The Trident Deception

56

At a table for two in the back of Whitlow’s on Wilson Boulevard, Christine sat next to her ex-husband, joining him for lunch in what was once their favorite restaurant. Now that the Kentucky had been sunk, the ordeal that had brought them back together had come to a close, and they would soon go their separate ways again. Christine had accepted Dave’s invitation; a glass of wine at their old hangout was exactly what she needed to begin letting go of the unimaginable horror that had almost occurred, and what they had done to avert it.

“I’m glad this happened,” Hendricks said before he downed the last of his beer. As he placed the mug back on the table, he was startled by Christine’s shocked expression. “Oh, no, not that. What I meant was, I’m glad I got a chance to spend some time with you again.”

Dave sat close to Christine, his arm across the back of her chair, his body leaning slightly toward her. She could tell he wanted to wrap his arm around her, pull her close. But instead, he was careful not to touch her. The end of their marriage had been difficult for both of them, neither wanting to admit to failure, neither willing to remain in a relationship that was spiraling out of control. They settled their differences as best as possible after the divorce, their love fading to a cool but comfortable friendship. Their jobs brought them into new and disparate social circles, and they ran into each other less and less frequently. They hadn’t seen each other for three years before Hendricks showed up, out of breath, in the Pentagon corridor.

This crisis had thrown them together again, and Christine was surprised she enjoyed working with her ex-husband, spending time with him. She had to admit he was still an attractive man. Her hard feelings had dissipated in the years apart, and she felt drawn to him again, both emotionally and physically. He obviously felt the same way, but the barriers between them were still too strong. If she had been any other woman, she was sure he would have asked her out by now. And properly, too. Today’s lunch at their old hangout was his feeble attempt at a date; two friends catching up on the last three years, nothing more.

Christine avoided discussing personal issues, ensuring the conversation focused on work and mutual friends. But after a glass of wine, the desire that began to surface in his office returned even stronger, and her mind drifted to the first two days of their honeymoon, fifteen years earlier.

They had landed in Rome late that night, finally arriving at their hotel, the luxurious Rome Cavalieri in the heart of the city, enclosed in fifteen acres of lush Mediterranean parklands. But something had gone wrong with their reservation, and they had no room. After a half hour wrangling with the front desk clerk and hotel management, Dave waving their travel reservations in his hand, they reached a compromise: They would be upgraded to a suite, but not for two days. This weekend marked the beginning of the Romaeuropa Festival and every room was occupied, with the first vacancy on Monday.

Due to the festival, all the reputable hotels were booked, and the honeymooners were forced to spend their first two days in Rome in a fleabag hotel. Dave apologized profusely to Christine for their squalid accommodations, but they really weren’t his fault.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked.

Christine’s thoughts returned to the present. “I was thinking about our first two days in Rome, at the Esplanade. How disgusting that hotel was.”

Dave grinned. “You should know. If I remember correctly, you had ample opportunity to study the paint peeling off the ceiling above our bed.”

“As did you, I seem to remember.” Christine recalled how exhausted they were after that first weekend, even though they never left the hotel room. As deplorable as their accommodations were, they didn’t venture out of the hotel until they checked out two days later.

“I have to admit,” he replied, “I’ll never forget that weekend.”

The waitress cleared the dishes and dropped off the check next to Christine. Dave reached across the table, snatching the check before she could claim control. His chest brushed against her shoulder in the process, his face close to hers, just for an instant. She smelled his cologne, felt the warmth of his arm against her back. Dave wore cologne only on special occasions; he had clearly hoped today’s meeting would mark a new beginning and not the end of their recent reacquaintance.

His eyes searched hers for a moment. Then he looked away, unwilling or unable to express his thoughts. He pulled out his wallet, selected a credit card, and slid it inside the billfold with the check.

It was just after 2 P.M. when Dave held the restaurant door open for Christine, then followed her out onto the sidewalk. She had enjoyed their lunch together even more than expected. The conversation had flowed easily, with the exception of the brief silence after he grabbed the check, and she wondered if this was the beginning of a renewed relationship. Perhaps they would get back together, after he mustered up the courage to broach the subject.

As they crossed the street toward Hendricks’s car, a screech of tires caught Christine’s attention. A silver sedan sped toward them, less than fifty feet away and increasing speed. The driver kept his head down, his face unidentifiable.

Christine knew instantly the driver wasn’t going to stop. Or even swerve.

The sedan bore down on both of them, only seconds away from crushing their bodies against its front grille. Dave stood frozen in the middle of the street. Christine lunged toward him, hitting Dave in the chest with her shoulder, knocking him back toward the sidewalk. Her momentum carried both of them just inches clear of the speeding car. Hendricks landed on his back, his head smacking into the pavement, and Christine rolled to a stop a few feet away as the sedan swung a hard right onto Fillmore Street, disappearing from view.

She scrambled over to him. His eyes were glazed over, staring up at the sky. “Dave!” She touched his cheek gently. “Are you okay?”

His eyes slowly cleared, eventually focusing on her. “I’m all right, I think.”

Christine helped him to a sitting position, and he rubbed the back of his head, wincing as he found a tender spot. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he said. “You okay?”

“Yep.” Christine answered curtly as she pulled him to his feet.

“Damn idiot!” Hendricks exclaimed, glaring down Wilson Boulevard. “I bet he was texting his girlfriend.”

Christine didn’t reply, her anger building. The driver had barreled directly toward Hendricks, standing in the middle of the street, and they both would’ve been killed if she hadn’t reacted as quickly as she did. This wasn’t just a case of a preoccupied driver hazarding the public. She was certain.

And she knew exactly who was behind it.

57

After being waved through the southwest gate to the White House, Christine’s blue Ford Taurus screeched to a halt on West Executive Avenue, outside the entrance to the West Wing. As she stepped out of her car, greeted by a stiff wind and thick black clouds rolling in from the west, her eyes flickered in anger. One of the two Marines guarding the entrance opened the door for her, and the two men exchanged glances as the president’s national security adviser stormed up the West Wing steps toward the chief of staff’s office.

Hardison looked up from his computer as Christine swept into his office like the approaching storm, slamming the door behind her. She didn’t slow down as she headed straight for him. Stopping suddenly at the edge of his desk, she planted both palms on the smooth surface and leaned halfway across the desk toward him, her face twisting in anger as she screamed at him. “What the hell do you think you’re doing!”

The president’s chief of staff leaned back in his chair, taken aback by the enraged woman glaring at him. “About what?”

“You know damn well what I’m talking about!”

Hardison shook his head. “I’m afraid not. Perhaps if you explained—”

Christine’s face turned red, the muscles in her neck straining as she yelled at him. “Dave and I were almost run over by a car outside Whitlow’s! We came within inches of being killed!”

Hardison laughed. “And you think I had something to do with it? Some idiot almost runs you over and you think I’m responsible?”

“You’re damn right I do! You made it clear from the beginning that Dave was a threat to this administration, and I have no doubt you’ve taken matters into your own hands.”

Hardison interlocked his hands across his waist. “I assure you I had nothing to do with this, Christine.”

He appeared unfazed by her accusation. If anything, he seemed amused, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. His flippant attitude ignited Christine’s rage. She’d had enough of Hardison, and she was finally going to do something about him. “You’ve gone too far this time, Kevin. I’m going to Director Larson, and you’ll be done as chief of staff by the end of this week.”

The smile disappeared from Hardison’s face as he sprang to his feet, towering over her. His voice dropped a notch as he spoke. “Don’t come in here and threaten me, Christine, especially over some paranoid delusion you’ve created about a hit-and-run driver.” A cold look settled over his face.

Christine stood erect, taking a step back from Hardison’s desk as he continued, “Whoever almost ran you over probably wasn’t paying attention, not some assassin I hired to take Hendricks out. Now why don’t you go back to your office, collect your thoughts, and get back to work? I’m sure there’s something you’ve neglected to attend to these last few days.”

There was an uneasy silence as they glared at each other, broken when the secure phone on Hardison’s desk beeped.

As he answered it, Christine mulled over his reaction. He seemed genuinely surprised and offended by her accusation. But she had watched him lay it on thick before, feigning surprise or ignorance. She just couldn’t tell if he was telling the truth. He was too good a liar.

Hardison hung up the phone, flexing his hand as he released the handset. “That was your alive-and-well ex-husband in the Command Center,” he said with a hint of sarcasm. But what caught Christine’s attention wasn’t the tone of his voice. It was the sudden fear in his eyes as he continued. “Our SOSUS arrays detected a damaged missile tube hatch being opened. It looks like the Kentucky survived. The best guess is they’re determining the extent of damage from the torpedo.” He paused for a moment before he added, “They’re not far from Emerald.”

Christine’s anger dissipated with the news. The Kentucky hadn’t been sunk and was closer than ever to launching. “I’ll be over at the Command Center,” she said. “I’ll let you know what I find out.”

58

“We picked up the metallic transient near the Marshall Islands.” Captain Brackman spoke quietly as he stood between Christine and Hendricks in the deputy director’s office, examining the electronic map of the Pacific Ocean at the front of the Current Action Center. Christine studied the red circle expanding slowly into a teardrop shape heading west as Brackman continued, “We’ve biased the projection of the Kentucky’s position by limiting her possible courses from two-one-zero to three-three-zero. We know she’ll continue heading west toward Emerald.

“Unfortunately,” he added, “she’s definitely west of our naval forces.” Brackman pointed to a column of blue circles to the east of the red teardrop, “Our surface ships are too far away to catch the Kentucky, even at ahead flank. We’ve reassigned the P-3Cs to the leading edge of the Kentucky’s AOU, but their field density is porous due to limited sonobuoys, and once the Collins approaches the AOU, we’ll have to pull them out, since they could engage the wrong submarine.”

“Where is the Collins now?”

“The Collins is the blue half circle to the west of the teardrop.”

On the monitor on the far wall, the forward edge of the Kentucky’s area of uncertainty was almost touching Emerald, with the Collins’s blue semicircle a few inches to the left.

While Christine examined the display, Hendricks joined the conversation. “You need to talk to the president, Christine. We need to inform Iran. I understand the reasons for keeping this quiet up to now, hoping we could turn this off. But the Kentucky has made it past all three layers of our ASW barrier, and our main hope right now is the Collins. At this point, I doubt we can stop the Kentucky from launching. And once she does, our ballistic missile defense systems will be overwhelmed. You’ve got to convince the president to inform Iran.”

Christine reflected on Hendricks’s words for a moment, then nodded. “I’ll talk to him. I’ll head over to the White House, then come back here until this is over, one way or another.”

Before she left Hendricks’s office, she looked back up at the display. She wondered who would suffer and die. Would it be the innocent people of Iran or the men aboard the Kentucky? Everything hinged on whether they could find and sink the Kentucky before she launched.

As Christine studied the monitor in front of them, Brackman correctly surmised what she was thinking. “As you can see, Kentucky will enter Emerald as early as midnight tonight, depending on where she is in her AOU. Let’s pray the Collins finds her before she does. We just sent her the news the Kentucky survived. She’ll be downloading it off the broadcast anytime now.”

59

Nine hundred miles east of the Northern Mariana Islands, Murray Wilson stood next to Brett Humphreys in Control as the Collins secured snorting, her battery recharge complete, the Officer of the Watch turning slowly on the periscope as they prepared to head deep. The Collins’s painfully slow pace grated on Wilson. Unlike American fast attacks that could have made the entire run east at ahead flank, the Collins spent half her time at periscope depth at ten knots, recharging her batteries between high-speed runs.

Although the Kentucky had been sunk, the Collins was still headed east at maximum speed. Deep Submergence Rescue Vehicles were being sent from Australia and San Diego in the event the Kentucky had come to rest on a shallow spot on the ocean floor. It was unlikely, but there was always the possibility. Finding the Kentucky would be the hard part, and Wilson hoped the Collins could help. As he checked the clock on the starboard bulkhead, calculating how long before the submarine would arrive at the position the Kentucky was reported sunk, his thoughts were interrupted by an announcement from Radio.

“Watch Leader, Commcen. Incoming message from the FEG.”

A moment later, a radioman entered Control, handing a message to Humphreys. Wilson noted a startled expression on the Captain’s face as he read the message. He handed it to Wilson. A few sentences down, his heart leapt to his throat. Tom was still alive. But then the somber realization set in. The Kentucky had made it past the surface ships, and the P-3Cs had expended most of their sonobuoys. The Collins was the most capable asset remaining.

Humphreys walked over to the navigation chart, Wilson joining him.

Wilson handed the message to the Petty Officer of the Watch. “Plot these coordinates.”

The leading seaman obliged, measuring off the longitude and latitude, drawing a small circle around the new point on the chart. The seaman leaned back out of the way as Wilson and Humphreys examined the target’s updated position.

With the original large area of uncertainty, Wilson hadn’t been sure they would find the Kentucky. But with the new fifty-kilometer-radius AOU — even accounting for the increased time it would take to close the distance — they would find the Kentucky. What Wilson didn’t know, however, was whether they would find her before or after she launched.

Humphreys turned to the radioman. “Acknowledge receipt and inform the FEG we will enter the target’s AOU in nine hours.” Turning to the Officer of the Watch, Humphreys ordered the ship down from periscope depth. “Make your depth one hundred meters and increase speed to ahead flank, course zero-nine-five. Load all torpedo tubes.”

Down in the Weapon Stowage Compartment, Chief Marine Technician Kim Durand, the Weapons Chief aboard the Collins, supervised the Torpedo Reload Party. Upon receipt of War Patrol orders, they would normally have loaded all six of the submarine’s torpedo tubes. But their target was far away, and the analog Mod 4 torpedoes had a nasty habit of overheating when powered up inside the tubes for more than a few hours at a time. Her Captain had decided instead to load their torpedoes when they were closer to their target. They were apparently closing in on it now.

The first torpedo had been loaded into tube One when Captain Wilson stopped by the Weapon Stowage Compartment. Shortly after the American’s arrival on board, the crew learned they were chasing a Chinese copy of the U.S. Trident submarine. In the American captain’s eyes she had expected to see the excitement of the hunt, the steely determination to find and sink their adversary. But she saw none of that — only an unexplainable sadness. There was more to this mission than their Captain and the American were letting on.

Kim knew this mission would be dangerous once they engaged their target. Even with the long range of their Heavyweight torpedoes — they could travel over twenty miles before running out of fuel — you had to get close to your opponent to sink the knife in. That meant you could be stabbed in return. Unfortunately, there were no flesh wounds in submarine combat. It was pretty much a binary result: You either got hit and died, or the torpedo missed and you survived. Kim hoped they would survive the upcoming battle, but she and the rest of the crew knew there was no way to predict how things would turn out.

And so, in the face of uncertainty, the crew’s confidence was unshakable. The marine technicians in the reload party were already making bets on which torpedo would sink their target. The second torpedo was already halfway into tube Two, being pushed forward steadily by the hydraulic ram temporarily attached to the back of the torpedo, and Kim ran her hand along the smooth, cold aluminum skin of the torpedo as it traveled into its new stowage location. As the nineteen-foot-long torpedo disappeared into the tube, Chief Kim Durand transferred a kiss from her hand to its tail, wishing it luck. Her bet would ride on the torpedo in tube Two.

As Captain Wilson left the Weapon Stowage Compartment, Kim wondered if somewhere to the east, her counterpart on their target was doing the same.

60

It was almost 0100 GMT aboard the Kentucky when the crew submerged after inspecting their missile hatches; time for Tom’s evening watch as Officer of the Deck. The six-hour watch elapsed uneventfully as the Kentucky continued its inexorable march toward Emerald. After being relieved at midnight, Tom now toured through Missile Compartment Lower Level on his after-watch tour, checking the bilges for evidence of leaks and examining the ship’s equipment for malfunctions. As he passed the ten-foot-tall gas generators — soda-can-shaped cylinders filled with water that would be transformed instantly to steam by an explosive charge — he still found it hard to believe that simple steam could pop the sixty-five-ton missile above the ocean’s surface like a giant cork gun.

The steam impulse was essential, as the missile’s engine could not ignite while it was in the tube; the 1,400-degree heat from the exhaust would melt through the bottom of the submarine. So the missile launch system was designed to eject the missile above the ocean’s surface, where the first-stage motor would ignite, pushing the missile and its eight 475-kiloton warheads into the stratosphere on the journey toward its target.

As Tom completed his journey through the Missile Compartment, he climbed the forward ladder two decks and stepped through the watertight door into the Operations Compartment, stopping outside Missile Control Center. He punched in the cipher lock combination, then entered MCC to review the strategic weapon system status. Two missile techs were on watch, seated at the Launch Control Panel, monitoring the condition of each missile and tube.

“How are you guys doing?”

“Fine, sir,” one of the missile techs replied, glancing briefly at Tom before returning his attention to the console.

Tom reviewed the logs as the two missile techs sat quietly, neither one engaging the lieutenant in conversation. The missile techs would normally have peppered him with questions, eager to talk to anyone except the bloke sitting beside them, stuck together on the same watch cycle for weeks on end. It didn’t take long to run out of things to talk about once they got past the What did you do last summer? phase. But neither man seemed in the mood for conversation, which was consistent with what Tom had noticed throughout the submarine. He finished reviewing the logs in silence, then handed the clipboard back to the nearest petty officer.

As Tom stepped out of MCC, a burst of commotion greeted his ears. Angry shouts came from the Crew’s Mess, and he entered to find the two missile techs who had accompanied him topside, Kreuger and Santos, holding a third missile tech, Walworth, who was struggling to free himself. Reynolds, who had been Tom’s phone talker topside, stood across from the three, holding his hand to his nose, blood running down his face.

“I’m gonna rip your fucking head off!” Walworth shouted, the veins in his neck bulging as he struggled against Santos and Kreuger’s firm grip. “Don’t even think about not doing your job when the time comes!”

The submarine’s Chief of the Boat entered the Crew’s Mess, stopping at the entrance. “What the hell is going on!” The COB’s question hung in the air as the twenty enlisted men stared at him. “Speak up!”

“I was just talking,” Reynolds said, “about what we’re gonna have to do in a few hours—”

“You fuckin’ coward!” Walworth renewed his struggle against the two men holding him.

“Shut up, Walworth,” the COB said. “If you don’t give it a rest, you’ll be confined to berthing for a week.” The COB turned back to the injured missile tech. “Go on, Reynolds.”

“We were talking, and I said I didn’t know if I could go through with it when the Captain gave the order, and then Walworth flipped out on me.”

The COB turned back to Walworth, who had settled down somewhat after the COB’s threat. “You’re confined to your rack until further notice. Get out of here.”

Kreuger and Santos released Walworth, who glared at Reynolds as he left Crew’s Mess.

“I’ll do my job when the time comes, COB,” Reynolds said. “I was just mouthing off.”

