, I have been a fool and a poor teacher. I must ask your forgiveness. I have been most troublesome. Thank you for taking such good care of me.”

“We were happy to do it,” she replied. Miyazaki was smiling, but still a little teary. “I’ll get you some breakfast.”

It took Komamura some time to dress and make himself presentable, although it felt like he was hurrying. Hisagi and Admiral Orihara were already waiting in the garden, standing next to a small table, when the professor arrived. When they saw each other, he stopped for a moment, gathering himself, then slowly approached the pair.

Bowing deeply, he said, “I have neglected my duties and caused great difficulty at a critical time. My behavior was inexcusable.” His head still throbbed, but he continued to hold his bow until he’d finished his speech.

He straightened slowly, one hand on the table for support, as Hisagi replied. “Your actions are understandable and forgivable. You grieved for a friend, and nobody would ever criticize that. We accept your apology, and look forward to you resuming your duties.”

There were three chairs, and Komamura gratefully sat down as the others did. Miyazaki appeared with a tray, and while the professor carefully ate, the others had tea and brought him up to date.

After breakfast, feeling humbled but also ready to work, he returned to his office. Komamura’s desk had been neatened to an almost frightening degree. Several piles of documents containing ongoing projects were missing, and he could only hope that one of his assistants had taken them, or some of the alliance’s deepest secrets were in danger.

Most of his assistants shared a single large workroom, but Miyazaki had been given a small office of her own. The door was open and she was hard at work, and he stood silently for a moment watching her, proud as any parent. She’d run things while he’d wallowed in grief and drink.

He knocked on the doorframe. “I came by to see if you could use any help.” He smiled, and the expression felt a little unfamiliar.

She almost bolted from her chair. “Sensei, please come in, sit down.”

With very little urging, he sat. “Hisagi and Orihara have briefed me on the situation, and your actions while I was—” He corrected himself. “—over the past few days. You’ve done well. We are all in your debt. Please, tell me what I have missed.”

Miyazaki nodded. “We’re continuing to supply target recommendations, of course. Several Malaysian and Singaporean submarines have passed to alliance control. There have been almost no merchant ship sinkings. There’s almost no one left at sea. I’ve got Akashi reviewing data on the accuracy of SINOPEC production reports. He’s detected some inconsistencies.”

“Good,” Komamura said approvingly.

“I had to take Kasugi off of damage analysis,” she reported, then suddenly stopped herself and nodded toward the door. The professor reached over and closed it.

“I’ve assigned him to the Ryusei project,” she continued, “along with a new Indian officer that the admiral’s brought in. I’m assuming Minister Hisagi and Admiral Orihara told you…”

“Yes,” Komamura replied. “Ballistic missiles. Surprising, but logical. But why Kasugi?”

“We needed his mathematical skills. We’ve never had to analyze groups of targets like this.”

“May I see the requirements?” he asked.

She handed him a hard copy that described the weapon’s accuracy, penetration against different types of armor, blast radius. He saw a second column. “What’s this second set of figures?”

“An improved version. They say it will have an increased radius of effect, and use a different type of explosive.”

“I should say so,” he remarked. “It’s more than four times as large, and with greater destruction within the radius.” Even as he said it, a chill ran up his spine. Was he really awake? But if they wanted to hurt China and end the war, it couldn’t be helped.

“Calculating the measure of effectiveness when groups of targets are involved has been difficult,” she explained. “Kasugi’s made good progress.”

“I think you chose well. I’ll take over the oil infrastructure analysis now, since I won’t have my time taken up with supervisory duties.”

She looked confused. “I don’t understand.”

“Hisagi and Orihara both suggested that you should be the new head of the economic intelligence section. They asked me to concentrate exclusively on the Chinese economic situation. I told them I approved completely. The working group will ratify it shortly.”

“I’m honored by your confidence, sensei. I will do my best.”

Back at his desk, Komamura plopped several fat folders down, returning each one to its accustomed place. His head was clear, but he could feel his body still waking up, his energy slowly returning. He looked over at the shrine to Admiral Kubo in the corner. His first impulse was to remove it, to remove temptation and banish the sadness, but then he decided he could leave it. He’d said good-bye. It was time to move forward.

He reached for the folder with the Chinese economic data, but still hadn’t put away the hard copy with the ballistic missile targeting requirements. Both Hisagi and Orihara had made it clear that this was a “sensitive” program, meaning that knowledge of its existence should be limited, even within the alliance leadership. It was, literally, a “secret weapon.”

Ballistic missiles were offensive weapons, forbidden by Japan’s postwar constitution, but he’d argued in his book that at some point, Japan would face a circumstance that required their use, and now they found themselves in exactly that situation. Still, for it to come about so quickly, and as a consequence of his writings, was unnerving—a self-fulfilling prophecy?

