The Trident Deception

53

“Good evening, Prime Minister.”

Rosenfeld’s stride faltered as he entered his office. A large, burly man sat in a chair in front of his desk, his back to the prime minister. A gray ringlet of hair, encircling a bald dome on top of the man’s head, tapered down the back of a wide neck that spread into broad, sloping shoulders. Without seeing his face, Rosenfeld recognized the man — Ariel Bronner.

Head of the Metsada.

Rosenfeld was surprised to find anyone in the building this late, much less in his office. It was 9 P.M. He wondered how Bronner knew he was working late tonight, then stopped midthought.

Stupid question.

The Metsada was the special-operations arm of the Mossad, fielding the agents that made Israel’s espionage possible. Rosenfeld harbored no doubt the Metsada kept tabs on him as well, and that Bronner could ascertain Rosenfeld’s whereabouts with little effort.

Rosenfeld suddenly noticed Hirshel Mekel, his executive assistant, sitting in one of the chairs against the wall, his eyes darting between Bronner and the prime minister. Regaining his composure, Rosenfeld walked past Bronner, stopping behind his desk to face the man who had never once, in Rosenfeld’s six years as prime minister, visited his office. Bronner’s massive shoulders transitioned to thick, muscular arms ending in large scarred hands that wrapped around the end of the chair’s armrests. Rosenfeld had never reviewed Bronner’s field file, but he had no doubt the man had squeezed the life out of more than one person before he was promoted to a management position.

Glancing at Mekel, Rosenfeld looked for a clue to explain Bronner’s visit. Mekel’s tense posture told him Bronner was upset. Mekel must have been caught snooping around the Metsada’s headquarters. Rosenfeld decided to ignore that small but relevant fact as he settled into his chair and addressed the man in front of him. “What can I do—”

Bronner raised his index finger, cutting off Rosenfeld’s question. He spoke slowly, pronouncing each word clearly. “The next time you desire information from the Metsada without using proper protocols, I advise you to not send an amateur.”

Rosenfeld briefly considering denying Bronner’s accusation. But why? After all, the Metsada worked for him. And as both prime minister and a father, he was entitled to whatever information the Metsada had gathered on the suicide bombing that killed his daughters. Perhaps he had made a poor decision, assigning Mekel a task he was ill prepared for, probing within the secretive organization for additional information. But he needed to resolve the discrepancy between the report Kogen had delivered and the later version obtained by Mekel. However, Bronner had a point, and it looked like this discussion would go nowhere unless Rosenfeld acknowledged it.

“I apologize, Ariel. I should have come directly to you. But I was … afraid.”

“Of what?”

Rosenfeld didn’t answer immediately. Bronner had asked a straightforward question, but one that forced Rosenfeld, for the first time, to address his true fear. It was possible a simple administrative issue had created the discrepancy between the two reports. But he knew, almost to a certainty, that the earlier report had been altered by someone within the Mossad — either Kogen or even the man sitting in front of him. There was no way around it now.

“I didn’t know whom I could trust.”

Bronner’s eyes narrowed. “You have good reason to fear, Levi.”

Rosenfeld’s body stiffened, unclear what Bronner meant by his comment, uncertain about whom he couldn’t trust. Bronner? Or someone else? He eased back in his chair, attempting to hide his apprehension. “Explain.”

Bronner glanced at Mekel, then nodded toward the door. Mekel sprang from his chair, bolting out of Rosenfeld’s office, slamming the door behind him in his haste.

The Metsada chief’s grip on the chair armrests tightened. “You were wise to be suspicious, Levi. The report Kogen provided you was not reviewed or approved by me, and the content of that document is inaccurate. It was altered to blame Iran for the death of your daughters, when no such evidence exists.”

Rosenfeld tried to ignore the panic rising inside him. The implications of Bronner’s statement were multifaceted, and his mind went in several directions simultaneously. But he grabbed control of his thoughts, forcing himself to stick to the simplest track for the time being: collecting the facts.