The COB stared at Reynolds for a moment before speaking. “Walworth’s from D.C. His family still lives there. Lived there, to be more exact. He won’t know if they’re still alive until we return to port.”

“Shit, COB,” Reynolds said. “I didn’t know.”

“Well, now you do. All of you.” The COB’s eyes scanned across Crew’s Mess, making contact with each man. “And Walworth’s not the only one. I won’t tolerate any more discussion about what we are or aren’t going to do when we reach Emerald. I know it won’t be easy, but we’ve trained for this. We all knew there was the potential this would happen, that we’d be ordered to execute the mission this ship was designed for, and this crew is going to execute that mission. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, COB,” each of the men replied.

“Get to Medical, Reynolds. Kreuger, track down the Corpsman.”

The COB eyed Tom for a second before he left, and Tom waited a few seconds longer as the men returned to their seats, talking quietly.

Shaking off the unpleasant experience, Tom toured next through officer berthing, stopping outside the Weapons Officer’s stateroom. After knocking softly, he opened the door and peered inside. The stateroom lights were off except for the small fluorescent bulb above the Weps’s desk. He sat in his chair reviewing a stack of paperwork, his face illuminated while the rest of the small stateroom faded into darkness. The Weps looked up as Tom opened the door.

“Do you have a few minutes, Weps?”

“Sure.” The Weps turned sideways in his chair, noticing Tom’s solemn face. “What’s on your mind?”

Tom turned the chair to the other desk around and sat facing his department head, his eyes toward the deck. “Walworth just busted Reynolds’s nose in the Crew’s Mess. Reynolds said he had doubts about completing his duties during Battle Stations Missile, and Walworth flew off the handle.” Tom looked up. “Do you have doubts, Weps? About whether you’ll execute the order we’ve been given?”

The Weps put down his pen and stared at Tom for a long moment. “That’s a good question,” he finally answered. “The crew is starting to feel the pressure, the burden of our mission, and they have it easy. Most of their efforts are vaguely tied to the actual launch. Turn a valve here, flip a switch there. But everyone’s effort culminates in one action. Mine.

“I’m the one who has to unlock the firing trigger. And I’m the one who has to squeeze the damn thing. Over and over, twenty-one times, knowing that I’m erasing the lives of millions of people with each squeeze. I try to imagine I won’t think about that tomorrow. The Captain will give the order, and the crew, including me, will follow that order, just like we’ve trained.” The Weps leaned forward, close to Tom, lowering his voice. “But do I know that for sure? No, I don’t. And I won’t know until I’m standing in MCC, the trigger in my hand, and we get a green board on the first missile. I’ll know then, and only then.”

Tom swallowed hard. He’d felt the same trepidation growing inside him as the ship crept closer to Emerald. While only the Captain, XO, and Weps played a direct role in the launch, as Assistant Weapons Officer, Tom would join the Weps in Missile Control Center, verifying the correct target packages were assigned, the missiles spun up properly, and all launch prerequisites met. He would do his part, a small cog in the wheel of effort it took to prepare each missile for launch, thankful nothing hinged directly on him.

But Tom could sense the wobble in that wheel. The crew was no longer the well-oiled machine that would respond automatically to a nuclear strike order. And as each day passed and the ship approached closer to Emerald, the wobble had increased. He was no longer confident the crew would execute its mission when the time came. What he had seen in Crew’s Mess, and what the Weps had just confided to him, strengthened his doubt.

“So what about you?” the Weps asked. “Do you think we should follow the Captain’s order and launch our missiles?” The older man pulled back slightly, as if measuring Tom up, assessing his openness to whatever idea he was contemplating. Alarm bells went off in the back of Tom’s head. They were treading on dangerous ground, openly discussing the prospect of not following the Captain’s order, an order handed down by the president himself. There was a word for it, a word that clearly captured the essence of what they would be doing if they refused to obey the order of a superior officer aboard a naval vessel.

Mutiny.

And Tom knew, as sure as the man sitting across from him, that there were many in the crew who shared the same reservations, were hesitant to follow through and complete the submarine’s mission. All they lacked was leadership. Leadership from one or both of the men sitting in this small stateroom. And the more officers who refused the Captain’s order, the more enlisted men would follow until even if the resistance were docile — simply refusing to execute their duties as opposed to taking over the ship — the officer and enlisted ranks would be decimated, leaving insufficient personnel to accomplish the launch.

Is that what the Weps was contemplating? Rallying like-minded men to refuse to execute the Captain’s order, thereby preventing the Kentucky’s launch?

A mutiny?

There was no way to predict how Malone and the rest of the crew would react. It could get ugly. Very ugly and downright dangerous with two lockers of small arms aboard: several dozen rifles, shotguns, and pistols in one locker forward, another one aft. And the Weps knew that Tom, as Assistant Weapons Officer, held the key to one of those lockers. The Chief of the Boat, who would undoubtedly side with the Captain, held the other.

Tom had gotten more than he bargained for when he knocked on the Weps’s door. He had wanted reassurance from the more senior officer, putting his doubt to rest, but it had headed in an unexpected direction. Tom wasn’t sure where the conversation would lead to next.

But before he could reply, the Weps continued. “It’s only a rhetorical question, Tom. No need for you to answer.” The Weps returned his attention to the thick stack of papers on his desk. “Is there anything else I can help you with tonight?”

Tom replied no, then thanked the Weps for his time and left, relieved they had not continued the discussion.

As the door closed, Lieutenant Pete Manning placed his pen on the desk. He had sensed the young lieutenant across from him, as conflicted as he appeared, was not amenable to participating in a blatant refusal to follow orders. He had suspected as much and had not planned on revealing his thoughts to Tom until he had unexpectedly broached the subject. He didn’t know what Tom would do with what he had heard, but he figured it would have no impact on how things would go tomorrow.

He shoved aside the papers on his desk, certain he would lie in his rack tonight unable to fall asleep as he stared at the picture of his wife and two sons taped to the rack above him. He would think about the millions of families, just like his, who would no longer exist when he went to sleep the next night. Assuming, of course, he followed the Captain’s order.

Ten minutes later, Tom’s after-watch tour was complete and he rapped firmly on the Captain’s stateroom door. Lieutenant (JG) Carvahlo stood beside him, waiting to report their relief to the ship’s Commanding Officer. Malone acknowledged through the stateroom door, and the two offgoing watch officers entered.

Malone lay on his rack, his hands clasped behind his head on his pillow, staring absently at the overhead. He seemed unaware he had authorized his offgoing watch officers entrance to his stateroom and that they were awaiting his signal to proceed. Tom glanced at the small TV mounted on the bulkhead — it was dark. Beside the monitor, the navigation repeater displayed the ship’s course, speed, and depth in red numbers, blinking silently as the Kentucky’s speed fluctuated a tenth of a knot.

Malone sat up suddenly on the edge of his bed, nodding to his two watch officers to begin. Carvahlo gave his report first. “Sir, I’ve been relieved as Engineering Officer of the Watch by Lieutenant Vecchio. The reactor plant is in two-loop operation, natural circulation, normal temperature and pressure. Answering bells on both main engines. The electric plant is in a normal full-power lineup. No out-of-spec readings on any watch station. That’s all I have, sir.”

Tom’s report followed. “I’ve been relieved as Officer of the Deck by Lieutenant Costa. The ship is at four hundred feet, ten knots, course two-five-eight. Sonar held only one contact on the towed array, classified merchant. The ship remains Alert at Four-SQ. That’s all I have, sir.”

“Thank you,” Malone said.

Carvahlo left the stateroom and Tom began to follow, then stopped and turned back toward Malone, shutting the Captain’s door. “Sir, there’s something I’d like to talk to you about. During my postwatch tour, there was a fight in Crew’s Mess.”

“Yes, I know. The COB stopped by.”

“Sir, I don’t think this is an isolated incident. The crew’s on edge.”

“I know, Tom.” Malone examined the face of the junior officer in front of him, concern and doubt clearly evident. “Have a seat.”

After a lengthy silence, Malone continued. “Receiving a launch order this far in advance is the worst thing that could have happened. The weeklong delay has given the crew time to reflect on the order we’ve received and what it means. For some, the delay won’t matter. When we man Battle Stations, they’ll fall into their routine, doing their best not to think about what they’re actually doing. For others, like Walworth, this is revenge, an opportunity to lash back at those responsible for the destruction of our capital and the death of family and friends. And then there are those in between, torn by the thought of the almost incomprehensible devastation this ship will unleash upon mostly innocent men, women, and children.”

“What about you, sir? Where do you fall?”

Malone glanced down at his command insignia, embroidered over the right chest pocket of his uniform. “My position doesn’t allow me to fall into any of the above categories. My job is to ensure this crew executes the order we’ve been assigned. My personal feelings, my opinion on whether we should execute that order, are not relevant.”

As the two men sat on either side of the Captain’s table, the older man studied the young lieutenant’s face. “What else, Tom? What’s troubling you?”

Tom hesitated, debating whether to reveal the content of his discussion with the Weps. It had been a private conversation, but the Weapons Officer’s doubt held significant implications. Tom struggled between his loyalty to another officer, another academy classmate, and his loyalty to the ship’s Captain. In the end, his loyalty to Malone won out.

“It’s the Weps, sir. I don’t know if he’ll be able to go through with it.”

Malone said nothing for a moment, as he stared at Tom.

Finally, he spoke. “I know. I can see it in his eyes. Those of us with unique responsibilities, like the Weps, will feel the weight of their actions more than the rest of the crew. The time spent approaching Emerald has been excruciatingly painful for them. Each of us…” Malone paused before continuing, “Each of them will have to work through the issue themselves.”

Tom caught the Captain’s subtle change in wording. “And you, sir? Have you worked through the issue?”

Malone raised an eyebrow. “I’ve served on this ship for three years now, six patrols. I’ve had plenty of time to reflect on the mission assigned to this submarine, and on what my response would be should the unthinkable occur. As Commanding Officer, not only am I responsible for my own actions, I’m responsible for the entire crew.”

The Captain’s next statement made his position on the matter perfectly clear.

“Let me erase any doubt you have, Tom. We will execute the order we’ve been given. This ship, this crew, will launch.”

61

On the western edge of the North American continent, where the Santa Lucia Mountains rise abruptly from the Pacific Ocean, lies the popular tourist destination of Big Sur. The ninety miles of coastline south of Monterey offer breathtaking views of sheer ocean cliffs, alcoves of secluded white-sand beaches, and deep ravines spanned by graceful open-arched bridges. Perched eight hundred feet above the ocean along Highway 1 is the restaurant Nepenthe, its terraced gardens of bougainvillea, honeysuckle, and jasmine overlooking a thick canopy of redwood and oak. This evening, with the sun sinking into the thick white fog bank rolling in toward shore, Daniel Landau could find no better place for a meeting.

Daniel Landau — known to others in America as William Hoover — sat on the open-air patio of Nepenthe’s Café Kevah in the cool evening, steam rising from the cup of coffee in his hand, reflecting on how smoothly the plan to destroy Iran’s nuclear weapon complex had proceeded. When he was given his assignment four years ago, he had initially thought it impossible. But after his American contact ascended to his current position, the Metsada agent decided that success was achievable. Landau had worked diligently, cultivating the connections necessary to neutralize the fast-attack submarines and disable the Kentucky’s communication systems after receipt of her launch order. That order had been sent, and if his contact’s calculations were correct, within the next few hours, missiles would begin rising from the calm Pacific waters.

Tonight, Landau would guide the men who formed the kernel of his next operation. As he peered over the veranda’s railing, scrutinizing the parking lot fifty feet below for the arrival of his guests, his cell phone vibrated in the breast pocket of his jacket. The familiar voice on the other end was unusually agitated. “Where have you been, Hoover? I’ve been trying to reach you for hours.”

Landau checked the signal strength of the call, flicking back and forth between zero and one bar, apparently the reason for the missed calls. “Cell phone service is intermittent at my current location. What can I do for you?”

“Your work here isn’t finished. Your incompetent driver missed.”

Landau frowned. The driver was a professional. He would not have missed unless the location was too far down the street, providing sufficient warning for the target to avoid the oncoming car. The man on the other end of the phone had obviously chosen an inappropriate spot for the hit. However, there was no point in casting blame on his acquaintance. “Good help is hard to come by these days. I’ll attend to the matter personally when I return to the East Coast.” Landau glanced over the railing at the parking lot. The two men had arrived and were stepping out of their car. “I’m busy at the moment. Is there anything else I can help you with today?”

“I want Christine O’Connor taken care of, and taken care of immediately.”

The man’s demands were beginning to irritate Landau. But a man in his position was used to giving orders and having them obeyed without question. “Are you sure?” Landau asked, trying again to dissuade the man from another murder. “She knows nothing.”

“You don’t know what type of woman she is. She’ll keep digging until she discovers everything. I’ve spent my entire life gaining the position I’m in, and I’m not going to have my hard work destroyed by that bitch. You either take care of her, or I’ll do it myself.”

Landau’s grip on his cell phone tightened. The man was an amateur in this type of endeavor. He was the one person who could implicate Israel, and it simply would not be acceptable for him to come under suspicion. Landau would have preferred to have eliminated this man along with the sonar algorithm developer, but unfortunately the position he held was too valuable. That not being an option, he had to be placated.

“I’ll return to Washington tomorrow, and I will attend to O’Connor. Is that clear?” Landau had never used this tone of authority with his American contact, but it was vital he be persuaded from further involvement.

“Fine,” the man replied curtly. “But if I don’t hear from you by noon tomorrow, I’m taking the matter into my own hands.”

62

Sitting in one of four chairs scattered around a table in Hendricks’s office, Christine peered through the window toward the front of the Current Action Center, scanning the monitor for a hint of the Kentucky’s fate. Both hands were wrapped around her coffee mug; the cool air and long hours waiting with no hint of what was occurring in Emerald had produced a chill she found difficult to shake. While the hot coffee warmed her insides, her hands felt like icicles. Seated next to her, Hendricks looked like he had fared only slightly better, the exhaustion evident in a shade of black forming under his eyes. Brackman, meanwhile, paced back and forth outside Hendricks’s office, wearing a path at the top of the CAC, stopping occasionally to converse with the Watch Captain.

It had been a long night. The Collins had entered the Kentucky’s AOU just after midnight and hadn’t been heard from since. That was expected, Brackman told Christine, as the Collins could not search effectively at periscope depth and would come shallow to transmit only after she had completed her mission and the Kentucky was sunk. Or, if the ballistic missile submarine prevailed, the Collins would never be heard from again. It was 9 A.M. now and still no sign the Collins had found her. But there had also been no indication the Kentucky had launched her missiles either. Christine couldn’t decide if no news was good news or bad news.

The door opened and Hardison briskly entered Hendricks’s office, an unpleasant expression on his face. Christine and Hendricks rose from their chairs as he approached Christine. Hardison stopped less than a foot away. His voice was low and threatening.

“Don’t ever go to the president behind my back again.”

Christine stood her ground. “Excuse me for not getting your approval, but you were tied up in a meeting.”

“I thought I made my position clear. We needed to keep things under wraps. Now that Iran has ordered a countrywide evacuation, you’ve created a public affairs nightmare.”

“Is that all you care about? The administration’s public image? Not about seventy million people?”

“It’s damn near impossible to save them, Christine. You’re talking about the evacuation of an entire country in less than a day. Where are they going to go? Imagine the death and destruction from the evacuation order alone.”

“Many will be saved, and that’s what’s important.”

“What’s important is stopping the Kentucky. That’s the only thing that will save them.” The muscles in his jaw flexed, then the tone of his voice softened. “How are we doing?”

Christine glanced at the display at the front of the Current Action Center as she answered, “It’s been quiet. The Kentucky could be in launch range anytime now, or she could be as far away as eighteen hours.” She gestured toward the back edge of the Kentucky’s red circle, which would reach Emerald in eighteen hours. “The Collins is in Emerald searching for her now, but we’ve heard nothing.”

Her shoulders sagged as she suddenly realized she’d been up for more than twenty-four hours straight, and hadn’t eaten anything since lunch the previous day.

Hendricks turned toward her. “It’s been a long night. Why don’t you get some sleep and something to eat?”

“Go ahead, Christine,” Hardison said. “Hendricks and I need to talk privately.” His eyes moved over her body. “You look like you could use some rest.”

Christine wasn’t sure how to take Hardison’s comment. Was he being an ass, or had the long night taken that much of a toll on her?

“Go ahead, Chris,” Hendricks urged. “I’ll call if we hear anything.”

Hardison was probably just being blunt, Christine decided. If she looked half as bad as she felt, she probably did look like crap. “I suppose you’re right. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

As Christine stepped out of Hendricks’s office, she paused to examine the screen again. Two things were clear. The first was that the Kentucky had not yet reached Emerald. The second was that the Collins had better find her before she did.

63

Although the world above was shrouded in darkness, it was 1600 aboard the Kentucky and time for dinner. Normally served at 1700, dinner was being served early today; they would enter Emerald in just over two hours, and Malone wanted the men fed and the Crew’s Mess cleared before setting Battle Stations. Gathered in the Officers’ Wardroom with him were eleven of his officers. Only the two men on watch and, of course, Ensign Lopez, who awaited second sitting, were absent. Halfway down the table, Lieutenant Tom Wilson ate in silence, as did the others; the clink of their silverware echoing in the somber Wardroom.

Only days ago they had gathered here for lunch and dinner, eagerly discussing the day’s events, the junior officers laughing and poking fun at each other. But the laughter had ceased when they’d received their launch order, and conversation at the table had steadily decreased, commensurate with the submarine’s distance to Emerald. With missile launch only a few hours away, no one spoke today, all eyes focused on the food in front of them.

Malone broke the uncomfortable silence. “So how are the oxygen generators doing, Eng? The offgoing watch reported Number One Generator went down this morning.”

The Engineer looked up from his soup. “Number One Generator has a bad electrolysis cell. It will be replaced after…” He looked away, then back down at his soup. “It will be replaced on the midwatch.”

“Thanks, Eng. Be sure to pass along a job well done to Auxiliary Division once Number One Generator is back up.”

“Yes, sir,” the Eng replied without looking up.

One of Tom’s eyebrows rose slightly. Malone undoubtedly knew the status of the oxygen generator and its repair plan, but he’d asked the question in an attempt to spark conversation. Even if it meant discussing work, normally reserved until dessert had been served.

“How about the flood and drain valve for Number Three Torpedo Tube, Weps? Did the valve rebuild stop the hydraulic fluid leak?”

The Weps looked at Malone a moment before answering, his stare almost passing through the Captain. “Yes, sir. We replaced the O-rings and the leak stopped. Number Three Torpedo Tube is fully operational.”

“Good job, Weps.”

