The Trident Deception

41

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.

“We’ll coordinate our missile defense from here,” he began. “If we can get to the missiles before they release their warheads, there’s a chance we can take several of them out. But once the first few missiles are destroyed, breaking apart into dozens of warhead-size fragments, our surveillance systems will be overwhelmed. Even more challenging is guiding our interceptors to their targets. Each one of the Kentucky’s missiles will be traveling at fifteen thousand miles per hour — four miles per second — so even if we’re able to ferret the missiles and their warheads from the growing debris field, our antiballistic missiles face the daunting task of intercepting warheads streaking through the atmosphere at twenty times the speed of sound.”

As Hendricks explained the challenges they faced, Christine’s mind grew numb. She had known the task of destroying the Kentucky’s missiles and their warheads was difficult, but only now did she appreciate the futility of the effort. Their only real hope to avoid the destruction of Iran was to prevent the Kentucky from launching. And without their fast-attack submarines, the odds of sinking the Kentucky had decreased significantly. In light of the overwhelming task Hendricks faced, Christine searched for the appropriate encouragement to offer, finally settling for a few simple words.

“Just do your best, Dave.”

“You know I will.”

Christine crossed the room, stopping to examine the pictures on Hendricks’s desk, looking for a segue into her first topic. She was surprised to find a wedding photograph of her and Hendricks in the mix, a black-and-white picture of them outside the chapel in Clemson, South Carolina — Dave in a black tux with Christine wearing a Mori Lee drop-waist gown. No such photos existed in her town house; the memories of their marriage had been filed away.

After a moment, Christine turned toward Hendricks and asked the question point-blank. “Can I trust you?” She had meant to say Can we trust you? but the one word had come out differently.

“In what regard?”

His response instantly grated on her nerves. A man who could be trusted only in certain regards could not be trusted at all.

“Yes,” Hendricks added quickly, picking up on her irritation. “You have my word. I will reveal nothing about what happened in the Operations Center or about our attempts to sink the Kentucky.” He kept his eyes fixed on his ex-wife’s, conveying the sincerity of his response.

“Thank you,” Christine replied, placing her hand on his arm.

Hendricks’s eyes went to her hand, and she saw it in his face; the unexpected physical contact reminding him of the times they’d spent in each other’s arms. Christine withdrew her hand, turning back toward the desk and its pictures. She had seen his reaction to her friendly gesture, and even more, she could feel the same response rising within her. But she pushed it away. This was not the time for those types of feelings to resurface.

Christine forced her thoughts quickly onto the second topic; the real reason for her meeting. She turned back to Hendricks. “There’s something else I wanted to talk to you about. It’s about the launch order. I’m convinced someone else was involved besides Mike Patton.”

One of Hendricks’s eyebrows rose slightly. “And who would that be?”

“Hardison.” There. She’d finally said it.

Hendricks’s eyebrow rose even farther. “The chief of staff? You’ve got to be kidding.”

Christine shook her head. “There’s no way a simple NMCC watchstander pulled this thing off. He had help from someone high up. I think it’s Hardison. He’s the one who drafted the directive to load the Kentucky with twice as many warheads as the other Trident submarines. Then he whisked it across the president’s desk for signature without even mentioning that small detail.”

Hendricks was quiet for a moment before responding. “That could easily be coincidence. If you decide to look into this, you’ll need to be careful. Your intern was murdered, and if Hardison’s involved, he won’t hesitate to do it again. Whatever you do, don’t confront him directly.”

“Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself.”

Hendricks frowned. “If you’re right about this, you’re wrong about being able to take care of yourself. You’re going to have to go high order, direct to Larson, and fast. And you better be damn sure about it, because your career in politics will be over if you’re wrong.”

Christine considered Dave’s advice. He was right. If Hardison really was involved, she couldn’t pussyfoot around; it was too dangerous. But she also didn’t have enough evidence — really, any evidence — to take to the director of the FBI. She would have to pry this issue apart carefully, find the smoking gun that would implicate Hardison without question.

“I suppose you’re right. Perhaps the orders were sent to the Kentucky simply because she would be invisible to our fast attacks. Maybe it was just pure coincidence — and bad luck on our part — that launch orders were sent to a submarine with twice as many warheads.” Christine looked up at her ex-husband, her eyes steeling with resolve. “But I’m going to find out if Hardison was involved, and if so, he’s going to pay for what he’s done. And pay dearly.”