“Who is responsible? And why was it changed to blame Iran?”

“I’m afraid I have distressing news, Prime Minister. The suicide bomber was recruited not by Iran but by the Metsada, without my knowledge.”

Even though he was fairly certain he hadn’t moved, Rosenfeld felt his body recoil. Why would the Metsada murder his children? But Rosenfeld was unable to concentrate on why for the moment. There was a much more pressing question. If the order hadn’t been given by Bronner, then …

Rosenfeld’s eyes hardened. “Who?”

“Barak Kogen, Prime Minister. It appears he wanted to ensure you would authorize the destruction of Natanz, and he killed your daughters to influence your decision.”

Like a dam breaking under the strain of evidence, the truth flooded into Rosenfeld’s mind. Several days ago, a seed of suspicion had been planted when he read the draft report Mekel had obtained, but he had refused to acknowledge the possibility. The thought that his own intelligence minister was somehow involved in subterfuge concerning his daughters’ deaths, along with the underlying implication, was too disturbing to contemplate. So he had sent Mekel inside the Mossad, looking for more definitive evidence. In the meantime, that seed of suspicion had sprouted like a strangler fig, the horror of the seedling’s true nature revealed by Bronner’s accusation.

It was possible Bronner was lying, deflecting blame onto Kogen. But one look at the Metsada chief told Rosenfeld he didn’t need a polygraph to know Bronner was telling the truth. Rosenfeld had been betrayed by his own intelligence minister. A man he depended upon to keep Israel and its people safe. A man who had stood beside him as his daughters were lowered into their graves, consoling him in his grief. A man driven by such hatred that any means was justified to achieve the end. Even the murder of children.

His children.

Anger welled up inside. As he contemplated his recourse, he realized Bronner shared the same emotion. “What will you do?”

“I cannot let this stand, Prime Minister. I must take appropriate action, with your concurrence.” Kogen had betrayed the Metsada, and Bronner appeared to consider that betrayal far more significant than what Kogen had done to Rosenfeld.

Rosenfeld responded quickly. “You have full discretion in this matter.” He was about to excuse Bronner, but it looked like his Metsada chief had more to say. “Is there something else?”

“I’m afraid so, Prime Minister. The Metsada has learned the Kentucky’s launch message was modified by the American. It directed the launch of all twenty-four missiles against Iran. Instead of only Natanz being destroyed, 192 warheads will be released in a pattern designed to destroy the entire country.”

Rosenfeld was at a loss for words as he processed Bronner’s statement, panic stabbing into him as he realized their Mossad plot had been manipulated into destroying an entire country. Seventy million people annihilated in a nuclear holocaust. Suddenly, the nuclear weapon being assembled by Iran became irrelevant. The Metsada operation had to be stopped. “Can you terminate the operation, turn off the Kentucky’s launch?”

Bronner shook his head. “I’m afraid not, Prime Minister. In that respect, Kogen did not deceive you. There is nothing we can do. Whether or not the missiles are launched is now up to the crew of that submarine, and the American navy searching for them.”

Rosenfeld nodded somberly, and Bronner rose from his chair and left. Rosenfeld stared into space, his entire body numb from the revelation of his intelligence minister’s treachery and the change to the Kentucky’s launch order. Kogen had murdered his children, then manipulated him in the midst of his anguish. Rosenfeld had made his decision to destroy Natanz while he was suffocating in grief, authorizing the Mossad’s operation. An operation that would now destroy an entire country.

He buried his face in his hands.

What have I done?

54

Standing in the darkness in Missile Compartment Upper Level under the access hatch to the world outside, Tom tightened the safety harness strapped across his chest. Nearby, he could hear the breathing of Petty Officer Tryon and three other missile technicians standing alongside him, likewise wearing safety harnesses, waiting for word to open the hatch. One of the missile techs shifted his stance, his shoe squeaking on the steel deck; the five of them had changed into their sneakers for the 4 A.M. trip topside. As Tom’s eyes completed their adjustment to the darkness, he waited for the order to emerge into the night to inspect the damage from the MK 54 torpedo.