Lieutenant Manning’s stare lingered on the Captain before he returned his attention to the soup in front of him. Silence descended on the Wardroom again. Malone’s attempt to generate conversation had failed miserably. Nothing could distract the men at the table from what they would do this evening.

Suddenly realizing he wasn’t hungry after all, Tom decided to skip the rest of dinner. He looked up at his Captain. “Excuse me, sir.”

Malone nodded.

As Tom left the Wardroom, he couldn’t wait for it all to end. Another few hours, and it would finally be over. But he suspected it would be just the beginning and not the end; what they were about to do would be something he, and the rest of the crew, would have to deal with for the rest of their lives.

As the last of his officers filed out of the Wardroom, Malone pushed back from the table. The mess specialist moved in, clearing the dishes from what would become the Corpsman’s operating table during Battle Stations; that necessity would arise only if they were detected during launch and subsequently attacked.

Leaving the Wardroom, Malone headed to Control, stopping in Sonar. After verifying the ship held no contacts, he dropped down the ladder en route to his stateroom, landing on the second level just as the Weps stepped out of the XO’s stateroom. The Weps avoided the Captain’s eyes as he hurried aft toward the Missile Compartment. With Tom’s revelation about the Weps’s reservations still fresh in his mind, Malone stopped by the XO’s stateroom and queried his Executive Officer. “What did you and the Weps talk about?”

The XO looked up from his computer. “Nothing important, sir. Just a few things we needed to discuss.” He turned away from Malone with the same urgency the Weps had displayed, concentrating again on his computer monitor.

Malone knew his XO was lying. Whatever the two men had talked about was clearly important. The list of things that could be on the Weps’s mind a few hours before they launched their missiles was pretty damn short, and he wondered for the first time about his XO’s position on completing the ship’s mission. As Malone returned to his stateroom, he realized he did not really know where his officers stood on the issue. That was because, to some extent, he was an outsider on his own ship.

Every officer aboard the Kentucky, except Malone, was a Naval Academy grad. The academy was the major source of submarine officers, supplying two-thirds of nuclear-trained officers each year, and every once in a while, the entire Wardroom was populated by Annapolis grads. The officers from the school on the bank of the Severn River shared a bond even stronger than the Submarine Force and spoke a language even more foreign, rooted in a common experience that began on a hot July day each year outside Bancroft Hall. During lunch or dinner, or while the officers were gathered for training, one of the JOs would quip a remark, and the entire Wardroom would erupt in laughter, except Malone, who hadn’t understood the reference and related humor.

As a symbol of their loyalty to each other and the institution they graduated from, they wore their rings with the academy crest facing inward, toward their heart. Up to now, Malone had no reason to believe their loyalty to each other should be considered a threat to the submarine’s mission. But now that at least one of them was questioning his orders, Malone wondered whether their bond could lead to a wholesale refusal to obey their Captain’s directive — and that of the president of the United States.

It became clear to Malone that additional measures might be required to ensure the Kentucky launched her missiles. If things did not go as planned and his orders were not followed, he would have to strike fast and cut off the head of the snake before any rebellion slithered out of control. Mere words were insufficient weapons to accomplish that task. Picking up the MJ handset, he dialed the Chief’s Quarters.

A minute later, Master Chief Machinist Mate Stephen Prashaw knocked on the Captain’s open stateroom door. Malone waved him in, motioning to shut the door behind him. Prashaw, the Chief of the Boat, was the senior enlisted man aboard, a man Malone relied on to oversee the smooth operation of the submarine. While the XO dictated the ship’s schedule and evolutions to be conducted, it was the COB who executed them. This was his fifth patrol as COB aboard the Kentucky, having reported aboard the run after Malone arrived, and the two men had formed a close working and personal relationship.

As Prashaw joined him at his small table, Malone asked his question point-blank. “Do you have any concerns the crew will not execute the launch order?”

The COB replied quickly, as if he had given this question much thought. “Do I have any concerns? Yes. But will they execute? I am reasonably confident they will.”

“Why are you so sure?”

“Because the enlisted men work in teams, and none of the men will want to let the rest of his team down. I’m confident that once the General Alarm sounds, their training will take over and override any reservations.” The COB paused for a moment. “However, I cannot vouch for the officers. Their roles are different, and you would have better insight than me.”

“Unfortunately, I don’t have that insight,” Malone replied. “The only two officers I have a reasonable bead on are the Weps and Assistant Weps. Lieutenant Wilson will do his part. However, the Weps has doubts and may not comply.”

Prashaw raised his eyebrows. “What will you do?”

Malone leaned back in his chair. “That’s where you come in. When we man Battle Stations, I want you to arm yourself.” The COB’s eyes widened as Malone continued. “Take yourself off the watch bill and put Chief Davidson on as Dive. I want you in Control, and if necessary, we’ll head down to MCC to ensure the Weps executes the order given.”

There was a long silence. “And if the Weps refuses?”

Malone stared pensively at his COB. “We’ll cross that bridge when the time comes.”

64

Inside the second-story bedroom of a brownstone town house in the Clarendon district of Arlington, with the afternoon sun slanting through the center slit of drawn curtains, the ceiling came into focus as Christine forced her eyes open. Rolling onto her side, she smacked the clock on the nightstand into submission, silencing the annoying alarm as she examined the time: 1 P.M. Turning onto her back again, she rubbed her eyes, then let her arms fall to the bed. She was still exhausted.

After a six-minute drive home from the Pentagon this morning, she had collapsed onto her bed. She hadn’t even removed her clothes; only her shoes lay discarded on the floor. Her slumber had lasted four hours. More than a nap but hardly a good night’s sleep, and the few hours of downtime left her feeling more tired now than when she had walked into her town house, drained from her all-night vigil in the Current Action Center. She had wanted to return to the Pentagon as soon as possible and had settled on four hours of sleep.

The cobwebs were clearing slowly, and she decided a hot shower followed by a cup of coffee was what she needed. She padded across the bedroom and into the bathroom, turning on the water and letting it heat up while she stripped off her clothes. Stepping into the shower, she pulled the curtain closed and let the warm water spray across her chest.

After increasing the temperature of the water to as hot as she could stand it, she tilted her head forward, letting the water fall down her shoulders and back. As she stood under the almost scalding water, allowing the tension to ease from her shoulders, steam filled the bathroom with a fine, white mist. Closing her eyes, she lifted her face up to the hot water, pulling her hair behind her head as she reached for the shampoo. But her head snapped forward and her eyes popped open when she heard an unusual thump.

She turned off the water and listened closely, but there was nothing but silence. Then she heard the sound again and concluded it was only her next-door neighbors. Christine turned the water back on and worked the shampoo into her hair. As she rinsed off the soap, letting it run down her body, she hoped it would wash away the guilt that had accumulated over the last week. She had been quick to blame others, and rightly so. Someone was executing an elaborate plot to annihilate another country. But the United States was also at fault; their safeguards had been inadequate. One man, turned traitor and armed with relatively unsophisticated aids, had transmitted a valid launch order to one of their nuclear assets.

They were partly culpable — there was no way around it. And if they didn’t stop the Kentucky, the United States would be responsible for mass genocide. Making matters worse, she had helped Hardison and the president keep the issue hidden. If they were successful at stopping the Kentucky’s launch, she knew they would work together to ensure what had occurred would never become known to the public. The whole situation made her uneasy, participating in a conspiracy to keep the truth hidden.

Christine stood under the hot water, letting the heat seep into her muscles, then shut off the water and pulled back the shower curtain. She grabbed a white bath towel off the rack. The shower had gone a long way toward waking her up. She dried herself, then wrapped the towel tightly around her body. Stepping out of the shower, she opened the door to let the steam dissipate into her bedroom. As she prepared to blow-dry her hair, she wiped the condensation from the mirror. A pale face stared back at her, looking older than she remembered it. The damp, stringy hair, the washed out features from the bathroom’s fluorescent lighting, and the lack of makeup added years to her appearance.

After drying her hair and applying makeup, Christine donned a white satin blouse and a tan skirt. She hurried downstairs, noting the dead bolt was still thrown on the front door. Standing in front of her kitchen pantry, she debated whether to grab a bite to eat now or when she stopped for coffee. A rumble in her stomach made the decision for her. She surveyed the contents on the shelves, but nothing appealed to her, so she pulled a packet from the only open box.

As she shoved the last of the strawberry Pop-Tart into her mouth, there was a knock on her town house door. She queried her visitor using the intercom and a familiar voice answered, bringing a smile to her face. As she turned toward the front door, it opened, and she remembered that Hendricks still had a key. Her ex-husband stepped into the foyer, holding a small pink gift bag with even brighter pink tissue poking out the top. He gripped the bag tightly, wearing a look on his face she immediately recognized as indecision.

65

It was exactly 1808 Greenwich mean time when the USS Kentucky crossed the imaginary line separating Sapphire and Emerald. At that precise moment, Malone stood on the Conn waiting for the report from MCC, confident the analysis would return the expected results. They had done the calculations several times — the last of the ship’s missiles would be in launch range the second they entered Emerald. Still, Malone was putting the strategic weapon system through its paces, verifying the Kentucky’s missiles were in range prior to setting Battle Stations.

“Conn, MCC.” The Weps’s voice echoed from the 21-MC. “The ship is within launch range of the assigned target package.”

Even though Malone had been waiting for the report, the announcement caught him off guard. He felt unprepared for the order he must give. He had gone through the routine many times, both at the Trident Training Facility in Bangor and aboard the Kentucky; he had the words memorized. But they jumbled through his mind as he prepared to make the 1-MC announcement, refusing his attempts to place them in the proper order. Fortunately, the launch procedures lay on the shelf at the edge of the Conn, opened to the appropriate page. He forced his eyes to focus, but the words remained blurry. It was as if his subconscious was delaying the launch, if only for a moment.

Over the last eight days, he had told himself repeatedly that he would be able to execute the strike order when they reached Emerald. He would focus on the task and not let the thought of what would happen thirty minutes later destroy his concentration. But as he stood on the Conn, the images of the death and destruction their missiles would wreak upon humanity flooded into his mind in vivid colors. In the end, he would be ultimately responsible for what they had done.

But he was responsible, he told himself again. He was responsible for ensuring the strike order was executed.

It was as straightforward as that.

Only the force of his words failed to carry the same conviction they had earlier. Malone looked up, searching for the strength to begin, the face of every man in Control turned toward him, waiting for his command.

Yes, that was the key.

His command.

When he had been offered command of the USS Kentucky, BLUE Crew, he knew full well the damage this warship could inflict. He could have declined, but had instead accepted his command, and with it, the responsibility to execute the lawful orders of the president of the United States of America. And he had received that lawful order.

It was as straightforward as that.

This time, his thoughts carried the necessary conviction, and the words on the page slowly came into focus. Malone picked up the 1-MC microphone, making the announcement he had been dreading since receipt of their launch order eight days ago.

“Man Battle Stations Missile for Strategic Launch. Spin up all missiles with the exception of tubes Eight, Ten, and Twelve.”

Throughout the ship, the crew manned their Battle Stations, with the section on watch making the initial preparations for missile launch.

“Helm, all stop,” the Officer of the Deck ordered. “Dive, bring the ship to launch depth. Prepare to hover.”

The Helm and the Diving Officer acknowledged, and the main engines went quiet as the Kentucky took a ten-degree up angle, coming shallow and slowing in preparation for launch.

The Kentucky’s angle leveled off as the submarine coasted to a dead stop. After engaging the hovering computers, the Diving Officer announced, “The ship is hovering at launch depth.”

Personnel streamed into Control and toward their watch stations throughout the ship, preparing to launch their missiles and defend themselves from the sudden appearance of any adversary. In MCC, Tom and the Weps were joined by a half dozen missile techs, each with a specific responsibility for operating the launch systems, while four-man teams of missile techs formed up in Missile Compartment Upper Level and Lower Level, trained to manually operate the missile tube hydraulics if an electrical fault occurred.

Standing on the Conn, Malone awaited the report from the Chief of the Watch that the Kentucky was at Battle Stations. At that point they would begin the strategic launch procedures.

While the ship’s ascent to launch depth and order to man Battle Stations Missile were duly recorded in the ship’s log, what weren’t recorded were the actions of the submarine’s Chief of the Boat, who had unlocked the Forward Small Arms Locker as the crew manned Battle Stations.

Assignments to six submarines, split evenly between fast attacks and boomers, Steve Prashaw had worked his way up from Deck Gang on the Greenville to Chief of the Boat, the crown jewel of an enlisted submariner’s career. Although promotion to master chief had its professional privileges, nothing compared to the personal reward of serving as COB on a submarine, running the boat for the Captain, and the responsibility and respect that went with it.

But that satisfaction could come crashing down in a single event. Prashaw didn’t know how the rest of the Submarine Force would receive them upon their return home — as heroes or as villains for executing their mission. He suspected it would be something in between, professional admiration marred with personal revulsion. But if one of their crew was murdered in order to execute their mission …

Prashaw cleared his mind, returning his attention to the order he’d been given. Perusing the assortment of weapons in the small arms locker, he selected a 9mm Llama semiautomatic pistol. The shotguns and rifles were meant for topside watches and would be unwieldy in the submarine’s confined spaces. As he counted the number of rounds in the clip, he wished they still used the Colt 45 handgun. The 45 had been abandoned in favor of the 9mm due to the propensity for the Colt’s first round to jam. But Prashaw believed the Colt would have proved valuable today. The first round jamming would have given both parties a final opportunity to reconsider their actions.

Unfortunately, the 9mm was what the Kentucky carried, and the COB reluctantly inserted the clip into the pistol. Sliding the pistol into a holster strapped around his waist left a sour taste in his mouth. The submarine’s small arms were supposed to be used to repel boarders. They were meant to protect the crew, not harm them.

As Malone stood on the Conn, waiting patiently for the ship to man Battle Stations, the COB arrived and stopped beside the Chief of the Watch; that he carried a firearm was not lost on the personnel in Control. Malone’s eyes drifted to the pistol. He hoped its use would not be necessary, that the Weps would fulfill his part in the strategic launch.

The Chief of the Watch reported the ship was at Battle Stations Missile.

Malone reflected for a moment about what he and his crew were about to do, then he picked up the 1-MC. “Set condition One-SQ for strategic launch. This is the Commanding Officer. The release of nuclear weapons has been directed.”

Malone waited for the XO to repeat the order. But he just stood there, his eyes shifting between the other officers in Control and the COB — and darting down to the pistol holstered on the master chief’s waist. The XO’s delay was unusual; they had simulated their missile launch many times and he always immediately passed the duplicate order over the 21-MC.

As Malone waited for the XO, he suddenly realized he had gotten it all wrong. He had been focused on the Weps, unsure whether he would execute his order. However, if the Weps refused, he could be replaced and his combination to the Trigger retrieved from the safe in the Op Center and handed over to his successor.

He had overlooked the more obvious threat. The crew would not respond to a strategic launch order unless that identical order was given by two men. The first man was the submarine’s Commanding Officer. The second man was its Executive Officer. But unlike the Weps, the XO could not be relieved and replaced. Unless Lieutenant Commander Bruce Fay repeated the order, the crew would not initiate the launch sequence.

Malone broke into a cold sweat. The XO was the second in command, authorized to relieve the submarine’s Commanding Officer if there was sufficient cause. Malone knew he couldn’t be relieved for executing their strike order, but he had no idea how the crew would react if the XO made the attempt. And he didn’t know where the loyalty of the other officers, all Academy grads like the XO, resided.

As the thought of what the Executive Officer might do permeated his thoughts, he realized that nine of the other fourteen officers were in Control, surrounding him; even the Officer of the Deck, who had moved behind him on the Conn. The ship’s Navigator, free to float between Radio and Control to coordinate the message decryption, seemed out of place, standing slightly behind the COB, on the same side as his firearm. The other five officers were stationed in the key nerve centers of the ship: the EOOW in Maneuvering, the Weps and Tom in MCC, with the remaining two officers in Sonar and Radio. Even if Tom sided with the CO, he would be overruled by the more senior department head. The other officers could easily take over the Kentucky; with thirteen officers issuing orders, the rest of the crew would most likely follow.

Is that what the Weps and the XO had been discussing? Details of their plan to ignore the launch order and relieve him of command? The arrival of the COB with his firearm had undoubtedly thrown a wrench into their plan, but they had apparently prepared for the possibility, the Nav hovering dangerously close, his presence beside the COB seemingly unnoticed by the senior enlisted man.

Finally, the XO reached up and retrieved the 21-MC handset, his eyes continuing to shift between the other Academy grads and the COB.

Malone held his breath. Would the XO repeat the strike command, or order something altogether different?

The XO placed the 21-MC to his mouth, pausing as his eyes settled on Commander Brad Malone, the USS Kentucky’s commanding officer — for the moment.

Malone’s pulse raced.

The seconds ticked by like hours.

Then the XO spoke forcefully into the handset. “Set condition One-SQ for strategic launch. This is the Executive Officer. The release of nuclear weapons has been directed.”

The crew responded instantly, turning toward their consoles and focusing on the remaining actions that would make the Kentucky’s missiles ready for launch.

Malone let out a silent sigh of relief. His imagination had run away from him; the stress of executing the ship’s launch order was beginning to affect his judgment. Returning his attention to the impending launch, he left Control, opened the safe in his stateroom, and returned a minute later with twenty-one keys, each hanging from a green lanyard, which he handed to a missile tech waiting to arm the missile tube gas generators.

A moment later, two junior officers arrived in Control with the CIP key, which they handed over to Malone. He held the key in his hand for a moment before inserting it into the Captain’s Indicator Panel. He turned the key ninety degrees counterclockwise, then flipped up the Permission to Fire toggle switch. The panel activated, the status lights illuminating for Missile Tubes One through Twenty-Four.

One by one, the missiles were brought online, spinning up their inertial navigation systems. Malone monitored the progress of the missile gyro spin-up until the lights for twenty-one missiles illuminated, indicating they had successfully communicated with the submarine’s navigation system. Every missile except the ones in tubes Eight, Ten, and Twelve were awake now and knew their exact position on earth. The next column of lights slowly toggled from black to red as each missile accepted its target package, carrying the impact coordinates for the eight warheads each one carried.

The third column of lights on the Captain’s Indicating Panel turned red as the techs in Missile Compartment Lower Level armed the explosives in the gas generators, which would generate the steam that would impulse the missiles out of the submarine to just above the ocean’s surface. One by one, twenty-one gas generators were armed.

The USS Kentucky was ready to launch.

All that remained was Malone’s final order. And once that order was given, it would be out of his hands. The Weapons Officer and his missile techs would take over, preparing and launching each missile. If there was one last opportunity to turn back, this was it. But Malone had made his decision three years ago. He had made a commitment then, and he would follow through now.