Hendricks met her gaze. “I just hope it’s him that pays, and not you.”

As Christine left his office and headed back toward the White House, Hendricks wasn’t convinced his ex-wife could take care of herself. The stakes in this plot were high, and those involved wouldn’t hesitate to eliminate anyone who cast suspicion in their direction. Chris was impetuous; he knew that firsthand. While she could power her way logically through even the most complex issues, she was a creature ruled by emotion. Emotion she struggled to restrain, but every once in a while she would do or say things against her better judgment. He wondered if she would be able to restrain herself from confronting Hardison directly at some point.

He let out a deep sigh.

Probably not.

42

A purple-orange dawn was breaking across the western shore of Australia as a white Holden sedan traveled along a two-lane causeway connecting the mainland to a small one-by-six-mile island. Eight-foot-high waves crashed against the granite rocks protecting the causeway, protesting the man-made intrusion into Cockburn Sound, while the strong western wind carried the salt spray over the top of the granite barrier, dumping moisture onto the road like rain. The thumping of the windshield wipers was the only sound in the sedan as Murray Wilson sat in the backseat, alone with his thoughts as he approached the end of his journey.

It had been a long trip from Pearl Harbor. A C-130J, with its uncomfortable web seats and four loud turboprop engines, was the only aircraft Stanbury had been able to requisition on such short notice. The four-thousand-seven-hundred-mile flight to Amberley Royal Australian Air Force base on the outskirts of Brisbane, with a refueling stop along the way in Pago Pago, felt like it took much longer than thirteen hours. The Australians had done their best to match the American Air Force’s hospitality, providing yet another C-130J for the transcontinental flight to Pearce RAAF base north of Perth, where Wilson was met by an Australian seaman leaning against the white sedan on the airport tarmac. After a forty-minute drive toward the shore, the seaman flashed his badge at the security gate guarding the entrance to Fleet Base West.

The road barrier lifted away, allowing entrance to Australia’s largest naval base, home to several Royal Australian Navy commands. On the south-east corner of the island, along the shores of Careening Bay, five Anzac-class frigates called the island their home. But more important, Garden Island was home to the Australian navy’s submarine fleet of six Collins-class long-range diesel submarines.

After a right turn at the twin five-inch destroyer gun mount marking the entrance to the waterfront and a right on Baudin Road three blocks later, the sedan pulled to a stop in front of a two-story exposed concrete building. Only two other cars populated the otherwise deserted parking lot in front of the Submarine Force Element Group headquarters. Wilson made no move to exit, and the seaman took advantage of his hesitation, lighting a cigarette as he stood on the curb.

The end of the seaman’s cigarette glowed bright red as he took a drag, and the smoke he exhaled was carried away by the cold morning breeze; a breeze similar to the chill wind that had whipped through the Houston’s Bridge six days earlier. Wilson had listened to his son’s voice over the handheld radio, perhaps for the last time, as the Kentucky headed out to sea. Wilson wondered what he would have said to his son had he known it might be the last time he spoke to him; that two days later the entire Pacific Fleet would sortie in an effort to sink his submarine. He wondered what he would have said to explain his role; the father doing everything possible to end the life of his only child.

Wilson knew he could still back out. He could omit the real purpose for his meeting with Commodore Lowe and instead discuss the upcoming Submarine Command Course — Australian officers participated in the quarterly American training exercises, with one of the four events each year held in Australian waters. He would report back to Stanbury that Australia had understandably declined to sink an American submarine, and none would be the wiser. Wilson doubted a follow-up conversation would ever occur between the two admirals; Stanbury would never learn the Australians had not been asked. It would be Wilson’s secret.

As at that moment in Stanbury’s office, Wilson had to make a decision. As the seaman finished his cigarette and flicked it onto the ground, extinguishing the butt under the heel of his shoe, Wilson realized he had run out of time. As he stepped out of the sedan and headed toward the FEG headquarters, Wilson knew he had fifty feet and one cup of coffee to decide.

After a quick left upon entering the FEG headquarters and a short walk down the white-tiled hallway, Wilson entered the one-star admiral’s office, an office not unlike Stanbury’s seven thousand miles away. It seemed a standard collection of furniture was procured for every admiral’s office, no matter which navy the officer served: the same mahogany-stained desk; the same dark, lustrous conference table, its polished surface reflecting the bright overhead lights.

“Murray!” Commodore Rick Lowe rose from his chair, walking around his desk to shake the American captain’s hand. “Good to see you again. How was your flight?”