He reviewed the information again. It was a powerful weapon. Even a handful would do tremendous damage, especially after the new warhead became available in a month’s time. Where before they needed dozens of cruise missiles, or three of the early Ryusei missiles to destroy an area target, the improved version could flatten a refinery with one hit, and destroy a fair amount of the surrounding landscape.

How could they do it? In his new work with the alliance, he’d become familiar with different types of weapons and their general capabilities. He understood how the Ryusei’s warhead worked, with many small charges, even as he shuddered at the damage it would inflict. But the details of the new warhead were not included, which was reasonable. It was still being developed, after all, but it was hard to imagine how anything short of…

Admiral Orihara had taken over Kubo’s old office, of course, although it held two desks now, for the admiral and his aide. The Hirano estate had never been intended to serve as the headquarters for a multinational military alliance.

Komamura stood silently at the open door for a moment. Orihara had been an aviator, and the model of Tachikaze, Kubo’s first ship, was gone. One wall was covered with photos of different Japanese aircraft. A photo of Kubo, bordered in black, had been added as well.

His aide, a lieutenant, noticed Komamura first, and stood, almost coming to attention. “Yes, Doctor?”

Struggling with several emotions, the professor did not respond right away. Reading Komamura’s troubled expression, Orihara glanced toward his aide. The lieutenant said, “I’ll bring tea,” but Komamura shook his head, still silent. At a nod from the admiral, the aide grabbed a sheaf of papers and quickly left.

“Please, come in,” Orihara urged. Once inside, Komamura closed the door carefully and sat down, feeling the admiral’s eyes on him. He felt painfully aware of what Orihara’s impression of him must be—at best, a melancholy drunk. But that could not be helped. He would not hold back.

Komamura leaned forward and laid the hard copy he’d gotten from Miyazaki in front of Orihara. “By my estimates, the improved warhead for the Ryusei has a yield of about fifteen kilotons. It’s a plutonium implosion design, correct?”

He was watching for Orihara’s reaction, and the admiral seemed genuinely surprised by the question. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. The improved warhead—”

“Cannot achieve the described level of destruction using any known conventional explosive,” Komamura interrupted. Now that he’d said it out loud, he felt unexpected anger, and fought to control it. “Damage over such a large area can only be achieved by a nuclear weapon.”

Orihara did not answer immediately, but instead picked up the phone and punched a number. After a short pause, he said, “Please ask Minister Hisagi to come to my office immediately.”

As he hung up, Komamura asked, “How did you get permission from the Diet? I was surprised that they approved the ballistic missile, even with a conventional warhead, but this? Wait. Do they even know?”

“The prime minister, the defense minister, and the head of the Japanese Atomic Energy Agency know,” the admiral answered. “As you can imagine, security is extremely tight.”

“Is ‘extremely tight’ good enough?” Komamura asked, his voice rising. He paused for a moment, then spoke more softly. “If China learns of a nuclear weapons program in Japan, it almost guarantees instant devastation.”

There was a knock on the door, and Orihara answered, “Come in.” Hisagi stepped inside quickly, closing the door again.

The admiral announced, “Dr. Komamura has deduced the nature of the Ryusei’s ‘improved’ warhead.”

Hisagi’s face registered surprise, then it went blank for a moment before he carefully responded. “That is unfortunate, Doctor. You were not supposed to be briefed into the project.”

“I’m not surprised. You certainly knew what my reaction would be. I’m repelled by the very idea.” Looking at the two, he asked harshly, “Are either of you truly Japanese?”

Both reacted to the insult as if they’d been slapped. The use of nuclear weapons in World War II had scarred Japan’s national psyche. You didn’t have to have family near Hiroshima or Nagasaki, or have met someone suffering from radiation-induced illness. It was enough to have been born and raised in Japan.

Orihara answered carefully, “Your opinion is respected, Doctor, even now, but this was a matter of national and alliance policy. You were never part of the decision process.”

Suddenly he felt helpless. He’d caught Orihara’s slight—“even now”—and the admiral had referred to him as an academic, instead of the “sensei” everyone else used. His message was clear. I don’t care who you are.

“I cannot imagine a Japan that possesses nuclear weapons. What about the other alliance members? Do they know?”

Hisagi answered, “They all know. Like the ballistic missiles, the weapons will be jointly owned, and based in all of the alliance countries.”

“Why not just procure some Indian ballistic missiles, then?”

“India has reservations and refused. The other nations agreed that it would be better if we developed our own nuclear technology. These will be alliance weapons, not just Japanese. We’ve had the technical capability; we’ve just chosen not to develop them.