There was no doubt the torpedo had inflicted significant damage. Twenty-seven hours ago, as the Kentucky prepared to pass under the surface ship barrier, increasing speed to ahead two-thirds, Sonar had detected flow tonals once the ship reached eight knots. The submarine’s superstructure covering the top of the Missile Compartment had been damaged in the explosion, and the twisted metal wreckage was whistling in the wind, so to speak, as the water flowed over what had once been a smooth, even surface. The Captain had limited the Kentucky’s speed to seven knots during the transit, expertly threading the submarine beneath the surface ships. The tension had been high, especially as the helicopters periodically repositioned, dropping their dipping sonars beneath the ocean’s thermal layer. Fortunately, none had stopped for a listen close enough to detect the Kentucky.

After passing under the last of the surface ships, Malone had continued west for another twelve hours, far enough away to risk surfacing the ship in the darkness to inspect the damage. Inside the submarine, the strategic weapon system was fully operational with the exception of tubes Ten and Twelve. Water was draining from the bottom of those tubes, evidence that the muzzle hatches were no longer watertight and that the plastic protective nose cones over the missiles were cracked.

Tubes Ten and Twelve were out of commission. Whether the adjacent tubes were operational was uncertain, and Malone had decided a visual inspection was the only way to determine for sure if tubes Eight and Fourteen could be opened without the screech of a damaged muzzle hatch giving away the submarine’s position while it was most vulnerable, dead in the water preparing to launch its missiles.

As the Assistant Weapons Officer, Tom was responsible for leading the inspection team topside. Joining him were the three most senior missile techs, who were familiar with the seven-ton missile tube muzzle hatches and the powerful hydraulic systems that operated them. Tryon and Tom would inspect the aft missile tubes while Petty Officers 1st Class Kreuger and Santos would examine the forward tubes. A fourth missile tech, Petty Officer 2nd Class Reynolds, manned the sound-powered phones, relaying information to and from the ship’s Captain in Control.

Reynolds spoke into his mouthpiece. “Proceed topside, aye.”

Petty Officer Tryon illuminated the hatch with a red lens flashlight as Tom climbed the ladder and spun the access hatch handle counterclockwise, watching the hatch lugs retreat. Once they were clear, Tom pulled hard on the release and shoved upward. He climbed a few more rungs, pushing the heavy spring-loaded hatch back until it locked fully open. Warm, moist ocean air flowed down through the hatch, and the young lieutenant breathed deeply, inhaling fresh air for the first time since the Kentucky submerged south of Oahu.

Stopping with his chest just above the submarine’s deck, Tom leaned against the hatch and shined his flashlight along the deck, searching until he located the safety track. Hooking his harness into the track that ran the full length of the ship, he climbed topside, pulling his deck clip a few feet forward so the missile techs behind him could also hook in.

Like the other four men, Tom wore a life preserver under his safety harness in case a wave broke over the top of the Missile Compartment deck, washing him overboard. If that happened, drowning wasn’t the only danger he faced. The life preserver would keep him afloat and the safety harness would keep him close to the ship instead of drifting off into the darkness, but he would be repeatedly smashed against the ship’s steel hull by the strong ocean waves, battering his body and breaking bones if he wasn’t hauled out of the cold water quickly enough. More than one sailor who had fallen overboard died not because he had drowned but because his body had been beaten to a pulp by the rough seas.

As Tom waited for the missile techs, he peered forward along the missile deck, barely able to distinguish the submarine’s silhouette in the darkness. The ship’s sail was pitch-black — the Bridge was unmanned, the watch stationed belowdecks, and the navigation lights remained deenergized. The only light came from the clear night sky, which was illuminated by densely packed stars shining more brightly than he had ever seen. As he stood on the submarine’s deck, he felt as if he were balancing on a fulcrum — admiring God’s work, an awe-inspiring creation, while standing on the fruit of mankind’s labor, capable of unimaginable destruction.