Wilson grimaced. “C-130.”

“I feel your pain. I once had to fly all the way to Washington on one of them.”

Joining Lowe at his conference table, Wilson placed a thin double-locked courier case on the floor, leaning it against the front leg of his chair.

“Can I get you some tea? Coffee?” the commodore asked.

“Coffee would be great, sir. And thanks for coming in early to meet with me.”

Lowe hollered, then ordered a cup of coffee after his yeoman popped his head through the doorway. “So what brings you to Australia? And what’s so urgent that it can’t wait until a more civilized hour? Surely not advance planning for the next Command Course?”

Wilson suddenly realized he wouldn’t have the time spent over a cup of coffee to make his decision. He would have to answer the commodore’s question, and that answer would determine whether he would subsequently request Australia’s assistance. As he prepared to reply, the same arguments that had tumbled through his mind during the long trip south, the uncertainties that had risen again in the back of the sedan resurfaced. But deep down, he knew he had already made his decision. He had understood the personal implications of his assistance when he agreed to Admiral Stanbury’s request six days ago. And nothing had really changed.

He reached down and retrieved the courier case, placing it on the table in front of him. After spinning each of the five tumblers to the required number, he pressed both unlock mechanisms, releasing the latches. He pulled out a chart, unfolded it, and laid it on top of the table.

“Do you have any submarines near this location?” Wilson pointed to an area on the chart two thousand miles west of Hawaii.

Lowe studied the chart for a moment. “The Collins is nearby. Why?”

Wilson pulled an orange folder from the case, placing it onto the chart.

“Commodore, there’s something extremely sensitive we need to discuss.”

An hour later, Wilson stood alone in the Australian video conference room as the image of Admiral Stanbury flickered over the secure link to Hawaii. “Australia does have a submarine near the Kentucky, the Collins, and they’ve agreed to send her orders to sink the Kentucky.”

“That’s good news, Murray.” Stanbury’s voice warbled through the static.

“But they’ll send the orders on one condition,” Wilson added.

“What’s that?”

“They insist the orders be delivered personally by a U.S. Navy captain or admiral, and that he remain on board for the duration of the mission. Under no circumstances will an Australian submarine fire on an American submarine without a more senior U.S. officer aboard.”

Stanbury’s image froze on the screen for a second before the video connection resynced. “That’s understandable. We’d probably want the same.”

“Who do you want on the Collins?” Wilson asked the question, even though he already knew the answer. The two of them were the only officers in SUBPAC who knew the details of the Collins’s new mission. One of them would have to board the Australian submarine.

“I realize this will be hard, Murray. But I need you on the Collins. Will you board her?”

Until this moment, Wilson had hidden behind the belief that he was merely the chess master who moved the pieces into position. The entire fleet had been mobilized in the search for the Kentucky, and he was only remotely involved, providing direction behind the scenes. Someone else would do the actual killing, launching the torpedo that would sink his son’s submarine. Now he would have to take an active role. And if they found the Kentucky, he would have to give the order to the Collins’s commanding officer that would send his son to his watery grave. He would be directly responsible for his child’s death.

But perhaps it was meant to be to this way.

The father sacrificing the son.

Like Abraham, commanded by God to slay Isaac on Mount Moriah, Wilson had been requested to sacrifice his child. But as Abraham lifted the knife to murder his son, an angel of God appeared, revealing a ram caught in a nearby thicket, instructing the father to sacrifice the animal instead. As Wilson stared at the flickering image of Admiral Stanbury, he wondered whether, like Isaac, there would be a last-minute reprieve for his son.

He decided he would be there to find out.

“Yes, Admiral. I’ll board the Collins.”

43

Just east of the Mariana Islands, Commander Brett Humphreys peered through the Collins’s Search Periscope, observing the four inbound trawlers approaching the submerged submarine. Although the contact density this afternoon was heavy, it was thin compared to the morning, when the entire Mariana’s fishing fleet, it seemed, had put out to sea at the same time in a mad dash. Laden with the fruit of their harvest, they were returning in a much more civilized and staggered manner. Satisfied that none of the trawlers was a collision threat, Humphreys returned control of the periscope to his Officer of the Watch, who pressed his face to the eyepiece as Humphreys stepped back.