Malone turned to the watchstander next to him. “Phone talker to Weapons. You have permission to fire.” The phone talker repeated Malone’s order, then passed it to MCC over the sound-powered phone circuit.

Control grew quiet; the launch sequence had been set into motion.

Malone had done his part.

The Executive Officer had done his.

Would the Weapons Officer and missile techs do theirs?

Malone listened to the first order going out over the MCC communication circuit.

“Prepare ONE.”

The indicating light for Missile Tube One muzzle hatch turned green, indicating the muzzle hatch had been opened and was now locked in place. The starboard missile team relayed its report back to Missile Control Center.

“ONE, ready.”

Silence gripped Control as the crew awaited the ignition of Missile Tube One’s gas generator and the flexing of the keel as the sixty-five-ton missile was impulsed out of the tube. Malone stared at the Captain’s Indicator Panel, waiting for the last light to turn green, which would happen when the Weapons Officer squeezed the Trigger.

Thirty seconds passed, but the light for Missile Tube One stayed red.

Malone glanced around Control. Something was wrong.

A minute passed, and still no launch.

Stepping onto the Conn, Malone removed the 21-MC microphone from its holster. “MCC, Conn. Report launch status.”

There was no response from MCC.

“MCC, Conn. This is the Captain. Report launch status.”

Still no answer.

Malone started to slam the mike back into its clip when MCC responded.

“Captain, this is Lieutenant Wilson.” Tom’s voice was uncertain, shaken. “The Weps…” There was silence for a few seconds. “The Weps won’t unlock the safe.”

“Put the Weps on line!” Malone yelled into the 21-MC microphone.

A few seconds later, Tom replied, “The Weps won’t take the mike.”

Malone slammed the microphone back into its clip and stepped off the Conn, stopping in front of the COB. “Give me your firearm.”

The COB unholstered the pistol and slowly handed it over, butt first.

Malone released the clip into his hand, ensured it was full, then reinserted it. “Come with me, COB.” Malone hadn’t bothered counting the number of rounds in the clip.

He figured he only needed one.

In MCC, Lieutenant Pete Manning stood next to the Launch Control Panel safe containing the Trigger, his face placid. As he braced himself for the impending confrontation with the Captain, his thoughts wandered to his meeting with the XO after lunch, during which he had revealed his reservations. The XO had been understanding and to some extent shared the same feelings, but in the end, Lieutenant Commander Fay was firm about their responsibility to the Kentucky and the Navy. They had been given an order and they would follow it, regardless of whether they thought the order should have been issued in the first place.

That wasn’t what he wanted to hear, and he had left the XO’s stateroom no closer to deciding what to do. The remaining hours had slipped away, and when the launch order came across the 1-MC, followed by the identical one over the 21-MC, he had been forced to decide. As a result of his decision, the door to MCC flew open and Malone stormed in, the COB close behind.

“What the hell is going on, Weps?” Malone stopped a few feet away — there was a pistol in his hand, held down by his thigh.

Manning held firm his resolve. “I can’t do it, sir.”

“Yes, you can. The rest of us have done our part. Now it’s your turn. Unlock the safe.”

Manning shook his head. “No, sir. I will not be a part of this.”

“I gave you a direct order. Open the safe.”

Manning stood there, silent.

Malone’s eyes narrowed as he raised the pistol, pointing it at the Weps’s face.

“Open the safe!”

Although the Captain had a pistol pointed at his head, Manning knew he was bluffing. There was no way he would kill someone for disobeying an order, even a nuclear strike order.

“I will not open the safe, sir.”

Malone reached up and pulled back the slide valve, chambering a round. “Open the safe.”

The confrontation had escalated higher than Manning had expected. Like a game of Texas hold ’em, the Captain had bluffed by holding a pistol to his head and he had responded by going all-in. But Malone hadn’t folded. However, with a round chambered and the muzzle of the Llama an inch from his forehead, there was one small, but important detail about the weapon in Malone’s hand that was not lost on the Weps.

The safety was still on.

That fact was not lost on Malone either, along with the realization that the stakes in this confrontation were high. Like a snowball rolling downhill, gaining speed and mass as it traveled, the Weps’s refusal to follow his order could turn into an avalanche of insubordination. That was something he could not allow. He could relieve the Weps and replace him with another officer, but if the only immediate repercussion a crew member suffered was being relieved from his watch station, that would do little to deter others. He needed to make an example of the Weps, make the consequences of refusing to obey the Captain’s order so dire that no one would be willing to accept the same punishment.

Malone lifted his thumb, releasing the safety.

“I’m going to give you to the count of three, and if your hand isn’t spinning the tumbler by then, I’m going to permanently relieve you of your duties.”

The Weps stared at Malone as he began counting.

“One.”

Tom and the missile techs stood frozen in their places.

“Two.”

As Pete Manning stood on the wrong end of the Llama, he understood Malone’s obligation to execute the president’s order, as well as the country’s desire for revenge. The nuclear attack on the nation’s capital was a thousand times more devastating than 9/11, and they had to respond. But whereas the retribution after 9/11 was meticulously planned, attempting to eliminate only the terrorists while sparing the innocent in the vicinity, nuclear weapons were indiscriminate in their destruction, unable to distinguish between the guilty and the innocent.

It was murder, pure and simple.

“I can’t do it. I can’t kill millions of people.”

He would not partake in this crime against humanity, and he would accept the consequences of his decision. Unfortunately, until this moment, he thought the only consequences would be professional. Apparently not. But he had made his decision and would stand by it, and no amount of coercion would change his mind. And so, with a pistol to his head, a round chambered and safety off, and the color of Malone’s index finger changing from pink to white as he squeezed the trigger, Lieutenant Pete Manning accepted his fate.

As Malone squeezed the trigger, he wondered how it had come down to this. As the Commanding Officer of a naval vessel, he had significant authority and wide latitude in dealing with discipline problems and insubordination. He could dock a sailor’s pay, bust him in rank one or even two pay grades, and restrict a married man to the ship for weeks, even months. He had exercised his authority many times at captain’s mast, and would not hesitate in the midst of their missile launch to use every means at his disposal to ensure compliance with his order. However, as extensive as his authority was, he could not kill his Weapons Officer.

He dropped his hand to his side.

“Goddamn it, Weps!”

Talking over his shoulder, his eyes still locked on his department head, he issued instructions to the COB. “Confine Lieutenant Manning to his stateroom. Post two armed petty officers outside his door.” Malone turned toward Tom. “Lieutenant Wilson.”

It took a moment for Tom to realize his name had been called. “Yes, sir.”

“You are now the Weapons Officer. Can you carry out the responsibilities of this position?”

Things were moving too fast. A second ago, he was an innocent bystander in the clash of wills between the Weps and the Captain. Now he had been assigned the Weapons Officer’s duties, and Malone wanted to know if he could carry them out.

Could he unlock the safe if given the combination?

Yes.

Could he squeeze the Trigger?

Yes.

Tom answered Malone automatically, before he answered the more important question he needed to ask himself. Would he?

“Yes, sir. I can carry out the responsibilities of Weapons Officer.”

“Good,” Malone said. “Get one of the EAM teams and retrieve the Weps’s combination.”

Tom nodded numbly as the COB took the pistol from Malone and escorted Lieutenant Pete Manning, former Weapons Officer of the USS Kentucky, BLUE Crew, out of MCC.

Glancing over at the Launch Control Panel, Tom noted the blinking red lights. “Sir, the launch sequence has timed out. We’ll need to start over.”

“Shut tube One missile muzzle hatch,” Malone growled. “Set condition Four-SQ.”

Moments later, the seven-ton muzzle hatch slammed shut as the Kentucky reset her strategic weapon system.

66

“Watch Leader, Sonar. Mechanical transients, bearing zero-zero-two, designated Sierra three-five.”

Captain Murray Wilson stood next to Brett Humphreys in the cramped Control Room, as the tired crew of the Collins finally caught a sniff of their target. That they were now picking up mechanical transients did not bode well. Wilson exchanged a concerned look with Humphreys.

“Designate Sierra three-five as Master One,” Humphreys announced.

The submarine’s XO complied and a moment later reported, “Estimated range to Master One based on bottom bounce is thirty thousand yards.”

Humphreys acknowledged and was about to give orders to the Helm when Wilson gently grabbed his arm and nodded toward the aft corner of Control.

The two men crammed themselves between two equipment consoles as Wilson spoke quietly. “I want you to communicate with the Kentucky first via underwater comms. I know what your orders say, but as long as we stop them from launching, that’s what matters.”

Humphreys considered Wilson’s words for a moment, then replied, “I will not give away our stealth advantage. The Kentucky may be a ballistic missile submarine, but her tactical systems are equivalent and her weapons are superior. Our only advantage is our stealth. I won’t give that up.”

“The Kentucky won’t attack, Brett. I guarantee it. Malone didn’t fire on a Virginia-class that came within a thousand yards. He won’t shoot. Trust me on this.”

Wilson’s eyes conveyed his desperation as Humphreys contemplated his friend’s request. Finally, he replied, “All right. But if the Kentucky shows the slightest sign of aggression…”

Wilson clasped Humphreys’s shoulder. “Thanks, Brett.”

Humphreys turned toward the Watch Leader. “Come to course zero-zero-two, ahead full.”

Looking at the Weps, Humphreys ordered, “Open outer doors, tubes One through Six.”

67

With Hendricks standing in her foyer, gift bag in hand, Christine turned away, hiding the smile that had formed on her lips. He had chosen this awkward time, in the middle of a crisis, to broach the subject of a renewed relationship. Looking for a reason to explain her sudden turn away, she straightened a few pieces of mail she had tossed onto the kitchen counter two days ago.

Christine turned around, startled by Dave’s presence. He was only three feet away now. His eyes were determined, every trace of indecision gone. She eyed the gift bag in his hand, curiosity replacing the sudden fright. “So what do you have there? Something for me?”

Hendricks stared at her for a moment, his face emotionless. Then his features softened into a friendly smile. “Yes, something especially for you.”

Christine tilted her head. “Are you trying to get back into my good graces? Start over?”

“Something like that.”

Looking down, she tried to catch a glimpse of what was in the bag. “Don’t keep me in suspense. Show me what you’ve got.”

“In a minute. But first I need to explain.” He reached up and caressed the side of her face with the back of his fingers. He lingered on her cheekbone, then slowly slid his fingers across her lips. She resisted the urge to kiss his fingers, to grab his hand and hold it against the side of her face. And then his fingers were gone. He still looked at her with determined eyes, but they had turned cold and hard.

“I finally figured out why our marriage failed,” he began. “We shared the same goals, but our approaches toward achieving them were never the same. You’ve always played within the rules, while I’ve never constrained myself to someone else’s definition of right and wrong. Take the defense of our country, for example. You and I both work to protect the country we love. But you joined an administration whose visions you didn’t share. You did it because you thought it was the best way to achieve your goal within the confines of right and wrong.”

Christine bit her lip, not sure where Dave was headed. His voice was listless, as if he regretted something he’d done.

Or was about to do.

“I decided not to waste my time in a futile effort like yours,” he continued, “waging a losing battle to defend our country. I wanted to eliminate our most serious enemies and send a message to others. When this opportunity presented itself, it wasn’t hard for me to decide.”

“What opportunity?” Christine asked warily.

He smiled. “You’re so naïve, Chris. Your instincts were correct. Someone involved in this plot knew the Kentucky had twice the number of warheads. Someone knew the Kentucky was on its way to a patrol area within range of Iran. That information is extremely sensitive, known only by a few. Who that person is should have been obvious to you. But even though you haven’t figured it out yet, you’re a persistent woman, and you would have eventually identified him. And it isn’t Hardison.”

A sliver of ice ran down Christine’s spine.

It was Dave. He had participated in the plot to destroy Iran, a plot that would soon result in 192 warheads raining down in a holocaust of nuclear destruction. But why was he telling her this? How could he risk exposing his role to her? He either was convinced she would keep his secret, or—

Christine drew in a sharp breath.

— he intended to ensure she would never tell a soul.

She took a step back, her eyes shifting to the package he held in his hand. “What’s in the gift bag, Dave?”

He reached into the bag with his right hand. “Something especially for you.” He let the bag fall to the floor; his hand held a black revolver. “I’m disappointed you decided to end your life this way.”

“What way?” Christine asked, her eyes flicking between Dave’s hand and his face. Her breathing turned shallow, rapid.

“Your suicide. The stress of this past week was more than you could handle. I’ll have to explain how despondent you became, how overwhelmed you were with your responsibility as national security adviser. How, once it became clear the Kentucky’s warheads would destroy Iran, you must’ve felt personally responsible for this horrible tragedy.”

Christine’s pulse quickened.

She recognized the double-action revolver. It was a Smith & Wesson Centennial, the one Dave had bought her shortly after they married, the one he taught her to fire as he stood behind her at the shooting range. After the divorce, she had returned the revolver to him; he was the gun nut. But the weapon was still registered in her name. It would look like she had taken her life with her own gun.

Her mind raced, searching for a way out of her predicament. Maybe he could be reasoned with, talked out of his madness.

“But the Kentucky hasn’t launched yet.” She tried to keep the panic from her voice, maintain it calm and steady. “There’s a possibility she won’t launch, and even if she does, that our defenses will take out her missiles. And as long as there’s hope, why would I kill myself?”

Hendricks sneered. “The Kentucky will launch. She wouldn’t have come this far if she wasn’t intent on launching. And once she does, our ballistic missile defenses will be overwhelmed. But just in case, I’ve added an insurance policy. A virus has been inserted into our ballistic missile defense-targeting systems, corrupting the data. Only my computer account has the ability to correct this problem, and I’ll ensure all evidence of this corruption is eliminated immediately afterward.

“Everyone will believe our failure to intercept the Kentucky’s missiles was due to our inadequate ballistic missile defense systems, and we’ll invest billions to improve them. You see, Chris, this plan will improve our country’s security — Iran will be destroyed, eliminating the most serious threat to our country today, and we’ll develop better missile defense systems to protect us in the future. I will have made a difference, while you will have wasted your time in a futile effort to influence an administration from within.”

Finished with the explanation he promised, Hendricks appeared ready to take the next step, murdering his ex-wife. Christine’s frantic search for a way to save herself had identified only two options. She’d tried the first — talk her way out. That left the other option.

A physical confrontation.

She had to wrest the gun from his hand.

But how?

Hendricks was six inches taller and sixty pounds heavier. And much stronger. The odds of overpowering him were slim to none. But there appeared to be no alternative. She had taken self-defense classes, but the moves she knew were designed to defend against an assailant attempting to overpower and restrain her. That wasn’t the situation here. Dave wasn’t going to physically attack her — he was going to put a bullet in her head. The roles were reversed.

She had to attack him.

Her mind indexed through her repertoire of moves, searching for one she could use to attack. But Hendricks interrupted her thoughts before she had identified an appropriate move. “Into the study,” he said. “You’re going to end your life sitting at your desk.”

Christine glanced again at the gun in his hand, still held at his side. As long as it was pointed at the floor and not her head, there was hope she could succeed. But she hadn’t figured out how yet. She stalled. “Think about what you’re doing, Dave. Yes, you’ve participated in a conspiracy against our country, but your motive is honorable. If your role is discovered, I’m sure that will be taken into account. But once you commit murder, there’s no hope for leniency. Please, Dave, I swear I’ll keep your secret. Our secret. We can get back together. I’ve been thinking about that a lot, and nothing you’ve told me has changed my mind. I still love you.”

She took a step forward, reaching out to him with her left hand, praying her approach would be misinterpreted. She didn’t care whether he believed her or not; whether he thought her statement and gesture were a genuine attempt to bring their lives back together, or a desperate lie. Either way was fine — as long as he didn’t notice the shift in her posture, transferring her weight to the balls of her feet, her body tensing for action.

“I’ve already crossed that line, Chris.” Hendricks’s hand twitched at his side. “I’ve already been forced to commit murder by a prying intern who discovered more than he should have.”

Christine’s eyes widened. “You killed Russell!”

“I’m afraid so. And now it’s your turn. Into the study.”

“No,” Christine said firmly.

Hendricks’s voice turned hard. “We can do this the easy way, in the study, or the messy way, here in the kitchen. The decision is yours.”

The messy way, then. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Fine. Have it your way.”

Hendricks’s arm started to swing up toward her, and fear rippled through her body. If there was any hope at all, she had to act now. Once his arm was raised, the pistol pointed at her head, it’d be almost impossible to attack him and avoid a bullet. Another second of delay, another moment of indecision, and her life would be over. Christine’s resolve galvanized, and as the pistol in Dave’s hand rose toward her head, she moved quickly.

68

Five minutes after being assigned as the Kentucky’s Weapons Officer, Tom stood inside the Op Center forward of Control, waiting for Lieutenant (JG) Carvahlo and Lieutenant Costa to open the two-door safe containing the Weapons Officer’s safe combination. Costa spun the dial and opened the safe’s outer door, then stepped back to allow Carvahlo access to the inner door. A moment later, the inner door clicked open. Carvahlo reached inside, retrieved the envelope, and handed it to Tom. The two officers shut and locked the safe doors, then left Tom alone in the Op Center. He peeled open the envelope and pulled out the slip of paper.

Tom stared at the numbers, committing them to memory, then placed the combination back in the envelope. After a knock on the Op Center door, Carvahlo and Costa entered and opened the safe again. Once the combination was back inside and both tumblers spun, Tom stepped out of the Op Center into Control. The Kentucky was still at Battle Stations Missile, hovering at launch depth. In a few minutes, they would begin the launch sequence again, this time with Lieutenant Tom Wilson as the submarine’s Weapons Officer.

As Tom made his way through Control on his way to MCC, Malone hoped things would go smoothly this time. He had more confidence in Tom than he had in Lieutenant Manning, but it was a lot to ask of the junior officer. In a few minutes, the burden of the missile launch would rest on his shoulders, and Malone would see what kind of mettle the young man was made of.

After receiving word that Tom had reached MCC, Malone picked up the 1-MC microphone. “Set condition One-SQ for strategic launch. This is the Commanding Officer. The release of nuclear weapons has been directed.”

Without hesitating this time, the XO repeated the order over the 21-MC. Tom’s voice emanated from the speaker, acknowledging the order with only a hint of nervousness.

Malone again turned his key ninety degrees counterclockwise in the Captain’s Indicator Panel and flipped up the Permission to Fire toggle switch. The first column of indicating lights on the CIP, with the exception of the missiles in tubes Eight, Ten, and Twelve, began turning red as their inertial navigation gyros spun up again and were informed of their slightly revised position on earth. As the missiles began accepting their target packages, the next column of lights also toggled from black to red. One by one, each gas generator was armed, illuminating the indicating lights in the third column.