The four missile techs joined Tom topside and he led the way forward, scanning his flashlight across the deck until he came to a gaping hole in the superstructure. The damage was more extensive than Tom had expected. A twelve-foot-diameter section of the superstructure on the port side was missing, the edges of the circular scar marked with twisted steel plates and support stanchions. The MK 54 torpedo had hit the submarine near the top of the superstructure, where it rounded off from the flat deck and curved down toward the ship’s beam. The exterior skin of the ship had absorbed the bulk of the explosion as well as forcing the torpedo to detonate several feet away from the ship’s pressure hull. The Kentucky had been lucky indeed.

Tom could tell the muzzle hatches for tubes Ten and Twelve were inoperable; each pair of hinges, which connected the missile tube hatches to the pressure hull, had been shattered by the explosion. He shined his flashlight across the chunk of missing superstructure, trying to examine the aft hinge of tube Eight’s hatch. But he was too far away, the black hinge too indistinguishable in the darkness to make an assessment. They would not be able to conduct their inspection from the safety of the Missile Compartment deck.

“We need to go inside the superstructure,” Tom announced reluctantly.

Unfortunately, there were no safety tracks to hook into once they were inside the superstructure, and their lanyards weren’t long enough if they remained hooked to the safety track topside. The only way for them to inspect the hinges on tubes Eight and Fourteen was without safety harnesses.

He turned to Reynolds. “Phone talker to Control. Request Captain’s permission to enter the superstructure without safety harnesses.”

Reynolds relayed Tom’s request to Control, and a moment later, the Captain’s permission was obtained.

Without hesitation, Tryon panned his flashlight back and forth across the deck until he located a two-by-two-foot access hatch. Pulling a T wrench from his belt, he loosened the bolts, then lifted the hinged hatch out of the way, laying it backward onto the deck.

“Kreuger, Santos,” Tom called out above the ocean noise, his voice almost drowned out by the large, frothy waves roiling down the sides of the long submarine. “Inspect tube Eight. Tryon and I will inspect tube Fourteen.”

Tom removed his safety harness, dropping it onto the deck. The other three men did the same, while Reynolds, with his harness still snug around his body, remained hooked into the safety track at his feet. As the ship rolled from side to side in the rough seas, Tom was the first man down the access hatch, descending a narrow ladder that disappeared into the superstructure.

Seven feet down, Tom’s feet hit the pressure hull, and he shined his flashlight back and forth inside the black, dripping metal skin of the ship. Although they had surfaced twenty minutes ago, nothing had dried; the humid ocean air condensed on the cold steel, and the pressure hull remained wet and slick. While the deck above was flat and its paint embedded with rough nonskid material, the pressure hull below was curved and smooth. Working inside the superstructure at sea, without a safety harness, was treacherous at best. If he slipped and fell, he’d continue sliding down the side of the submarine into the ocean, through the small gap between the superstructure and the pressure hull. Recovering a man overboard without a safety harness in the dark of night would be almost impossible, the ocean current pulling him away from the ship, lost forever.

Tom shifted his weight back and forth, testing the grip of his sneakers. They held. But he was standing on top of the submarine, where the surface was almost flat. Moving fore and aft along the center passage would be relatively easy. Unfortunately, he needed to travel down the side of the submarine to where the muzzle hatch hinges were welded on the outboard side of the tube. There the pressure hull sloped off to a forty-five-degree angle, and the grip of his sneakers would almost surely give way at an angle that steep. As he contemplated the difficulty of the task, Petty Officer Tryon landed gingerly beside him.

Tom and Tryon headed aft toward tube Fourteen while Kreuger and Santos descended behind them for their trip forward to tube Eight. Upon reaching tube Fourteen, Tom and Tryon stopped, both shining their flashlights down the sloping side of the submarine to where the muzzle hatch hinges were welded to the pressure hull. It was a mere twelve-foot trip, but each step would be exponentially more dangerous than the last. With a pair of deep, nervous breaths, the two men headed down the submarine’s slick pressure hull, one on each side of the missile tube.