“It will proceed very quickly. The MOX fuel used in our nuclear reactors is seven percent weapons-grade plutonium. We already have several labs at work chemically separating the element, and we only need a few kilograms for a small implosion warhead. The Indians have agreed to provide assistance, as well.”

Komamura remembered the officer working with Kasugi. “And you’re already picking out targets. It’s unbelievable.”

“We have no intention of using them,” Hisagi protested, “but think, sensei. Not a single ballistic missile has fallen on Indian soil. The reason is obvious, as is the solution. Deterrence works, and these will be our shield against future attacks.”

“Unless the Chinese decide that seven more nations with nuclear weapons is too many,” Komamura argued. “We are frighteningly vulnerable now, with a secret worse than the existence of the alliance initially was. Remember our fears then of being discovered? If China learns of the program, she’ll immediately strike every location she can think of that might be involved in their development.”

Komamura’s own words frightened him. “And how will the alliance make them public?” he continued. “A secret deterrent is useless. How many weapons do we need to have a credible deterrent against an established nuclear superpower?”

He paused, then shook his head. “No, China will never let us get that far. Even if they don’t discover the program before it becomes operational, the moment the alliance announces it has nuclear weapons, the Chinese will have to strike!”

Hisagi and Orihara both looked grim. The minister replied respectfully, but firmly. “Your arguments, and more, were debated at length, and the decision was made by our national leaders, as is their duty.

“This is at least in part because of your work, sensei. As long as we were willing to let America guarantee our security, Japan could limit her armed forces. If we are to stand by ourselves now, as part of a military alliance, then we should build whatever we need for a proper defense.”

“Please, let me speak to the prime minister,” Komamura pleaded.

“What will you do, question his heritage as well?” Orihara responded harshly. “Put your skills to work and show us a way to break the Chinese economy. If we can do that quickly enough, then all of this is moot. One more opinion will not change anything. Events have moved forward. There is no looking back.”

13 September 2016

1300 Local Time

By Water

Halifax, Nova Scotia

He titled the piece “Shattered Trident.” Christine’s source, whom he’d dubbed “Deep Voice,” didn’t send something every day, but everything he sent was a blockbuster. The latest one had arrived less than three hours ago, and Christine was waiting for him to proof and polish the piece before giving it to her.

There. He always forced himself to read completely through each posting one final time before sending it. With the last few corrections made, he hit the “Send” link and checked his watch.

She’d use the text he wrote almost verbatim, now that she’d given him a few journalism tutorials, but she’d still have to assemble the “visuals.” That probably meant the 4:00 P.M. feed. He wouldn’t post the article until then. Their arrangement was simple. CNN was the source, so CNN got the scoop.

All the news channels, and probably many of the intelligence services, now watched his blog closely. He wasn’t the only source of information about the war, but he had broken enough stories now so that he was a known authority—an authority with excellent sources.

This article would only reinforce his blog’s status. Laird’s source had given them The Plan: a complete copy of the Chinese operations order for something called “Trident.” While the military details were fascinating, the underlying purpose and goal were frightening. It was bad enough that China had intended to seize most of the disputed territory in the South China Sea by force, but beyond that, those in the East China Sea, and then the Yellow Sea. China’s leaders had big ambitions.

What if the plan had succeeded? He tried to imagine the entire western Pacific under Communist Chinese hegemony. This posting would change the world’s attitude about China. It could have as much effect on China’s fortunes as a traditional bombing campaign.

He’d better proofread it again.

As Mac read, he imagined what the Chinese spokesman would say. It was certain that they’d be barraged with questions, just as the Littoral Alliance spokesman had been besieged after his last major release. A detailed analysis of China’s oil infrastructure and its impact on the economy had spiked Littoral Alliance claims of imminent victory, changing the public debate almost overnight. He imagined that was Deep Voice’s real goal, although Mac couldn’t see that the pronouncements by the two warring factions had improved. Each side just used what it wanted and ignored any inconvenient facts.

13 September 2016

1430 Local Time

Pearl Harbor-Hickam Joint Base

Hawaii

Commander Garcia, the sub base XO, met Patterson’s plane at Hickam with a private car. During the five-minute ride to the sub base, he briefed her on the security. “With the war, we were already at a very high level. The special weapons requirements are on top of that, of course, but they’re not attracting the kind of attention they would normally.”

Even as he described them, the car stopped at the gate to the part of Pearl Harbor that housed the sub base. A marine sentry examined all their identification thoroughly while a dog handler walked around the car. They even checked the trunk and searched her overnight bag.

The techs had decided to do the work at the base’s torpedo shop. While moving twelve nuclear warheads from inactive storage was not a simple process, moving twelve Mark 48 torpedoes was even harder, and there simply wasn’t room at the special weapons shop for twelve torpedoes, each nearly twenty feet long and weighing almost two tons.