The Collins had been on patrol almost five months now, loitering in the western Philippine Sea for the last month before continuing her circular route from Perth back to the east coast of Australia. They would pass through the Bismarck Archipelago and into the Coral Sea, then follow the eastern shore of the continent on their journey south. After a port call in Brisbane followed by a week in Sydney, the diesel submarine would begin her scheduled full-docking cycle in the Australian Shipbuilding Corporation shipyard in Adelaide, where she would receive long-overdue maintenance and significant upgrades to her tactical systems.

Delivered in 1996, the Collins still had her original combat control suite, and her Torpedo Room was loaded with old MK 48 Mod 4 analog torpedoes, procured from the Americans in the 1980s. But that would change after the Collins returned from deployment, when she would be upgraded to the new American BYG-1 Combat Control System and MK 48 Mod 7 ADCAP torpedoes. In the meantime, the crew would compensate with their experience.

Humphreys stayed in control for a moment, surveying his seasoned crew. After five months at sea, the Collins, fully manned at fifty-eight hands, was a model of efficiency, the crew quietly relaying reports and orders between stations. Even the early morning foray of fishing trawlers, over twenty of them within 4,000 meters at one point, had not frayed the crew’s nerves, the Officer of the Watch expertly guiding the submarine through congested waters. The contact density on the remainder of their journey would be sparse until they approached Sydney, where Jodi would meet him. After five months at sea, the thought of his beautiful wife waiting on the pier was a compelling image, one that was quickly dispelled by the ship’s Communicator, stopping next to him.

“Message from the Submarine FEG, Captain.”

Humphreys read the message, surprised at the sudden change in orders and lack of details. The Collins had been directed to modify its patrol and head east, into the open ocean. Follow-on orders would be hand-delivered after a personnel transfer at specified coordinates. But the end of the message made clear the routine monotony of their long deployment had come to an end. Typed in capital letters, the last sentence read:

PREPARE FOR WAR PATROL

Humphreys turned to his Officer of the Watch. “Prepare to Snort, three diesels. Charge all batteries.”

44

Levi Rosenfeld entered the Prime Minister’s Office building at 9 A.M., returning from the Mossad’s headquarters in Herzliya, a suburb north of Tel Aviv. Still unaware of the details of the Mossad’s operation, Rosenfeld had been briefed on the basic plan and the American response — the United States was assembling its surface and naval air forces in the Pacific, forming a barrier through which the Kentucky must pass. The Mossad had somehow neutralized the most potent arm of the American Pacific Fleet, and its submarines were no longer a factor. But there was still a slim chance the Pacific Fleet would find the Kentucky. Rosenfeld had been alarmed there was the potential their plan could fail, surprised after Kogen’s assurance there was nothing the Americans could do. But considering what the Mossad had accomplished thus far and the high probability of success, he let it go.

As Rosenfeld entered his office, he was greeted by Hirshel Mekel, his executive assistant, who rattled off the remainder of the prime minister’s itinerary for the day. Rosenfeld nodded absently as he sat behind his desk, his thoughts still dwelling on the morning’s meeting, until his attention snapped back to the man standing in front of him.

“Here’s the latest report,” Mekel repeated, handing the manila folder to Rosenfeld.

Rosenfeld flipped through the thick investigation of the suicide bombing that had taken his daughters’ lives, stopping at the section that identified the organizations responsible. Kogen had informed him Hamas was to blame, but Rosenfeld was determined to ensure every group that contributed to his children’s death, no matter how limited its role, would feel the full wrath of Israel’s response. Rosenfeld found and read the section he was looking for, then flipped forward and backward through the thick investigation.

“This report is incomplete. Kogen informed me Hamas sponsored the suicide bomber, but this report says it’s still undetermined.”

“This is the latest version, Levi,” Mekel replied. “The draft was completed just hours ago, and I obtained an unofficial copy before it was submitted. I knew you’d want an update as soon as possible.”

Rosenfeld opened his desk drawer, pulling out an identical manila folder containing an earlier version of the report, approved by the Israeli intelligence minister. “This version clearly identifies the suicide bomber as a member of the Izz ad-Din al-Qassam Brigades and traces their funding and weapons back to Iran’s Revolutionary Guard. How is it that a later version is inconclusive on this issue?”

Mekel shrugged. “I assure you this draft is the most up-to-date version. Hiring a former Mossad staffer as your executive assistant has its advantages.”

Rosenfeld studied the cover letter of the earlier version, then closed the folder, looking up at Mekel. “How closely connected are you with your former Mossad friends?”

“I’m still very well connected, sir. What do you have in mind?”