The hull began to slope away and Tom’s sneakers slipped on the wet metal. He held firmly onto the superstructure support stanchions, grabbing the next one before releasing the last. But as he moved down the side of the submarine, the spacing between the stanchions increased. Halfway down, the next stanchion was just out of reach. He would have to let go of one before he had a grip on the next. After testing the grip of his sneakers again, he let go, praying he didn’t slip in the short interval between handholds. He made it safely to the next stanchion, and after two more treacherous steps, reached the outboard edge of the missile tube. He draped his arm around the last stanchion to hold himself steady in place. Tryon reached the forward hinge a few seconds later.

Tom examined tube Fourteen’s external components. The aft hinge appeared undamaged, as did the locking ring that rotated around the mouth of the missile tube, screwing the hatch down tight over the tube opening. Likewise, the two-inch-thick locking pin inserted into the hinge looked okay. He found nothing that would prevent the smooth rotation of the locking ring, retraction of the locking pin, and opening of the muzzle hatch.

Tom yelled forward to Tryon, “How’s it look on your side?”

“Looks good.” Tryon’s reply was faint, barely audible above the sound of the waves breaking against the side of the ship.

“Good here too,” Tom said. “Let’s head back.”

As he prepared to climb back up the slippery pressure hull, Tom realized the trip up was going to be even more treacherous than the trip down. Gravity had assisted him in his trek down toward the hinge, and now it would fight him as he tried to dig his sneakers into the wet, slick pressure hull. One foot slipped out from under him on his first attempt, and he hung on to the support stanchion while he regained his balance. He wedged his left foot against the bottom of the stanchion where it was welded to the deck. As he prepared to push up toward the next stanchion, he heard Petty Officer Tryon’s terrified scream.

Tom twisted sideways and shined his flashlight toward Tryon’s cry for help. The petty officer had slipped and slid down the pressure hull, and was now grasping the very edge of the superstructure. Half his body stuck out from the narrow gap between the superstructure and the pressure hull, the waves completely submerging him for five seconds at a time as they traveled down the ship’s hull. He held on with one hand, his other arm dangling by his side at an unusual angle, his face contorted in pain. As he struggled to maintain his grip with his good hand, the strong waves rolled up the round pressure hull then back down, tugging him out to sea through the narrow gap.

It would take two minutes, maybe three, for Tom to work his way up the aft side of tube Fourteen, then down the forward side to assist Tryon. The injured missile tech wouldn’t last that long. Tryon’s only hope was for Tom to travel directly toward him along the outside of tube Fourteen. But the nearest support stanchion along the outside of the missile tube was more than six feet away, too far for Tom to reach. He’d have to make a leap for it. If he didn’t gain hold of the stanchion, there’d be no chance of survival. Tom, and then Tryon, would drift off into the darkness. Neither the phone talker topside nor the other two missile techs below would be aware of their fate until Tom and Petty Officer Tryon failed to return topside.

But Tom couldn’t stand by and watch Tryon get swept out to sea. He wedged both feet on the inboard side of the stanchion he held on to and shined his flashlight on the next stanchion six feet forward, committing its position to memory. Then he extinguished the flashlight and returned it to the holster on his belt.

He’d need both hands for the leap.

Tom peered into the gloomy darkness, then crouched down as best he could, his heart pounding in his chest as he listened to Tryon’s cries for help, drowned out periodically as the waves swept over him. He let go of the stanchion, then sprang forward, his arms outstretched, hoping his aim was correct and his leap far enough.

He landed on his chest on the hard pressure hull and felt the inside of his right wrist hit the base of the stanchion. He grabbed hold, but his body started to swing down toward the water. His grip started to slip, and he threw his left arm up, hoping to grasp on to the stanchion with both hands. His left hand hit cold metal as the grip on his right slipped to his fingertips.