There was more security at the torpedo shop itself, the building literally surrounded with marines, weapons at the ready. And was that a machine-gun position?

More salutes, and more identity checks at the door, but at least she’d left her overnight bag in the car. Inside, she was greeted by Captain Marino, the sub base commander, and Colonel Thomas, head of the technical team. “My people will supervise loading the torpedoes onto each sub, and the arming.”

“Did you have any problems with the authorization process?” she asked. She’d been briefed about the strict rules controlling what the United States called “special weapons.” There was the two-man rule, requiring that all work on a nuclear device, however trivial, be done by two people, and thoroughly documented, of course. Each weapon also had to be under positive control at all times. This meant that until it was to be launched at a target, a weapon was guarded at all times and could not be armed, which required authorization from the president.

Thomas explained, “President Myles has signed an executive order declaring that this use of nuclear weapons is not an attack on any country, but a ‘controlled detonation for peaceful purposes.’ The SECDEF has also verified the order. Each weapon will be prepped just before it’s put in the tube, in the presence of the sub’s captain, weapons officer, you, and myself.”

That was why she was there. She was the president’s personal representative. She carried the Permissive Action Link, or PAL security codes, for the nuclear warheads. This was definitely not the way things were done normally. But the submarines’ fire control system lacked the ability to insert the PAL code while at sea, so the codes would have to be manually entered just as the torpedo was loaded into the tube. Without a proper PAL code, a warhead could not be armed. It would be by her action that eight nuclear weapons would be detonated in the South and East China Seas. It didn’t seem quite real.

“Once we verify that the weapon is properly prepared, it goes in the tube and we padlock the tube door. The only way it leaves the tube is either by being fired, or offloaded when the sub returns to base. The captain and weapons officer of each sub will have access to the keys, in case of emergencies.”

“But the subs only have four torpedo tubes,” Patterson protested. “You’ll be tying up two of them until they get back to port. Can’t they wait to load them until they’re in position to fire?”

“Not and maintain positive control, ma’am. Too many people have access to the torpedo room. And we’ll be using three tubes, actually,” Thomas clarified. He ignored her alarmed expression.

“Each sub will have a third weapon as a spare, in case there’s a problem with either of the first two. So, yes, until they fire, they will only have one tube available for self-defense. But once they do shoot, they can unlock the tube doors and use them normally.”

She didn’t know whether to be relieved or more concerned. Of course, the four boats would not be looking for a fight when they sailed, but poor Santa Fe demonstrated that plans didn’t always work out.

They walked down the length of the shop, escorted by Warrant Four Harris, the officer in charge of the facility. The interior was crowded with not only navy torpedomen, but the nuclear weapons specialists of Thomas’s team. Complex mechanisms filled every corner of the shop. The sounds of different tools combined to form a constant background to their conversation.

Harris explained that the warhead sections from the torpedoes were easily removed and replaced with an exercise module. It was a straightforward process, and was covered by established maintenance procedures. “We normally separate the sections as part of a torpedo’s overhaul.”

“They fit?” Patterson asked. It was obvious they did, but she was curious.

Harris nodded. “Easily. We’re using W-80 warheads from Air Force B61 tactical nukes. The device is smaller in diameter and shorter, so volume isn’t an issue. It’s also not that far off weight-wise. The real challenge was securely mounting the warhead inside and then figuring out how to ballast the weapon so the torpedo’s center of gravity didn’t shift. That would have thrown the guidance completely off.”

They reached the far end of the shop, where the torpedoes already converted were being cased for shipment. Thomas said, “We’ll start loading the weapons onto the trucks shortly. There’s a C-17 prepped and waiting to take the weapons, you, my team, and our security detachment to Guam. If you’d like to rest, Warrant Officer Harris’s office—”

“That’s fine,” Patterson answered. “I’d like to stay here, if that’s all right. I’ll keep out of the way.” Maybe if she watched for a while, it would begin to sink in. She’d been going through the motions, doing what needed to be done, but the enormity of it all was overwhelming. She couldn’t decide if she was in shock or had just become numb.

She’d spent part of the flight out to Hawaii trying to determine more accurately how bad the environmental damage was going to be. Terms like “best case” and “conservative estimate” didn’t really seem appropriate. In the end, she could only draw broad limits around an unhappy answer, but the damage from the nuclear explosions was still going to be considerably less than what had already been inflicted by the sinking of nearly three dozen tankers. And then there was the political “fallout” that was likely to be just as devastating. But the war had already killed tens of thousands, and threatened to slip over the edge into a nuclear nightmare.

Any choice had costs. She could accept paying this price if it could stop a war.