With the CIP in front of him glowing ominously, Malone gave MCC permission to fire, and the order was passed to Tom over the sound-powered phones.

The crew had done their part again.

Would Tom do his?

One level down from Control and just aft, Lieutenant Tom Wilson stood next to the Weapons Officer’s safe in Missile Control Center, cold air blowing on him from the ventilation ducts above, adding to the chill that already permeated his flesh and bones. It was quiet in MCC as the missile techs stared at the lieutenant, wondering if he, unlike his predecessor, would execute the Captain’s order to launch. Tom studied the Launch Control Panel, noting the green lights in each column with the exception of tubes Eight, Ten, and Twelve.

They were almost ready to launch. Only two things remained: Open each tube’s muzzle hatch and unlock the safe containing the Tactical Mode Key and Trigger.

Trying not to think about the ramifications of his actions, Tom reached for the safe’s combination dial. He spun the dial five times counterclockwise, as he had done a hundred times on similar safes, stopping on the first number of the combination. He spun clockwise to the next number, counterclockwise again to the final number, then returned the dial to zero.

His hand hesitated as he gripped the safe handle, suddenly hoping the safe wouldn’t open, that the Weps had written down a fake combination. As much as he didn’t want to witness the confrontation that would occur if Manning had written down the incorrect combination, the burden would be lifted from his shoulders. Hoping his part in the launch would end right here, he pulled down firmly on the handle. The safe clicked.

And unlocked.

He pulled the door slowly open, and the bright MCC lights illuminated the Tactical Mode Key and Trigger.

Tom reached inside, retrieving the Tactical Mode Key. He inserted it into the Launch Control Panel. Turning it to the Attack position, he closed the electrical circuit between the panel and the submarine’s twenty-four missiles. Reaching into the safe again, he wrapped his fingers around the Trigger, which looked like a pistol minus the barrel, pulling it out of the safe. An electrical cord ran from the Trigger back into the safe, attaching it to the launch control circuitry. The Trigger felt light in his hand, incommensurate with its importance.

In Control, Malone listened carefully as the first order went out over the MCC communication circuit.

“Prepare ONE.”

The indicating light for Missile Tube One’s muzzle hatch turned green. The response echoed from the Missile Compartment, confirming their first missile was ready for launch.

“ONE, ready.”

Tom’s next action was simple — squeeze the Trigger. But Malone knew it was easier said than done. If Tom could stay focused on the individual steps and not think about the totality of his actions, he would be able to squeeze the Trigger. But Malone suspected that not even Tom himself could predict what he would do.

Thirty seconds passed, and the indicating light for Missile Tube One stayed solid red.

A minute passed, and still no green light; no gas generator ignition, no flexing of the ship’s keel as missile ONE left the ship.

Malone hung his head, wondering what he had to do to get his crew to execute the mission they were trained to accomplish.

Tom stood frozen in MCC, his arm extended, the Trigger in his hand. Nearby, the missile techs waited as the young lieutenant struggled to decide if he would follow the Captain’s order, or refuse like the Weps. His hand was ice-cold and his fingers white, as if the Trigger were sucking the heat from his hand. His heart pounded and his breathing turned shallow, and the lights on the Launch Control Panel began spinning. Reaching out with his left hand, he steadied himself on the edge of the fire control console. He felt light-headed, as if he were about to pass out.

As he fought through the nausea, an image of his father appeared. It was the day he graduated from the Naval Academy. His father’s arm was around him, his face beaming with pride. Four years earlier, he’d stood in the hot July heat on the tan bricks outside Bancroft Hall, his right hand raised, repeating the Oath of Office, an oath that echoed in his mind today:

I, Thomas Gerald Wilson, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter. So help me God.

He’d sworn to follow the orders of the president and the officers appointed above him, with the same hand that now held the Trigger. The president had given him an order, reinforced by Malone, and he had an obligation to obey, codified in the solemn oath he’d taken that hot summer day.

Tom’s finger twitched, almost squeezing the Trigger. But a vision of his wife appeared, standing on the pier the day the Kentucky left for patrol, waving to him as the ship headed out to sea. His twin girls slept peacefully in their strollers next to her.

Nancy’s image transformed, her hair turning from blond to black, her skirt growing into a long dark dress, a scarf wrapped around her face. She was no longer his wife but a nameless woman in Tehran, her young children clinging to her legs as she stared upward at hundreds of odd red streaks raining down from the sky. She covered her eyes as a bright white flash lit the horizon, and then her body and those of her children vaporized as the heat and pressure wave from the atomic blast destroyed everything in its path.

Wilson appeared in his mind again, as did Malone, both reminding him sternly of his duty. But then his mom appeared, whispering in his ear, telling him it was time to make a decision. That no one could decide for him.

She was correct, Tom realized. It was time to decide.

MCC slowly stopped spinning, and his nausea faded. The lights on the Launch Control Panel steadied, and the sensation of the Trigger in his hand reminded Tom the crew was at Battle Stations Missile, and the next action was his.

Tom made his decision.

69

For centuries, the captains of sailing ships feared and avoided the Doldrums, the equatorial waters where the winds are light and variable, often absent altogether, stranding ships in the calm waters for days and even weeks without the wind to fill their sails. To the north of the Doldrums lies a region of strong and steady winds that European empires, beginning in the fifteenth century, relied on as they expanded their trade routes. This morning, with the sun shimmering just above the horizon, the air was still on the deck of the Daisan Shinsho-Maru, as the fishing trawler drifted just south of those trade winds, inside the northern edge of the Doldrums.

Michiya Aochi leaned over the edge of the aging trawler as it bobbed in the calm water, grabbing the fishing net in his gloved hands, heaving upward to retrieve the net they had dragged behind the ship throughout the night. As the graying fifty-three-year-old fisherman wiped the sweat from his forehead, he wished the ship’s captain would buy the mechanical winches the newer boats carried, instead of relying on the difficult, but cheap, process of manually hauling the heavy nets and their catch back on deck. Aochi paused to stretch his back, admiring the sunrise; the breaking dawn had painted the cumulus clouds an iridescent pink, orange, and red. Although the radiant sunrise was mesmerizing, it was not long before the scent of saltwater brine and rust from the trawler’s deck drew his attention back to his work.

As Aochi leaned over to grab another handful of fishing net, he looked up, his attention caught by a large cylindrical object with a round nose that emerged from the water a few hundred yards away. It hovered for a second just above the water’s surface, then bright red flames erupted from the bottom of the object. It rose upward, picking up speed as it streaked through the sky, leaving a thick trail of white smoke behind. Aochi strained his neck, following the object until it disappeared into the clouds. A minute later, a second object emerged near where the first had appeared, repeating the strange sequence of events.

70

As the revolver in Hendricks’s hand rose toward Christine’s head, she stepped toward Dave and chopped down with her left hand, blocking him from raising his pistol. Curling the fingers of her right hand into a half fist, she threw her arm forward, focusing the strength of her shoulder and the momentum of her body into a vicious jab to the center of his neck, right below his Adam’s apple.

The attack caught Hendricks by surprise. Her hand connected solidly with his throat, and he staggered backward, gasping for breath, clutching the kitchen island with his left hand to help maintain his balance. Christine stepped forward again, this time grabbing his right wrist with both hands, ducking under his arm while turning in a full circle, twisting his arm up and behind his back. She shoved him forward, slamming his stomach against the kitchen counter, jamming her shoulder into his back, pinning him against the counter as she continued twisting his wrist with both hands. But as she prepared to wrest the pistol from his grip, he let it fall to the floor.

The gun landed near their feet with a heavy thud. Hendricks kicked it away, and it slid across the floor toward the foyer. Hendricks’s gasps began to subside, and she could feel his strength returning. As his wrist twisted back against her grip, Christine gave him one final shove against the counter, then released his wrist and sprinted toward the revolver. Hendricks spun toward her the instant she let go, lashing out with his left arm. He caught her with the back of his hand, striking her on the side of her face. The blow knocked her off balance, and she stumbled against the counter on the other side of the kitchen. Hendricks continued turning toward Christine, smashing his right fist into her face. Christine reeled from the blow, her body bending back over the counter.

He lunged forward, pinning her against the counter with his body, clamping both hands around her neck, his fingers squeezing into her flesh. She tried to breathe, but no air entered or exited her lungs. Hendricks’s hands crushed her larynx shut, his face turning red from the effort. Christine’s arms flailed across the marble countertop, searching desperately for a weapon she could use against him. But in her panic, all she did was knock everything off the counter. The jars of sugar and flour shattered as they hit the floor, ceramic fragments skittering across the tile. The container of spatulas and whisks rolled in a circular pattern, depositing its contents as it spun. The butcher’s block of knives thudded onto the floor.

As Hendricks’s face strained with the effort to squeeze the life out of her, Christine’s eyes went to the butcher’s block. A carving knife had slid out. Step two of her next plan crystallized in her mind, but she first had to address step one: break free of Hendricks’s grip. His body pinned hers against the counter with his legs spread slightly apart, her right leg between them.

Christine jammed her knee upward, smashing into Hendricks’s groin. His knees buckled, his face contorting in pain, and his grip around her neck momentarily relaxed. She thrust her arms up though his, breaking his grip, then she shoved him away and dove for the knife. As she landed on the floor, her right hand curled around the smooth wooden handle. She twisted onto her back, hoping to impale Dave if he jumped on top of her, but she was a second too late. He’d already leapt toward her, and he landed on her before she could place the knife between them. But she still had the knife in her hand, and she swung it toward him before he could grab her arm, embedding it two inches deep into his left shoulder.

Hendricks gave no indication he was in pain. He simply reached over with his right hand and grabbed her wrist before she could remove the knife and stab him where it would do more damage. He pushed her arm back, extracting the knife from his shoulder, the end of the blade dripping blood, then grabbed her wrist with both hands, twisting and bending it backward until she was forced to release the knife.

The blade clattered to the floor.

It appeared she was out of options. He sat atop her, his legs straddling her waist, both hands holding her right wrist, the knife on the floor beside them.

In desperation, she clawed at Hendricks’s face with her left hand, attempting to gouge out his eyes. He grabbed her hand and pushed both of her arms down, pinning her hands to the floor on each side of her head. His face was close to hers, only a foot away, his face red, perspiration on his forehead and cheeks. The position reminded her of the life they once shared, years ago, the emotion and physical sensation just as intense. But love and pleasure had been replaced by hatred and pain.

The pain would not last long, as Hendricks was intent on ending her life. But he’d have to release his grip on her wrist to grab the knife. She focused, concentrating on his weight on top of her, his grip on her wrists, waiting for the slightest indication he was going for the knife. The pressure on her right wrist suddenly eased as he released her hand, but Christine was ready. She grabbed his left wrist before his hand reached the knife.

Hendricks’s hand froze in midair. Staring at her with cold eyes, he pushed his hand toward the knife. He was too strong. His hand inched downward, and his fingers soon touched, then wrapped around the blade handle. After firmly grabbing the knife, he pulled his hand back until it was a foot above her head. Then he rotated the blade until it pointed down, the sharp tip barely three inches from her skin. He overpowered her, driving the knife toward her neck.

Soon it was only two inches away.

Then an inch.

Christine felt the sharp tip against her skin, the pressure increasing as Hendricks drove the blade downward. She could hear her pulse pounding in her ears, feel the warm throbbing of the arteries in her neck against the cool steel of the knife’s blade. The last ten days flashed through her mind; she relived each encounter with Dave, seeing now the indictors of his treason that should have been obvious to her. She wondered if that’s what happened to people when they faced certain death, the life they muddle through becoming clear, if only for an instant.

She couldn’t believe her life was going to end like this, murdered on her kitchen floor by a man she once loved, a man she trusted until a few minutes ago. There was a time she would have given her life for him. But she’d be damned if she’d let him take it now.

Christine wrenched her left hand away from Hendricks’s grip, grabbing his left wrist with both hands. She pushed upward with both arms, and the pressure on her neck eased. She soon saw the tip of the knife as she continued to push Hendricks’s hand up and away from her neck.

His lips twisted into a mocking sneer. “Nicely done, Chris. However, there’s one major flaw in your plan.” He lifted his right hand, no longer occupied with pinning her left hand, and wiggled his fingers. He curled his hand into a fist, then smashed it down into her face.

Her mouth ignited in pain, throbbing with each heartbeat as blood oozed from her lips, split open by his punch. But her attention remained focused on the knife, which had closed half the distance toward her neck as the pain coursed through her body.

He pulled his fist back, then brought it down swiftly again in a crushing blow. Christine’s nose crumpled under the force, blood spewing from her nostrils. Searing pain flashed through her face, turning her vision yellow with pinpricks of light dancing across her eyes. She fought through the pain, focusing again on the knife. She could no longer see the tip of the blade.

But she could feel it.

The tip pressed against her neck again, the blade suddenly dull compared to the sharp pain in her nose and mouth. Hendricks pulled his fist back again, but his hand halted in midair.

“That ought to do it.”

His fist opened, his right hand joining his left around the knife handle.

“Good-bye, Christine.”

He pressed down with both hands, and she felt the knife pierce into her neck. Her arms and shoulders strained, pushing up against his hands, struggling to halt the knife’s descent. Blood from her beaten face seeped into her mouth between clenched teeth. Tears of frustration and anger filled her eyes, rage building inside her as she realized she would soon be dead.

Because she was weak.

Because she was naïve.

Because she was betrayed.

Her rage broke in a torrent of adrenaline, flooding her body with the resolve to survive. She channeled the white-hot anger into her shoulders, her arms, her grip on his wrists.

The knife’s descent halted.

Christine’s neck burned as the tip of the knife wavered, lacerating the edges of the thin cut in her neck. Hendricks’s eyes widened as she found the strength to match his, the insolence to defy him. The dark pupils of his eyes examined her for a moment. Then he grinned, the corners of his mouth curling up into a familiar smile.

He leaned forward, adding his weight to the strength of his arms.

The knife resumed its descent.

Christine strained to repulse the sharp blade slicing deeper into her flesh, pouring every ounce of strength into her burning muscles, her shoulders and arms shaking from the effort.

But he was too strong.

Although she still strained against his hands, her arms stopped trembling, calm replacing the panic that had strangled her thoughts just seconds ago. She had done everything possible to defend herself. At least there was satisfaction in that.

There was nothing more she could do.

She accepted her fate.

Christine closed her eyes as warm blood pooled beneath her head, spreading slowly across the cold stone tile.

71

“Missile launch transients, bearing zero-zero-two!”

The Sonar Supervisor’s report carried across the Collins’s Control Room.

Wilson was standing next to Humphreys behind the combat control consoles; his chest tightened at the words. The hope he had nurtured from the first moments in Stanbury’s office — that he would somehow be able to communicate with the Kentucky and not sink her — had been shattered. Now that she had begun launching, the only way to stop her was to attack.

Humphreys had come to that conclusion as well. He wasted no time.

“Firing Point Procedures, contact Master One, One Tube.”

The fire control electronic technicians complied as they determined the target’s solution. It was an easy task since their target was launching missiles — she was dead in the water. The only unknown parameter was range, and the combat system quickly delivered that information.

Humphreys began to receive the expected reports:

“Ship Control correct,” the Officer of the Watch announced, informing Humphreys the submarine was operating within torpedo launch limits.

“Navigation correct,” the Navigator reported, verifying there were no navigational constraints affecting the torpedo run toward its target.

“Fire Control correct,” the Weapons Officer called out. “Primary weapon ready — One Tube. Secondary weapon — Two Tube.”

The Collins was ready to engage.

Humphreys looked to Wilson for permission to fire on a U.S. submarine.

But Wilson wasn’t ready.

When the Kentucky didn’t acknowledge her Launch Termination Order, he was certain at first it was nothing more than a Radio Room casualty. But his confidence was shaken when Malone departed his moving haven, for reasons still unknown. Even so, every fiber of his being told him Malone and his crew were simply executing launch orders they believed to be valid, and that things were wrong in ways he couldn’t even begin to grasp. Throughout it all, he held on to one firm belief: that he would be able to save his son’s life.

Wilson’s hope they would not have to sink the Kentucky had just been crushed, the same way the submarine’s hull would be crushed by the ocean depth a few minutes after the Collins fired. He had hoped that somehow the father would return home with the Prodigal Son, at which point he would retire. As they closed on the Kentucky, he had measured his love for the Navy, to which he had dedicated thirty years, against his love for his son — and it paled in comparison.

However, as he stood in the Control Room of the Australian submarine, none of that mattered. He had been placed aboard the Collins for a purpose. His personal feelings were not relevant. Humphreys and the other men and women in the quiet Control Room stared at him, waiting for his order. Finally, Wilson decided there was no point in waiting any longer. He spoke firmly, loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Proceed.”

Humphreys turned to his Weapons Officer. “Fire One Tube.”

The electronic technician at the Weapons Control Console pressed the Fire key on the touch plasma display, sending the fire signal down to the Weapon Stowage Compartment, initiating the launch sequence for tube One.

72

“FOUR, away.”

Tom spoke into the microphone in his left hand, the Trigger still in his right. He had squeezed it four times now, each contraction accompanied by the flexing of the submarine’s deck as the missile left the ship. His mind was numb, his actions and reports automated. He felt divorced from his body, no longer controlling the words he said, the muscles he contracted. The horror of what he had done, what he was continuing to do, reflected from dark brown eyes set within a pale white face.

The ship’s deck steadied as the submarine recovered from the launch of missile FOUR, its first-stage engines igniting now, just above the water’s surface. The starboard missile team was now in place at tube Five, the teams in each level working their way down the port and starboard sides of the ship. Tom brought the microphone to his lips again.

“Prepare FIVE.”

Commander Malone stood in front of the Captain’s Indicator Panel in Control, monitoring the status of the launch. He was proud of his crew, executing this difficult task professionally. Yet at the same time, his stomach churned; he could taste the acid in his mouth.

How could they do this?

How could he do this?

As he stood on the hard steel deck of the submarine, his thoughts drifted back to his childhood, when he had knelt in front of the wooden pews in church, thinking about one of the more important axioms he had been taught to believe as a small boy.

Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.

He knew there would be no reconciling what he was doing with the morals that had been ingrained in him as a child. He couldn’t even begin to think of what would soon happen thousands of miles away. But there would be time enough for reflection during the Kentucky’s lonely voyage home, which would begin as soon as she discharged her obligation, and her twenty-one missiles. As Malone’s thoughts returned to the status of the missile launch, the next report came across the ship’s announcing system. But it wasn’t the report he expected from MCC, announcing the launch of missile FIVE.

“Torpedo in the water!”

Malone’s heart leapt to his throat as Sonar’s report echoed across Control.

“Torpedo bearing one-eight-two!”

A red bearing line appeared on the combat control displays, signaling the detection of an incoming torpedo. Where that torpedo had come from was answered by Sonar’s next report.