He hung there, with his chest against the pressure hull, the waves washing up over half of his body as he struggled to gain a firmer grip. He finally succeeded in wrapping both hands around the stanchion, working his way up until he hugged it with both forearms. Pulling himself to his knees, he supported himself with one arm around the stanchion while he retrieved the flashlight from his belt and turned it on, illuminating the inside of the superstructure. Wedging it between the stanchion and the pressure hull, he pointed the flashlight’s beam in Tryon’s direction.

Holding on to the stanchion with his right hand, Tom leaned downward, his left hand stretching toward Tryon. But Tryon couldn’t reach up toward him, his left arm broken, his right hand grasping the edge of the superstructure. Tryon struggled to maintain his grip, his strength ebbing with each relentless wave that battered him.

There was no way for Tom to approach any closer. As desperation set in, a plan began to take shape in Tom’s mind. If he couldn’t get to Tryon, then Tryon would have to come to him. The plan was risky, but it was the only hope.

Tryon would have to let go as one of the waves washed up the Kentucky’s pressure hull, riding it for a second, hoping to grab Tom’s outstretched hand before the wave fell, sweeping him out to sea. They would have one shot for their hands to meet and for their wet grasp to hold as the wave receded. Tom had no idea if it would work, but there was no time to debate the merits of the plan or the odds of its success; the last wave had almost knocked Tryon loose from his tenuous grip on the superstructure. It was time to break the news.

“You need to let go!” Tom yelled. “Ride one of the waves toward me. I’ll grab your hand as you pass by!”

The fear in Tryon’s eyes was evident as he evaluated Tom’s proposal. He would have to time it perfectly, letting go as he felt his body lifted by the wave. Tom knew the questions tumbling through Tryon’s mind — Would he rise high enough as he rode the wave toward Tom? Would the two men’s aim be close enough and would their hands meet? Would their grasp, formed in a split second, be strong enough to support his weight as the wave receded?

“I understand!” Tryon shouted, just before another wave washed over him. When he emerged as the wave receded, he sputtered, “Next wave!” His strength was fading.

“Ready!” Tom answered, tightening his grip around the stanchion.

He held his hand out toward the missile tech, waiting for the next wave. As nervous as he was at the prospect of success, he couldn’t begin to imagine Tryon’s terror once he released his grip on the superstructure and put his life, literally, in Tom’s hand.

The wave rolled toward them along the ship’s hull, emerging from the darkness into the red light, and Tryon let go just as the wave crested behind him. The wave lifted the missile tech up and pulled him aft along the side of the submarine. Their hands met as Tryon rode the wave past him, and they grasped each other. Their hands slipped as the wave receded, pulling the young petty officer out to sea.

Then their grip held.

The two men dangled against the Kentucky’s hull, supported by Tom’s hold on the stanchion. But Tryon’s weight put a strain on Tom’s grasp, and his hand began to slip. He clamped down hard, and they both hung from the stanchion by Tom’s fingertips as the next wave approached, threatening to break his grip and sweep them both out to sea.

But just before the wave reached them, Tryon managed to place his foot up against the edge of the superstructure, supporting his weight for a moment, taking the pressure off Tom’s grip. Tom dug the bottom of his sneakers against the hull and pushed, and gained traction. He slid upward an inch before his feet slipped, but it was just enough; he grasped the stanchion firmly again. As the next wave hit, he heaved Tryon up as the missile tech was temporarily buoyed by the passing wave, and Tryon draped his right arm firmly around the superstructure support beam.

As the two men rested against the pressure hull, Tom retrieved his flashlight and examined Tryon’s injury. There was a visible bend in his left forearm; it was clearly broken.

“I’m going to need help getting you topside,” Tom said. “I’ll be right back.”