“Heavyweight torpedo, submarine launched!”

73

Commander Humphreys peered over the Weapons Officer’s shoulder as the Weps called out, “Own ship’s unit has enabled, active pinging. Solution on Master One holding firm.”

Wilson reviewed the solution for the Kentucky, represented by a red half circle on the combat control screen. Their torpedo, a green ∧, was rapidly closing in on the Kentucky. Unfortunately, they’d been forced to fire at long range in an attempt to disrupt additional missile launches, and that would give the Kentucky an opportunity to evade, even starting from dead in the water.

Ideally, Wilson would have preferred to fire a warning shot and call it a day. However, submarine warfare was usually a duel to the death. Now that the Kentucky had been attacked, Malone and his crew would do everything within their ability to sink the Collins, and the Collins had no choice but to do the same.

Only one submarine would survive.

Commander Humphreys intended to ensure that submarine was the Collins.

The first torpedo was on its way. A second torpedo would follow.

“Firing Point Procedures, Two Tube, contact Master One.”

“Secure from strategic launch!”

Malone began issuing orders to his crew, transitioning the ship from its vulnerable strategic launch posture, dead in the water, to a viable submarine killer.

“Helm, ahead flank! Steady course two-seven-zero!”

“Launch countermeasure!”

The submarine’s propeller surged into action, churning the water as it strained to accelerate the Kentucky to maximum speed, and a countermeasure was ejected to maintain the incoming torpedo focused on where the Kentucky had been rather than where it was headed.

“Flood all torpedo tubes. Open muzzle doors, tubes One through Four!”

Returning his attention to the Captain’s Indicator Panel, Malone waited for the red lights to extinguish, signaling the disarming of the gas generators and the closing of the ship’s missile tube hatches. All indications switched back to their normal dark status.

“Conn, Torpedo Room. Tubes flooded down, muzzle doors open.”

The Kentucky had completed her transition — her missile hatches were shut and torpedo tube doors open. She was ready to fight back.

“Rapid counterfire! Bearing one-eight-two, tube Two!”

The Kentucky had no solution on the target — only the bearing of the incoming torpedo. But Malone couldn’t wait to gain the target on sonar and for the submarine’s combat control algorithms to calculate the contact’s solution. He needed to shoot now and would settle for a shot back down the bearing of the torpedo.

“Solution ready!” The XO verified the correct bearing had been assigned to the torpedo.

“Weapon ready!” the Weapons Control Coordinator called out.

“Ship ready!” the Navigator announced.

“Shoot!” Malone ordered.

Malone listened to the whirr of the submarine’s torpedo ejection pump and the characteristic sound of the four-thousand-pound torpedo being ejected from the submarine’s torpedo tube, accelerating from rest to thirty knots in less than a second.

Inside Sonar, Petty Officer DelGreco and the other sonar techs relayed orders and reports between them, simultaneously attempting to lock on to the threat submarine’s sonar signature, track its incoming torpedo, and monitor the status of their outgoing unit. Sonar referred to their torpedo as “own ship’s unit” so their reports wouldn’t be confused with information about an incoming torpedo.

“Own ship’s unit is in the water, running normally.”

“Fuel crossover achieved.”

“Turning to preset gyro course.”

“Shifting to medium speed.”

The Kentucky’s torpedo turned to the ordered bearing and began the search for its target. But while they held the outgoing and incoming torpedoes, they had not yet detected another submarine.

“Hold no contacts.”

Either the threat submarine was far away or a quiet contact. Or both.

As the Kentucky increased speed to evade the incoming torpedo, Malone knew he’d soon render his sonar systems useless, blinded by the submarine’s turbulent passage through the water, unable to detect the enemy and any additional torpedo launches. But worrying about subsequent launches would have to wait. The Kentucky had to survive the first incoming torpedo before she could concern herself with another. Malone focused his attention on the announcements from Sonar, reporting the bearing of the torpedo every ten seconds.

“Torpedo bears one-eight-zero, drawing aft.”

Good.

The torpedo hadn’t locked on to the Kentucky yet and was still headed toward the submarine’s original position. The question was, Would the torpedo close to within detection range before the Kentucky vacated the area?

“Passing twenty knots,” the Helm reported. “Steady course two-seven-zero.”

Malone needed to worry not only about how far away the torpedo was but also at what depth it was searching. They had been launching their missiles when they’d been fired at, so best bet was that the torpedo was searching for them shallow, at the same depth they were currently at. That was something Malone needed to change.

“Dive, make your depth eight hundred feet.”

The Kentucky’s deck tilted downward.

“Two Tube presets matched. Weapon ready!” the Collins’s Weapons Officer reported.

“Ship Control correct!”

“Navigation correct!”

“Fire Control correct!”

“Fire Two Tube!” Humphreys ordered his second torpedo into the water.

Wilson’s ears popped as the submarine impulsed the torpedo from the tube, then rapidly vented its impulse tanks, refilling them to supply the water for the next shot. He listened to Sonar’s reports as they scrutinized their second torpedo, verifying it achieved its milestones.

“Own ship’s unit in the water, running normally.”

“Fuel crossover achieved.”

“Turning to preset gyro course at high speed.”

Wilson watched the combat control screens update, and a second green ∧ appeared near the Collins, speeding toward the static red diamond. But the Collins needed to obtain a new bearing on the Kentucky, lost once the missile launch had been terminated and the transients had ended. Sending the second torpedo right down the trail of the first would do no good. He needed to know where to steer it.

“Torpedo in the water, bearing three-five-nine!” Sonar’s report of the incoming torpedo blasted across the 27-MC in Control.

“Helm, left full rudder,” Humphreys called out, “steady course three-zero-zero.”

Wilson watched the Helm rotate the rudder to left full, turning the Collins out of harm’s way. The incoming torpedo would now pass safely behind them. The Kentucky had counterfired, hoping to distract the Collins, or even get a lucky hit.

Excellent.

The Collins’s first torpedo had been fired at the Kentucky’s original solution, with the target bearing 002. Her bearing was now 359. The Kentucky was headed west.

Wilson turned to the Weapons Officer. “Report wire continuity.”

“We have the wire to both weapons.”

The first torpedo continued north, toward the Kentucky’s original position. Wilson decided to wait on the first fired unit. But he had something special in mind for the second torpedo.

He turned to Humphreys. “Second fired unit — recommend a left twenty-degree steer, slow to medium speed and pre-enable the weapon.”

A confused expression clouded Humphreys’s face as he pondered Wilson’s last recommendation. He wondered why Wilson had requested he turn off the torpedo’s sonar. But he soon nodded his understanding. The Collins was engaging the Kentucky with inferior weapons — Mod 4 versus Mod 6—as well as inferior submarine speed. Their normal advantage — stealth — had been dealt away by shooting at long range, giving their opponent sufficient warning to evade. Their only hope in this engagement was superior tactics. Thankfully, there was no one more experienced than Wilson.

Humphreys turned to his Weapons Officer. “Insert a left twenty-degree steer, change speed to medium, pre-enable second fired unit.”

The Weapons Officer raised an eyebrow as he repeated the order, then directed one of the fire control electronic technicians to send the three commands.

Wilson studied the contact summary display, ensuring the second unit accepted the new orders, verified with an abrupt veer to the left. The Kentucky’s solution had been updated, indicating a western track, flank speed, and that the second fired unit had been vectored to the left in an attempt to intercept the Kentucky as it evaded the Collins’s first torpedo. After reviewing the updated solution, he was confident of the Kentucky’s evasion course and speed.

Depth was another matter.

The Kentucky had been shallow for its strategic launch. But where had she gone, now that she was evading? Had she done the obvious and gone deep? Or had she stayed shallow in an attempt to fool the Collins? Or perhaps she was deep, since staying shallow to fool the Collins was really the obvious response. The debate was an endless circle. Wilson decided to go with what a submarine captain would instinctively decide in the heat of battle. “Recommend new search depth change, second fired unit.”

Humphreys nodded for the Weapons Officer to accept Wilson’s recommendation.

The Weapons Officer looked up, awaiting Wilson’s order.

“Set search depth to eight hundred feet.”

Wilson retreated to the aft of Control, preparing for the long wait before the opposing torpedoes reached their destination. Unlike in World War II movies, where the submarine fired its torpedo and the enemy ship was sunk in the next scene, modern submarine combat took time. In many scenarios it could take hours to generate a target solution accurate enough to fire on, and firing ranges were usually measured in miles, not yards.

Both of the Collins’s torpedoes had been fired from long range. As Wilson watched their torpedoes advance across the combat control display, he did the calculations in his head. Even with the first torpedo traveling at high speed, it would be more than twenty minutes before it caught up to the Kentucky. And that’s when the combat would really begin.

Until then, he would wait.

74

As the USS Kentucky reacted to the incoming torpedo, securing from their missile launch and fleeing for their lives, Christine struggled for hers on the cold stone floor of her kitchen. With her strength fading as she strained against her ex-husband’s hands, her eyes squeezed shut from the effort, her other senses seemed somehow heightened. A light rain had started falling and she could hear the raindrops pattering softly against the windowpanes. There was the creak of a nearby door and the scrape of metal against stone. The footsteps of passing pedestrians were impossibly loud, almost as if someone were walking across the floor toward her.

“Drop the knife.”

The new voice was male and familiar, but she couldn’t place it. The pressure against her hands suddenly eased, and the sharp pain in her neck faded to a dull throb.

Christine opened her eyes.

Hardison stood above her, the Smith & Wesson Centennial in his hand, pressed against Hendricks’s temple. She realized the sounds she’d heard were her front door opening, Hardison picking up the metal gun from the tile floor, and his footsteps as he approached.

The knife clattered onto the floor next to Christine, the end of the blade covered in blood. Hendricks stood slowly, then leaned against the kitchen counter, looking away. Hardison kept the pistol pointed at Hendricks but he glanced at Christine lying on the floor, concern clear in his eyes.

Christine pressed her hand against her neck, trying to assess the damage. She pulled her hand away, examining the blood on her fingers. She wiped the blood on her blouse, then pressed her fingers against the incision in her neck again. She pulled her hand away slowly. Her fingers were coated in only a thin sheen of blood.

She’d been lucky.

The knife hadn’t sliced through any of her veins or arteries. She winced as she touched her nose, realizing it was broken from the unusual angle. Blood still trickled down the left side of her face, but she could deal with that, as long as her life wasn’t in danger.

“Help me up.” Christine extended her hand toward Hardison, who looked at her incredulously.

“You’re not serious? Stay there until the ambulance gets here.”

“I’m getting up. You can either help me or not.”

Hardison hesitated, then extended a hand, keeping his eyes and gun fixed on Hendricks. He pulled her to her feet, holding on to her until he was sure she was steady.

Christine expected to feel light-headed as she stood but was surprised she felt okay.

No, not okay. Strong, invigorated. She’d been just seconds away from death, but now she had a new lease on life.

She felt exhilarated.

Relieved.

Angry.

She approached the man who’d tried to murder her, stopping an arm’s length away. Curling her right hand into a fist, she punched him in the face with all the force she could muster. Hendricks’s head jolted to the side from the impact. He turned back toward her, blood trickling from split upper and lower lips.

Christine grabbed an ice cube from the freezer and held it against the left side of her nose to stop the bleeding, then turned back toward Hendricks. “Tell me how to disable the missile defense targeting corruption.”

Hendricks glared at her. “I’m afraid my account is password protected.”

“Tell me the password.”

He looked away.

“Tell me the password and how to disable whatever you’ve done, or I swear I’ll put a bullet in your head.”

“You already know the password.” His voice was vacant as he spoke.

“Could you be more specific?”

Hendricks turned back to Christine, his eyes suddenly aware he’d said too much. “That’s all I’m going to tell you.”

“Fine, have it your way,” she said, mimicking the words he’d used when he’d tried to force her into her study. She held her hand out toward Hardison. “Give me the gun.”

Hardison shot a glance at Christine. “No. I’m not going to let you kill him if he doesn’t talk.”

“I don’t have time to argue with you, Kevin. Millions of lives depend on reversing what he’s done, and he’s either going to tell me how to fix it, or die. It’s that simple.”

“It’s not that simple.” Hardison stepped away from Christine, moving to the other side of the kitchen island. He eyed the phone on the counter next to him as he maintained his arm extended, the gun pointed at Hendricks. “I’m going to call the police and get you some medical attention. There’ll be no more talk about killing Hendricks.”

“What the hell, Kevin,” Christine said. “Up to now, you’ve been trying to kill him. Now you want to protect him?”

“I already explained this, Christine. I didn’t try to kill him. I only wanted to silence him, to offer financial incentives to ensure his loyalty. I’ll lower myself to bribery, but not murder. I can’t believe you thought I wanted to kill him.”

“You didn’t arrange for that car that almost ran him over outside Whitlow’s?”

“That was my handiwork,” Hendricks said. “You would’ve been killed, saving me all this trouble, if you hadn’t reacted so quickly.”

“The car was aiming for me?”

“Right at you. I had you pinned between me and my car, but you jumped out of the way just in time. And you thought Hardison was trying to kill me. You’re so blind, Chris.”

Christine pursed her lips together for a second before replying. “Yes, it appears I haven’t been particularly observant.” Her attention wavered between Hardison and Hendricks, irritated by both her incorrect assessment of Hardison’s intentions, and his refusal to hand her the revolver.

As Hardison reached for the phone, his hand holding the gun suddenly jerked backward. Blood splattered Christine’s face as the revolver fell to the floor, sliding to the back of the kitchen. There was a bullet hole in Hardison’s right wrist. He clutched his wrist with his other hand, crying out in pain as blood oozed between his fingers. Christine reversed the trajectory of Hardison’s gun, following the path toward the front door. A man stood in the foyer pointing a gun at Hardison, a silencer screwed into the barrel.

Christine was not a woman with an extraordinary amount of patience, and by now, she was clear out.

“Who the fuck are you?” she asked.

The man swiveled his gun toward her.

“It’s about time you got here,” Hendricks said as he walked past Christine. “It seems I always have to take matters into my own hands, waiting for the professional help to arrive.” He retrieved the gun from the floor, then stopped beside Christine. “If my friend had arrived on time”—he paused, his eyes probing hers—“it would have been much easier on you.” He looked across the kitchen. “And if you hadn’t stumbled in here, Kevin…”

Hendricks addressed the man at the front door. “Kill them. I need to clean up and get back to the Pentagon. Make sure nothing goes wrong.”

“There’s been a change in plans,” the man said, his pistol still aimed at Christine.

Christine wondered who the man was. A professional, from the look of him, someone she and Hardison had no chance of outwitting or overpowering. As she prepared to take a bullet from the man across the room, cold water trickled down the side of her face, and she realized she still held the ice cube against her nose to stop the bleeding.

What’s the point?

She tossed the ice cube across the kitchen toward the sink and heard the distinctive whisper of a silencer as the ice left her hand. The ice cube seemed to float in midair, arching gracefully toward the sink in slow motion until it hit the stainless-steel basin with a sharp, high-pitched tink.

Christine didn’t feel the bullet enter her body. She waited for the pain to materialize, spreading through her body like a crack spidering across a broken window. She waited for her strength to fade, for her knees to buckle, for her body to crumple to the ground.

But nothing happened. She hadn’t been shot.

Christine released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She looked at the man. A wisp of smoke drifted up from the end of the pistol, confirming the gun had been fired. But where had the bullet gone? Looking closer, she noticed the man’s aim was slightly off. The gun wasn’t pointed at her. It was pointed at—

Her head spun toward Hendricks. He was standing next to her, his eyes wide, a thin stream of blood trickling down from a hole in the center of his forehead. His knees gave way as he crumpled to the floor at Christine’s feet.

The man pointed his gun back at Christine. “As I said, there’s been a change in plans. You will proceed to the Pentagon and do what you can to destroy the missiles if they are launched.” He reached into his coat pocket and extracted a folded piece of paper. “I don’t know the password to Hendricks’s computer, but if you can get in, this is the name of the program and the cancellation code that will disable the virus corrupting the targeting information.”

He placed the paper on the foyer table next to the front door.

“I’ve done you a favor. Now I expect one in return. Forget what I look like. If I find out my description has been provided to anyone or entered into any database, I’ll kill both of you. Do you understand?”

Christine nodded, and the man looked expectantly at Hardison.

“Yes,” Hardison said, pain evident in the tightness of his voice.

The man holstered the gun under his coat and left.

Christine rushed over to Hardison and examined his hand. The man had put a bullet right through the center of his wrist, and it was still bleeding profusely. She pulled the tie from his neck and tied it tightly around his wrist, then picked up the phone and dialed 911.

Hardison slumped to the floor, resting his back against the kitchen cabinets, and she knelt down with him. “Help is on its way. I have to go to the Pentagon.”

“Go,” Hardison said. “I’ll be all right. I’ll wait for the authorities and clean up your mess. As usual.” He forced a smile.

Christine squeezed his shoulder, then retrieved Hendricks’s CAC ID card from his wallet and dashed to the front door, grabbing the piece of paper from the foyer table on her way out.

75

Christine burst into the Current Action Center, almost tripping over Captain Brackman, who opened the door. As the watchstanders turned toward the commotion, shocked expressions cascaded across their faces. She’d received a similar response at the entrance to the Pentagon; her face and neck were coated with dried blood and her blouse smeared with red stains. The entire left side of her face was swollen and her nose was crooked, her lips split open.

Brackman stepped back. “What the hell happened to you?”

“It’s not important.” Christine’s eyes went to the electronic map at the front of the CAC. Four red lines arched up from the Pacific Ocean, slowly diverging as they headed west.

“Four missiles were launched,” Brackman announced. “We don’t know why the Kentucky stopped. But we’ve been unable to intercept the missiles for some reason.”

“The targeting data is corrupted.”

Brackman’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know that?”

“How I know doesn’t matter. What matters is that I can fix it. I need to access Dave Hendricks’s computer account.” Without waiting for permission, Christine sprinted along the top tier of the CAC into Hendricks’s office. Stopping behind her ex-husband’s desk, she hit the space bar on his computer keyboard, bringing the monitor to life. As Brackman stopped behind her, she slid Hendricks’s CAC ID card into the computer slot. The standard password window appeared in the center of the screen, awaiting the six-character pass code required to gain access.

During her short trip from Clarendon to the Pentagon, Christine had mulled over the possibilities, and was almost positive she knew Dave’s pass code. When forced to choose a six-character code, he had always used his birthday. She tried to think of alternate six-digit codes but came up empty.

It was his birthday.

He had better not have changed it, or she was gonna kill him.

She typed in the six digits, then pressed Enter.

Christine held her breath as the screen stared back at her, giving no indication the entry was correct.

Then the screen cleared.