He returned a few minutes later with the other two first class missile techs and a coil of rope, the end of which he tied around his chest and made his way to Tryon, still lying against the hull with his arm around the stanchion. Tom grabbed him under the shoulders, and with the help of Kreuger and Santos pulling on the other end of the rope, the two men slowly worked their way back up the slippery pressure hull. The missile techs lifted Tryon topside and helped him down the access hatch into Missile Compartment Upper Level, where the Corpsman and Emergency Medical Team waited.

As Tom stood on the Kentucky’s missile deck, untying the rope from around his chest, the adrenaline began to wear off. His hands were trembling. The two of them could have been swept out to sea, adrift in the dark ocean. He let out a deep breath, thankful things had turned out okay.

Tom focused his thoughts on his last remaining task. They would open the muzzle hatches for tubes Eight and Fourteen tonight, verifying they functioned properly before submerging and continuing toward Emerald.

Ten minutes later, Tom was back in his safety harness, alone on the missile deck except for Petty Officer Reynolds on the sound-powered phones. Kreuger and Santos had reported that tube Eight appeared operational, the hinges and locking ring undamaged. Inside the submarine, the Weapons Officer was in Missile Control Center, preparing to cycle the two muzzle hatches while Tom observed topside in case something went awry.

Standing just aft of tube Fourteen’s muzzle hatch, Tom gave the order. “To MCC. All personnel standing clear. Open muzzle hatch, tube Fourteen.”

Reynolds relayed the order, and a moment later the locking pins retracted from the hinges, the locking ring around the mouth of the missile tube rotated counterclockwise, and the heavy eight-foot-diameter hatch lifted silently upward to the fully open position. Seconds later, the locking pins were inserted, securing the hatch in place.

Tube Fourteen was operational.

Tom ordered the muzzle hatch closed, then walked forward, stopping just aft of tube Eight. One down, one to go, and Tom gave the identical order for the second tube.

The watchstander in Missile Control Center flicked the toggle switch to tube Eight, disengaging the hinge locking pins. Both locking pin lights glowed bright green, indicating they had been successfully extracted. After verifying the locking ring had rotated and the locking pins were removed from the hinges, the missile tech in MCC sent the open command to tube Eight.

Hydraulic fluid pressurized to three thousand pounds per square inch flowed under the tube’s muzzle hatch opening pistons, pushing the seven-ton hatch open, but part of the aft hinge’s locking pin — sheared in half during the MK 54 explosion — remained in place. A metallic screech tore through Tom’s ears as one hinge moved and the other refused, twisting and jamming tube Eight’s muzzle hatch.

“Secure from opening tube Eight!”

Reynolds relayed the order over the loud wrenching sound as the powerful hydraulic pressure tried to overcome the broken locking pin stuck in the hinge.

Quiet returned to the Kentucky’s deck except for the waves breaking along the ship’s hull. Tom shined his flashlight on the deformed muzzle hatch; the forward edge was pushed up three inches while the aft section remained flush to the deck. The Weps and the Missile Division Chief joined Tom topside to examine the muzzle hatch, eventually agreeing the best approach was to try and shut it. If the locking pins could be reengaged, the muzzle hatch should seal properly. But tube Eight, along with tubes Ten and Twelve, was definitely out of commission. Tom gave the order, and the muzzle hatch closed properly, both sides flush with the Kentucky’s deck.

As Tom dropped down through the access hatch, the last man down, the Kentucky was already turning west again, toward Emerald, preparing to dive. He stopped halfway down the hatch, examining the fiery orange of the approaching dawn glowing on the horizon. He wondered if that was what Iran would soon look like from a distance, nothing remaining but the scorched remnants of humanity’s presence, the desert sands turned to glass from the heat of the atomic blasts.

Reynolds called up to Tom, asking if he needed anything. Tom replied negative, then dropped through the hatch, stopping a few feet down the ladder. He pulled the heavy Missile Compartment access hatch shut, then spun the handle, sealing the crew back inside.

55

On the second floor of a white two-story building on the shore of Whidbey Island in the Pacific Northwest, with Canada a short ferry ride away and the picturesque San Juan Islands to the west, Al Culver rested his head in his hands, eyeing the display on his workstation at the Pacific Fleet’s Naval Ocean Processing Facility. In the cold, windowless building located appropriately enough on Intruder Street, Culver and the other three hundred military and civilian personnel assigned to the Whidbey Island NOPF monitored the SOSUS arrays on the ocean bottom and the mile-long arrays deployed from the five SURTASS ships, searching the ocean for submarines. Tracking the length of his watch by the cups of coffee consumed, Culver, a second class sonar tech, accurately concluded he had just completed the fourth hour of his watch.

Six months earlier, as he prepared to transfer from the USS Alabama at the submarine base in Bangor forty miles to the south, Culver had been hesitant to accept a tour of duty at what many considered an irrelevant command. Following the collapse of the Soviet Union, the SOSUS arrays on the ocean bottom had been declassified and the twenty-two monitoring stations with the nondescript title of “Naval Facility” subsequently closed. Many thought the underwater arrays and associated facilities had been relegated to monitoring whale movements and underwater seismic activity, but nothing was farther from the truth.

Culver had learned the mission of today’s Undersea Surveillance Command remained focused on detecting submarines transiting the ocean depths. The combination of fixed SOSUS arrays, shore-processing facilities, and SURTASS ships with their deployable arrays had become known as the Integrated Undersea Surveillance System, and the data was now collected and monitored at two Naval Ocean Processing Facilities, one at Whidbey Island monitoring the Pacific arrays and the other in Dam Neck, Virginia, overseeing the Atlantic. The arrival of the SURTASS ships in the 1980s and their subsequent upgrades in the 1990s and early 2000s, along with improvements to the SOSUS arrays on the ocean bottom, had vaulted the capability of the IUSS into the twenty-first century, ensuring the system remained capable of detecting the newest diesel and nuclear submarines prowling both the deep ocean and shallow littoral waters.

With the ability to track not only submarines but also surface ships throughout the oceans without fear of losing the vessel to cloudy skies or other satellite interference, IUSS had also been integrated into the nation’s homeland defense, providing continuous maritime surveillance for the Department of Homeland Security. Culver looked up at the watch center entrance door, emblazoned with the official command slogan beneath its bronze seal:

This morning, Culver had detected nothing in his area of surveillance just east of the Marianas, and not even his fourth cup of coffee kept him focused on the monitor in front of him.

A few stations away, coffee cup in hand, Master Chief Ocean Systems Technician (Retired) Fred Harmon was preparing to take down one of the consoles for maintenance. Setting down his coffee, he opened the side panel of workstation seven to replace a recalcitrant AIC card.

On the monitor in front of Petty Officer Culver, a bright white trace materialized, disappearing ten seconds later. Donning his headphones, Culver selected the affected array, rewound the recorded signal, then hit Play.

It was a loud, metallic screech. Very unusual and definitely man-made. But it wasn’t a trawler winch, not even a jammed one, fighting miles of cable and fishing nets. This sound was something he had never heard before. “Fred, got a minute?”

Harmon looked up from the console he was working on. “What do you need?”

“Come listen to this.”

Culver rewound the recording and handed the headphones to Harmon, who held one earmuff to his ear, his coffee cup back in his other hand. “Go ahead.”

Culver pressed Play and Harmon listened intently, then put his cup down and placed the headphones properly over both ears. “One more time.”

The retired master chief listened again, his eyes squinting as he concentrated. A few seconds later, he handed the headphones back to the sonar tech.

“You have any idea?” Culver asked.

Harmon nodded. “When I was stationed at NAVFAC Antigua, I heard that same noise from a Trident submarine on her shakedown cruise off Port Canaveral. You just picked up a ballistic missile submarine trying to open a jammed missile hatch.”

Harmon pulled up a chair. “Let’s take a look at the other arrays and see if we can triangulate the submarine’s position.”