She released her breath and prepared to wait for the start-up scripts to run, but the computer screen turned a solid blue instead, with one word across the screen in large white letters:

This must be the extra security program Dave was talking about. He said she knew the password. Perhaps it was the one they had used on their computer network at home when they were married. Closing her eyes, she pictured him sitting at their desk, typing in the password, one letter at a time.

The password sprang into her mind.

Hendricks had graduated from Clemson, and many of his passwords were related to his alma mater. She typed TIGERS, then hit Enter. The monitor responded instantly:

Christine’s heart sank. What could it be? As she scanned the pictures on Dave’s desk, searching for a clue, her eyes halted on the framed photo of them on their wedding day. Could that be it? Their wedding date? She had to admit she’d used it as a password on several of her Internet accounts.

She typed the date into the computer, then hit Enter. The computer responded:

Christine’s mind spun. What password was so obvious she would know it? She’d have to go back to the day they met, searching for that special event, that special day, that special—

Weekend!

That was it! The first weekend of their honeymoon in Rome, when they had been forced to spend the first two days in that fleabag hotel. A weekend Dave said he would never forget. A weekend at—

The Esplanade!

Christine hesitated, searching through her memories a moment more. But there was no other obvious choice. She flexed her hand, then typed in the name of the hotel. The computer cursor blinked at her, waiting for her to hit Enter. If she was wrong, she would be forced to watch the destruction of Iran from video feeds into the Current Action Center, the might of the entire U.S. military overwhelmed by a single ballistic missile submarine.

She pressed the Enter key firmly.

The cursor blinked at her, still sitting after the last character of the password.

Then the blue background disappeared and messages appeared on the monitor, informing her the computer was running start-up scripts and loading Hendricks’s account profile.

Christine breathed a sigh of relief. After the desktop appeared, she selected the Search function, typing in the name of the virus. The hourglass spun for a few seconds, then displayed the program, buried in one of Hendricks’s personal folders. She launched the program, then typed in the code the man had given her. One word appeared on the screen, followed by a Yes or No option for the reply:

She clicked Yes, and the question disappeared, leaving only the computer desktop.

A moment later, the workstations throughout the Current Action Center updated with new targeting information. Seconds later, SM-3 missiles from cruisers in the Gulf streaked up toward their targets, followed by four THAAD missiles from their battery in Afghanistan.

Christine followed Brackman, stopping behind the Watch Captain’s console as the missiles closed on their targets.

“This had better work,” Brackman said softly. “We’re almost out of missiles. These are the last four THAADs and we have only one cruiser left with SM-3s.”

As Christine stared at the display, the first SM-3 closed on the Kentucky’s first missile. The green trace representing the SM-3 intersected with the red trace representing the Kentucky’s missile; the two traces kept on going.

“We missed,” Brackman said quietly.

The Watch Captain’s hands moved quickly across his panel. There was another SM-3 following behind, and it was reassigned. Christine’s stomach knotted as the second SM-3 intersected the Kentucky’s missile, but this time the red and green traces terminated.

Cheers erupted in the Current Action Center.

The Kentucky’s first missile had been destroyed.

But there were three more to go.

Christine turned her attention to the next SM-3, closing on the Kentucky’s second missile. She followed the green trace until it intersected the red one. Both terminated.

The second missile was destroyed.

She focused on the remaining two missiles. Four SM-3s were headed toward the third missile, while four THAADs had been assigned the task of eliminating the fourth missile. She glanced at the Watch Captain’s workstation, expecting to see only the two remaining missiles. But there were now a dozen contacts. The first two missiles had broken up into ten pieces, making the task for the remaining SM-3s and THAADs even tougher.

The first SM-3 closed on the third missile, in the middle of the debris field. The red and green traces marched slowly toward each other. Then kept on going.

Christine watched the next SM-3. It missed too.

The third SM-3 closed on the Kentucky’s missile. The red and green traces intersected, then terminated.

The third missile had been destroyed.

Only one missile continued its descent.

76

Seven hundred miles above earth, the Kentucky’s fourth missile, officially referred to by the Kentucky’s crew as missile FOUR, streaked through the stratosphere toward its programmed targets. But missile FOUR had an unofficial name as well. Trident missiles were stored in the submarine’s missile tubes for years between depot overhauls, and missile technicians occasionally performed minor maintenance, entering the missile via an access panel in its side. When entering each new missile for the first time after it rolled off the assembly line, one of the missile techs would stop before exiting, inscribing the missile’s unofficial name on the inside of the graphite epoxy shell of the missile’s third stage. Inside missile FOUR, written in indelible black marker, was its name, along with a message for the recipients of its warheads:

Pray not for Redemption.

Redemption reached the apex of its flight path, arching downward on its return to earth. A portal opened in its side, exposing a camera that peered into the heavens.

Click.

An image of the stars was compared to the missile’s navigation memory, and a second later, its third-stage engines fired silently in the darkness, rolling the missile to starboard and gently increasing the angle of its downward trajectory. The third-stage engines fired again, halting the missile’s roll and pitch at the desired angles.

Click.

Redemption took a second star fix, verifying its flight path had been properly adjusted so that all eight of its warheads, when released, would hit their targets precisely.

The four restraining clamps around warhead One retracted, followed by a brief pulse of the missile’s third-stage engines. Warhead One separated from Redemption, beginning its lonely journey toward its aim point. The clamps around warhead Two retracted, and the ritual repeated itself seven more times, as Redemption released all eight of its warheads flawlessly, exactly as programmed.

Four THAAD missiles streaked up through the atmosphere, the first three missing the small warheads and missile FOUR, distracted by the debris from missile THREE. But the last THAAD homed on the desired target, slamming into missile FOUR, breaking it into pieces.

The THAAD missile had done its job.

Only a minute too late.

77

Looking up at the display at the front of the Current Action Center, Christine had watched the SM-3s destroy the first three missiles, her relief turning to dismay as eight red traces branched out from the fourth missile. Their task was now impossible, as the eight warheads had blended in with the surrounding debris; a total of twenty-three traces streaked downward. The icons representing their missile defense platforms blinked yellow, indicating they were out of weapons; all except the USS Lake Erie, which still glowed a steady green. But no missiles streaked upward.

“The Lake Erie is paralyzed,” the Watch Captain announced, looking first at Brackman, then at Christine. “Her Aegis fire control system can’t determine which of the targets are the warheads, and they don’t have enough missiles to target each bogey.”

“If their fire control system can’t sort out the contacts,” Christine replied, “you’re going to have to.”

There was a slight hesitation. “And how do I do that?” the Watch Captain asked.

“Figure it out,” Christine answered.

The Watch Captain stared at Christine for a moment, then turned back toward his screen. He wiped his palms on his thighs, then squinted at his display. “There has to be something about the eight warheads that distinguishes them from the debris,” he said, talking more to himself than to Christine.

As Christine and Brackman exchanged worried glances, the Watch Captain picked up an erasable marker and began scribbling information on the Plexiglas next to his workstation. He cycled through the twenty-three targets, annotating information in several columns, then paused to examine the data, placing an asterisk next to one of the target numbers, and then another. He put down the marker, examining the data in front of him.

There were eight asterisks.

“That’s the best I can do,” he said, looking up at Christine. “These eight contacts are following the same trajectory, give or take a fraction of a degree. My best guess is these are the warheads.”

There was no way to tell if the Watch Captain had determined the correct targets, but there was no time to debate the issue. “Order the Lake Erie to engage the tracks you’ve identified.”

He typed several commands into his workstation, and all but eight tracks on the display in front of them disappeared. A moment later, the Watch Captain replied, “The Lake Erie is engaging.”

Christine’s eyes lifted up to the main display as a green trace appeared, arching up from the cruiser. Ten seconds later, a second green trace appeared, followed by six more, each fired ten seconds apart, until there were eight tracks curving toward the descending red targets. After the eighth green trace appeared, the Lake Erie’s icon switched from green to yellow. It didn’t take long for Christine to do the math: the Lake Erie had launched only eight SM-3s against eight warheads. Every SM-3 had to hit its target.

The seconds ground by slowly, until the first green trace finally intersected a red one. No one spoke as the tracking systems updated, and Christine’s stomach tightened as she waited. Then the leading red trace, along with the first green one, terminated where they had intersected.

The first warhead had been destroyed.

Several watchstanders commented to each other quietly, their attention focused on the remaining threats. One by one, each SM-3 intercepted its target until only one warhead and one SM-3 remained. Christine held her breath as the last of the eight SM-3 missiles intercepted the red trace. But unlike the seven previous intercepts, this time the red and green traces continued.

“We missed,” the Watch Captain announced. He looked up, defeat on his face. “All platforms report zero assets remaining.”

The map on the display zoomed in. The warhead was headed toward Tehran. A city with sixteen million people.

Christine’s heart sank. “There has to be something else we can do.”

A dour expression filled the captain’s face. “I’m afraid not,” he replied. “We have no more antiballistic missiles in the region.”

There was something about the Watch Captain’s last statement that caught Christine’s attention. There were no more antiballistic missiles in the region.

But the cruisers in the Gulf were still heavily armed, and perhaps they carried another weapon they could use against the last warhead. Her mind reached back to her days as a staffer for the Senate Armed Services Committee, being briefed on the new SM-3 missile. It had been developed from a weapon system with a proven track record, modified to give the new missile the extra boost to reach high into the stratosphere. But they didn’t need to reach the stratosphere. The last warhead was only minutes above Tehran, and maybe the original weapon system the SM-3 was developed from would suffice. Searching through her memory, she finally located its name.

“Do any of the cruisers in the Gulf carry the SM-2?”

A perplexed expression spread across the Watch Captain’s face. “Yes, every cruiser carries the SM-2.” His eyes lit up as he continued, “for defense against incoming missiles fired from aircraft and surface ships.” But then concern clouded his face again. “Unfortunately, they don’t have the legs of the SM-3. They’re much shorter-range missiles.”

“See if any of the cruisers are within range.”

The officer turned back to his workstation, quickly pulsing the system for the requested data. “The Lake Erie is barely within range.”

“Order her to engage the last warhead with an SM-2.”

The Watch Captain tapped a series of touch screen commands. “Order sent and acknowledged.”

Christine looked up at a red digital clock on the top right corner of the Current Action Center display, rapidly counting down the time to warhead detonation.

3 minutes remaining

A few seconds later, a blue trace appeared next to the Lake Erie’s icon, heading toward the lone remaining warhead. The Watch captain pressed a control at his workstation, and the map of the Middle East zoomed in until only Tehran and its surrounding suburbs filled the screen.

2 minutes remaining

The red trace from the last warhead continued downward, only inches away from its detonation point above the center of Tehran, while the blue trace representing the SM-2 missile streaked across from the side of the screen.

1 minute remaining

If they missed, the last warhead would detonate over Tehran, and a 500-million-degree inferno would vaporize the center of the city and ignite everything within miles, while the shock wave raced outward at the speed of sound, leveling everything in its path. Tehran would become a radioactive wasteland uninhabitable for ten thousand years. The only chance of preventing the holocaust lay with the Lake Erie’s SM-2 missile.

The clock reached zero.

The blue and red traces intersected, then started blinking.

“What happened?” Christine asked.

“We’ve lost the link to our satellite trackers,” the captain replied. “We’ll have to rely on data from the Lake Erie’s fire control system. We’re attempting to contact her now.”

The Watch Captain tapped another control on his monitor, energizing the Current Action Center speakers. Random static was interrupted periodically by the CAC requests for information.

“Lake Erie, this is the National Military Command Center. Report status of intercepting the last warhead.”

Each request was met with static. Christine wondered if the warhead had detonated, destroying their tracking and communication satellites with the electromagnetic pulse. But then the repeated queries were finally answered …

“This is USS Lake Erie. We have confirmation the last warhead has been destroyed.”

Cheers erupted, watchstanders eagerly shaking hands and slapping each other on the back. Brackman stepped toward Christine, pulling her body close against him, then planted a kiss on her lips, one that lingered too long for a simple congratulation.

Pain sliced across Christine’s mouth as his kiss split open her cut lip.

Brackman pulled away, a shocked expression on his face. “Sorry,” he said sheepishly.

Christine said nothing, simultaneously relieved they had averted disaster and surprised by Brackman’s response. Or was she reading too much into it?

She turned back to the screen as it zoomed out to a view stretching from the Middle East to the central Pacific Ocean. The red traces representing the Kentucky’s missiles and warheads began to fade, disappearing a few seconds later.

Why had the Kentucky stopped launching?

Had the Collins sunk the ballistic missile submarine, or simply scared it away? If the Kentucky survived, she would launch again, and the nightmare would be repeated. Only this time it would be worse; their antiballistic missiles were expended and they had nothing left to defend against the submarine’s remaining twenty missiles.

The red symbol representing the Kentucky repositioned, updated by satellites that had detected the submarine’s missile launch, placing its estimated position directly on top of the blue symbol representing the Collins. The diesel submarine had indeed found the Kentucky, forcing her to terminate her launch.

As Christine stared at the two symbols, one on top of the other, she knew the two submarines were engaged in a duel to the death, and that only one would return home.

78

“Conn, Sonar. Incoming torpedo is approaching our second countermeasure.”

Leaning against the Fusion Plot, Malone studied the track of the incoming torpedo, which had circled their first countermeasure before continuing on, forcing the Kentucky to launch a second one. His assessment the torpedo had been launched from long range had been correct. It was launched over thirty minutes ago, giving the Kentucky time to move away before the torpedo could arrive and lock on to them. Where the torpedo had come from, however, remained a mystery.

Who had launched it? And why? Then Malone received the information that answered the first question.

“Conn, Sonar. Incoming torpedo is a Mark 48. Mod 4!”

Malone froze.

Impossible!

They had been fired on by an Australian submarine!

There were only three countries that carried the MK 48 Mod 4 Torpedo in their arsenal — Australia, Canada, and the Netherlands. This far out in the Pacific meant an Australian submarine had attacked them.

He called into the overhead mike. “Sonar, Conn. Are you positive? A Mark 48 Mod 4?”

“Conn, Sonar,” the Sonar Supervisor replied. “No doubt about it, sir.”

Malone was temporarily at a loss for words as he analyzed the situation. Although he now knew who had attacked them, the why was unknown. Unfortunately, he had scant time to ponder the answer. He would have to wait until the Kentucky was out of harm’s way. His attention returned to the torpedo chasing them as the Sonar Supervisor’s voice carried across Control.

“Torpedo is slowing. Entering reattack pattern around our second countermeasure.”

Malone peered intently at the geographic display, which showed a red ∧ circling the blinking white dot representing their torpedo decoy. By the time the torpedo figured things out, hopefully the Kentucky would be long gone.

“Torpedo bearings continue to draw aft. Torpedo is circling ship’s countermeasure.”

Exactly as planned.

Now they could slow and begin to prosecute the offending submarine. But Malone’s relief was cut short by a new report from Sonar.

“Upshift in Doppler. Torpedo is turning toward us!”

The torpedo had either figured out their countermeasure was a decoy and had picked up the Kentucky speeding away, or had been wire-guided toward them. Malone marked off the distance between the countermeasure and the Kentucky’s current position.

Four thousand yards.

It was directly behind the Kentucky, and there was no way they could outrun it. The best they could do was dump another countermeasure behind them and hope the torpedo would be distracted long enough for the Kentucky to slip away. But as they launched another decoy, Malone knew the MK 48 would not be fooled for long.

As expected, the MK 48 torpedo barely sniffed the new countermeasure, which was exactly like the last two it had encountered. Its search algorithms then identified a possible submarine directly ahead. Another ping verified it, and the torpedo shortened its ping interval and increased speed to maximum.

The operators in Kentucky’s Sonar Room observed the characteristic change in the torpedo’s behavior and reported it. “Torpedo is increasing speed and range gating!” Sonar followed up a second later.

“Torpedo is homing! One thousand yards and closing!”

Silence gripped Control, broken periodically by Sonar’s reports of the torpedo’s closure in two-hundred-yard increments. Malone noted the time of the initial torpedo report, then glanced at the time displayed on the nearest combat control console. He ran the calculations through his head, trying to determine the proper course of action.

“Eight hundred yards!”

He struggled with the decision to Emergency Blow, filling the water around them with a massive burst of air. The air pockets would distort the torpedo’s sonar pings, blinding it momentarily while the Kentucky ascended rapidly upward, hopefully out of the torpedo’s sonar range before the torpedo passed through the bubbles and regained contact.

“Six hundred yards!”

But if the Kentucky blew, they’d end up on the surface, vulnerable and noisy, unable to submerge again immediately as they waited for the main ballast tanks to vent the air trapping the submarine on the surface. They’d be a sitting duck.

“Four hundred yards!”

But if they maintained course, the torpedo would eventually close on the Kentucky, blasting a hole into the Engine Room. Only one course of action held any promise. But what if he was wrong? He couldn’t debate it further. He had run out of time.

Malone made his decision, calling out calmly, “Steady as she goes.”

“Two hundred yards!”

The Diving Officer turned, looking to the Captain for direction.

“One hundred yards!”

But then Sonar followed up with the report Malone had been hoping for.

“Torpedo is slowing!”

A few seconds later, Sonar confirmed Malone’s calculations.

“Torpedo has shut down!”

The torpedo had been fired from long range, and had closed on their countermeasures before turning toward the Kentucky. Heavyweight torpedoes carried a lot of fuel and could chase their target across long distances. But not far enough. By the narrowest of margins, the torpedo had exhausted its fuel before reaching its target. Now the Kentucky could fight back. “Helm, ahead two-thirds.”

The Kentucky began to slow, bringing its sonar systems back into play. Now they would find and destroy the submarine that almost sank them.

Wilson examined the display over the Weapon Officer’s shoulder. The green ∧, rapidly closing the red half-circle representing the Kentucky, blinked, then fell behind.

They had sent the first torpedo toward the Kentucky at high speed, not because he wanted it to reach the Kentucky quickly, but because he wanted the Kentucky to hear the torpedo coming and notice the course changes toward them. The purpose of the first torpedo was to keep the Kentucky at ahead flank so it could be tracked on the Collins’s sonar. Like a good bird dog, flushing the quail from heavy cover, the first torpedo’s job was to set up the kill.

The killing would be done by their second torpedo. Wilson had shifted it to medium speed so it would proceed toward their target undetected, and also so it would consume less fuel during the long transit, ensuring it could finish the job once it detected its target. The Collins’s second-fired torpedo still had its sonar turned off, and the Kentucky wouldn’t hear it coming.

Not until it was too late.

The Weapons Officer delivered the first report Wilson anticipated. “First-fired unit has shut down. Zero percent fuel remaining.”

Wilson examined the sonar display on the port side of Control. The bright white trace representing the Kentucky slowly dimmed, then disappeared.

Sonar announced, “Master One has slowed. Loss of Master One.”

That was the other report he expected. Wilson responded instantly, shouting to Humphreys. “Enable second-fired unit. Now!”

“Torpedo in the water! Bearing one-six-zero! Range, one thousand yards!”

Malone spun toward the Conn, the bright white trace burning into the sonar display.

The Kentucky’s adversary was extremely good. He had placed his second-fired unit perfectly, waiting until the torpedo was practically on top of them before enabling its sonar.

“Launch countermeasure!” Malone shouted. “Helm, ahead flank, right full rudder, steady course zero-nine-zero!”

A torpedo decoy was ejected from the submarine, and Malone reversed course to the east, hoping the torpedo would lock on to the countermeasure before it detected the larger ballistic missile submarine speeding away.

Malone stopped by the geographic display, examining the icon depicting the location of their countermeasure and the red bearing lines of the approaching torpedo. Had they ejected the countermeasure quickly enough, or had the torpedo already locked onto them? Malone listened to the reports from Sonar over the 7-MC.

“Conn, Sonar. Up Doppler on incoming torpedo. Torpedo is turning toward.”

Malone shook his head.

Their countermeasure had failed to distract it.

Before he could formulate his next plan, Sonar followed up.

“Torpedo is increasing speed. Torpedo is homing! Range six hundred yards!”

The torpedo had locked on to them. There was little more he could do now except turn or launch another countermeasure. At this distance, launching another countermeasure would be futile; the torpedo would speed past it before it activated, and turning the ship would fail to shake the nimble MK 48. And unlike the last torpedo, Malone figured this one would close the distance; at six hundred yards and homing, there was no chance they could outrun it.

There was only one option remaining.

“Emergency blow all main ballast tanks! Dive, full rise on the stern and fairwater planes!”

The Kentucky’s Chief of the Watch stood and pulled down on the emergency blow levers. High-pressure air spewed into the submarine’s main ballast tanks, pushing water out through flood grates in the bottom of the submarine. Malone held on to the Conn railing as the ship’s angle reached thirty up, while the other men grabbed onto consoles near their watch stations. The air finally finished pushing the water out of the ballast tanks, then spilled out through grates in the ship’s keel. As the Kentucky sped toward the surface, it left massive air pockets in its wake, exactly as Malone had planned.

As the MK 48 Mod 4 torpedo sped through the Kentucky’s aerated wake, it lost contact with its target. Its search algorithms decided to continue straight ahead, not realizing its target was rising rapidly above. By the time the torpedo emerged on the other side of the turbulent bubble, the Kentucky was behind it. The MK 48 torpedo sped onward, unaware it had just passed a hundred yards beneath its target.

“Torpedo bears three-four-zero!”

As the Kentucky surged toward the surface, Malone examined the torpedo bearing, verifying it had passed underneath the submarine and was now heading away. He now turned his attention to the next critical problem. The Kentucky was heading toward the surface, where she would be trapped and vulnerable.

“Chief of the Watch. Secure the blow! Vent all main ballast tanks!”

The Chief of the Watch complied, shutting the valves from the high-pressure air tanks, stopping the flow of air into the main ballast tanks. He immediately followed by opening the main ballast tank vents, allowing the trapped air to escape. Water began to flood back into the ballast tanks.

Malone checked the ship’s depth on the Ship Control Panel. They were at six hundred feet and rising rapidly. The question was — could they vent the air fast enough and stop their ascent before they reached the surface?

500 feet

With so much air in the ballast tanks, they were extremely buoyant.

400 feet

“Full dive, both planes,” Malone ordered. He directed both the fairwater planes on the submarine’s sail and the stern planes near the rudder to full dive, to help drive the submarine downward.

300 feet

They were beginning to slow their ascent.

200 feet

The Kentucky’s depth began to level off.

100 feet

The submarine’s depth steadied at ninety feet, then began to increase as air continued to vent from the main ballast tanks.

Malone called out, “Helm, ahead two-thirds. Dive, make your depth four hundred feet.”

As the Kentucky slowed from ahead flank, the Diving Officer took control of the planes, and the Kentucky settled out at four hundred feet.

Malone’s adversary was good. Extremely good. One thing he knew for sure was he had better take him out fast. He had no idea how many more torpedoes were incoming or what other tricks he had up his sleeve.

He turned his attention to the Kentucky’s outgoing torpedo, launched almost a half hour ago. He turned to the Weapons Control Coordinator. “What have you got?”

“Own ship’s unit detected a countermeasure and has entered secondary search pattern, but so far hasn’t detected the target. Twenty-one percent fuel remaining.”

Malone examined the sonar displays on the Conn, then spoke loudly so Sonar could hear him over the open mike. “Sonar, we need something to guide own ship’s unit. We don’t need a solid trace, just some indication of where the target is.”

“Conn, Sonar. Aye. We’re looking, sir, but so far we’ve got nothing.”

Malone returned his attention to the Fusion Plot, studying the initial bearing of the first torpedo.

Lieutenant (JG) Carvahlo, manning the Fusion Plot, looked up. “What is it, sir?”

“We’re going to make an educated guess on where the target is. Let’s assume the contact was at twenty thousand yards when it fired. Assuming it’s a diesel, it probably evaded at four knots at that range. At a course of…”

This was the critical part. The bearing was solid. The range was reasonable and good enough since the torpedo sonar could sort out range inaccuracies if you placed it close enough. But if you picked a wrong evasion course, you could end up in left field instead of right. The direction the submarine evaded was critical. And, of course, a complete guess.

“Use an evasion course of … three-zero-zero.”

Carvahlo complied, laying out a course to the northwest.

Looking at the Weapons Console, Malone verified they still had the wire guide to their torpedo. He turned to the Weapons Control Coordinator. “Insert torpedo steer, right one hundred.”

As Wilson examined the sonar displays in Control, the bearings to the Kentucky’s incoming torpedo gradually fell aft. He could tell from the torpedo’s run geometry that it was an MK 48 ADCAP Mod 6, two generations newer, with thirty thousand times more processing power than the Mod 4 torpedoes the Collins carried. Thankfully, it had been fired from long range and the Collins had been able to move out of the torpedo’s sonar range. The only question was — did the Kentucky still have the wire, and would they send a lucky steer to the torpedo?

Not only was the Mod 6 torpedo more sophisticated, it was also significantly faster than the Mod 4. A sophisticated and fast weapon, a slow diesel submarine, and a lucky steer were a deadly combination.

Seemingly in response to Wilson’s thoughts, the Sonar Supervisor called out, “Torpedo is turning toward us. They’ve inserted a steer.”

Humphreys responded immediately, ordering his submarine back toward the west and increasing speed, hoping they could move out of the way fast enough.

“Helm, ahead flank. Left full rudder, steady course two-three-zero.”

Wilson watched tensely as the Mod 6 torpedo closed rapidly on the Collins. The torpedo was charging forward and hadn’t yet detected the diesel submarine, which was angling away on the new course Humphreys ordered. Would the Collins put enough distance between the torpedo as it sped by? The answer became apparent a few seconds later.

“Watch Leader, Sonar. Up Doppler on incoming torpedo. Torpedo is turning toward us!”

Wilson watched the trace stop falling aft, now steady on a constant bearing. The Kentucky’s torpedo had detected them.

“Watch Leader, Sonar. Torpedo is homing. Shifting to high speed!”

“Launch countermeasure!” Humphreys ordered.

The Collins’s crew ejected another decoy into the ocean, placing it between their submarine and the trailing torpedo. But the Mod 6 torpedo had already identified this type of countermeasure as a fake target and it sped past the stationary decoy.

The torpedo calculated the range, course, and speed of its target, shifting its sonar pattern to the highest fidelity mode.

“Watch Leader, Sonar. Torpedo is range gating! Impact in one minute!”

The torpedo’s pings echoed through the Collins’s hull.

“Hard right rudder!” Humphreys ordered. “Steady course north!”

Humphreys kicked the submarine’s stern around hard, completing a 130-degree turn to the north, trying to create a knuckle of turbulent water the torpedo would have to pass through. Hopefully the knuckle would blind the torpedo long enough for the Collins to slip out of its sonar range. If that didn’t work, they would be almost out of options.

The torpedo passed through the knuckle just as the Collins steadied on her new course. Wilson prayed the torpedo bearings would start drawing aft, evidence the torpedo had lost track of the Collins.

The torpedo bearings remained constant.

“Watch Leader, Sonar. Torpedo has turned north, continuing to close. Thirty seconds to impact.”

Humphreys turned his head toward Wilson, then glanced at the emergency blow levers.

They had only one option left.

Wilson nodded.

“Emergency Blow!” Humphreys bellowed. “Full rise all planes!”

The Watch Leader pulled down on the emergency blow levers, and high-pressure air began spilling into the Collins’s main ballast tanks, pushing water out the flood grates. The Collins tilted upward and began shooting toward the surface.

As the HMAS Collins streaked toward the surface, the MK 48 Mod 6 torpedo steadily closed the remaining distance to its target. Torpedo 200348, built, oddly enough, by the Hughes Aircraft Company in its Forest, North Carolina, plant, was a seasoned underwater veteran. It had been shot over a dozen times in an exercise configuration, its warhead temporarily replaced with a Fleet Exercise Section.

However, upon its last return to the Heavyweight torpedo maintenance facility in Pearl Harbor, it received a warshot turnaround, emerging with a warhead in place of an exercise section. Although its body was old, it was durable and dependable, and it had done its job, closing on its target as commanded. The torpedo’s sonar detected a large metal object rising though the myriad of small air bubbles, and the guidance algorithms directed a vertical course change. The tail fins twitched, and the torpedo tilted upward. As Torpedo 200348 closed on its target, its exploder rolled into position.

As the Collins sped toward the ocean’s surface, Wilson studied the torpedo bearings on the display. He didn’t need to hear the Sonar Supervisor’s report to know their Emergency Blow had failed.

“Watch Leader, Sonar. Incoming torpedo is still homing! Impact in ten seconds!”

Humphreys turned to Wilson, standing beside him. “We’re screwed, mate.”

Wilson said nothing, looking at Humphreys with knowing eyes. There was no way to evade the incoming torpedo. In a matter of seconds, the warhead would detonate, blowing a hole in the Collins’s pressure hull. Cold water would flood into the submarine like a geyser due to the intense sea pressure, and the Collins would sink to the bottom of the ocean.

Although his heart went out to Humphreys and the crew of the Collins, Wilson breathed a sigh of relief. The burden he’d dealt with the last few days was lifted from his shoulders, and he was unexpectedly pleased with the outcome. Like on Mount Moriah as Abraham prepared to sacrifice his son Isaac, God had intervened, sparing the life of the son.

But not the father.

The result wasn’t exactly what Wilson had hoped for, but it was something. At least he wouldn’t be responsible for Tom’s death.

Wrapping one arm around the Search periscope, he braced himself for the explosion.

Torpedo 200348 closed the remaining one hundred yards, and its electromagnetic coils detected the large steel object it chased. Once within range, it fired the initiating charge, igniting the six hundred pounds of PBXN-105 explosive in the torpedo’s warhead. The MK 48 torpedo disintegrated as the equivalent of eight hundred pounds of dynamite detonated, splitting open the three-inch-thick steel hull of the Collins like papier-mâché, blowing a gaping hole into the Engine Room.

Wilson’s firm grip wasn’t enough to keep him from being knocked to the deck as the torpedo exploded. He pulled himself to his feet as Humphreys likewise climbed to his. Wilson knew they were in trouble when the Flooding Alarm sounded; in jeopardy when he felt the stern squat down from the added weight of the inrushing ocean; in extremis when the stern planes had to be pushed to full dive in an attempt to keep the submarine’s angle from tilting out of control.

The equipment in the Engine Room began to fail in a crescendo of alarming indications. The lights flickered; Control was momentarily drowned in darkness when the motor generators went off-line, and then emergency lighting energized a second later. But as the submarine surged toward the surface, the Collins received the nail in its coffin.

The Engine Room rang up all stop.

There was no more propulsion, nothing available to drive them upward except for the Emergency Blow that had already done its work. They were almost there; almost to the surface.

Not that it would do them much good.

As the submarine’s speed bled off, Wilson knew they would be able to carry less weight and would begin to sink. Even if they reached the surface, it would be only a few seconds before they submerged beneath the waves again; insufficient time for the hatches to be opened and for any of the crew to escape.

The red numbers on the digital depth meter, which had been changing rapidly as the Collins sped toward the surface, stopped at forty meters. The numbers began changing again, this time in the opposite direction, slowly at first, then increasing speed as the ship passed through one hundred, then two hundred meters. The numbers began changing so quickly that Wilson could estimate the ship’s depth only to the nearest hundred meters, and the Collins soon passed below Test Depth.

As Wilson stared at the digital depth gauge, the numbers stopped changing, and he wondered if the ship’s depth had stabilized. But he soon understood the meaning of the immobile numbers. The submarine hadn’t halted its descent — it had descended beyond the maximum range of its depth gauges; it could no longer report the depths to which the Collins sank. The frozen numbers stared back at him, and he wondered how the ship managed to hold together below Crush Depth.

Looking around Control at the men and women whose lives would soon be extinguished, their faces illuminated by the eerie yellow emergency lighting, Wilson realized it was all his fault. He was the one who had dragged them into this. His thoughts turned to the families who would wait in vain on the pier for the Collins’s return home from her long patrol. They would no longer have the comfort of a husband or wife, mother or father.

As the men and women in Control stared at him, with fear on their faces yet their eyes still harboring a faint glimmer of hope the American captain would somehow save them, it was all too much. Wilson turned his head away, avoiding their gaze. With a flooded Engine Room, their submarine would travel in only one direction.

Down.

There was nothing more he could do.

A loud, wrenching metallic sound tore through the ship, and the stern began to tilt downward. Wilson slid across Control, grabbing onto the Attack periscope as the submarine reached a ninety-degree angle, descending stern first. The hull groaned from the rising sea pressure, and the piping systems in the compartment began to give way, water spraying across Control as the Collins plummeted into the dark ocean depths.

79

The Kentucky shuddered as a shock wave passed by, followed by Sonar’s report. “Explosion in the water, bearing one-eight-four!” Cheers erupted in Control, dying down as Sonar followed up. “Conn, Sonar. Breaking-up noises, bearing one-eight-four.”

Malone didn’t share the enthusiasm as he thought solemnly about the men who would never return from sea. It could just as easily have been them.

There, but for the grace of God, go I.

Nonetheless, he was relieved. They had survived, and now they had to clear the area quickly in case there were other warships or aircraft nearby, which would no doubt converge on the explosion. But first they had to slow from ahead flank, allowing their sonar signature to melt back into the ocean.

“Helm, ahead standard. Left full rudder, steady course two-seven-zero.”

Malone paused, then addressed the watchstanders in the Control Room. “Attention in Control. I intend to clear datum to the west for several hours. Once we’re a safe distance away and have confirmed there are no contacts nearby, we’ll slow and launch our remaining missiles. Carry on.”

The eyes of his men lingered on him for a few seconds before they returned their attention to their workstations.

Malone stepped down from the Conn as the Kentucky traversed quietly away from the explosion reverberating through the ocean depths.

80

At the small table in Hendricks’s office, Christine sat alone with her thoughts. She had ignored Brackman’s advice to seek medical attention, determined to remain at the Current Action Center until they received word on the Kentucky’s and Collins’s fates. Shortly after the Kentucky launched four missiles and her position updated on top of the Collins, SOSUS reported an underwater explosion in the vicinity.

One of the submarines had been sunk.

Which one was unknown. The Collins had not yet radioed in, and with each passing minute, the likelihood the Kentucky had survived grew. The tension was mounting in the Current Action Center, as they had no antiballistic missiles remaining. Their only hope hinged on the Collins.

The door opened and Brackman entered. It was clear from the expression on his face that he’d brought news. Christine rose from her chair as he spoke.

“We’ve picked up a submarine emergency distress beacon in the vicinity of the explosion.”

Christine looked for clues in Brackman’s expression, noting his pale face.

Her words came out slowly. “Which submarine?”

“The emergency beacon is from the Collins.”

A pit formed in her stomach. They had failed.

“Now what?” she asked.

“The Kentucky will clear datum,” Brackman replied, “knowing that others in the area will converge on the explosion and begin their search there. Once she’s safely away, she’ll launch her remaining missiles.”

“How long do we have?”

“No way to know for sure.”

“Is there anything we can do?”

“We’ve already vectored in our P-3Cs and laid an extensive sonobuoy field, but we haven’t picked up anything so far. We’ll keep looking. But now that the Kentucky is in Emerald, free to travel in any direction—”

“I know,” Christine finished the sentence for him. “The odds of finding her are minuscule.” There was an uneasy silence before she continued. “Are you sure there are no more antiballistic missiles in the region?”

“Yes, ma’am. We’re checking with 5th Fleet on the possibility of reloading the cruisers in theater, but from what I know of Trident submarine protocols, even if we have the SM-3 assets and can reload, there’s no way we’ll be ready before the Kentucky resumes launching.”

There was another awkward silence. Finally, Brackman said, “I’m sorry, Christine.” Then he turned and left, closing the door behind him.

Christine approached the window in Hendricks’s office, examining the CAC screen. The Kentucky’s estimated position was a red circle again instead of a teardrop shape, centered at the location of the torpedo explosion. In the center of the circle, the blue icon symbolizing the Collins blinked rapidly for a few seconds, then disappeared. She wondered what the crew on the Collins had thought and felt as the cold water rushed into their submarine, dragging them down into the dark, frigid ocean. She shuddered, hoping they died quickly and painlessly. Then she realized she had done everything possible to ensure the crew on the Kentucky shared that same fate.

Yet the Kentucky had survived — and would soon launch her remaining missiles.

81

One hundred miles north of Enewetak Atoll, a collection of forty coral reef islands surrounding a deep central lagoon, a dark shape drifted up from the ocean depths. The object, lost in the shadows of the early morning light shimmering on the ocean’s surface, rose at a ten-degree angle, its main engines silent, slowing during the ascent until it came to rest several hundred feet below the ocean waves. Valves in the black metal skin of the warship opened and closed as water was sucked into and purged from its internals, keeping the ship steady at launch depth. The towed array, no longer streaming behind the ship, drifted down until it came to a vertical rest, hanging from the submarine like a spider’s thin, silky thread.

After sinking the Collins, Malone continued west for two hours. Finally convinced there was sufficient distance between the submarine and the explosion, the Kentucky had come shallow, its crew manning Battle Stations. The Kentucky had not yet completed its mission; there were still seventeen missiles to be launched.

The Chief of the Watch reported the ship was at Battle Stations Missile, and Malone, standing on the Conn, picked up the 1-MC. “Set condition One-SQ for strategic launch. This is the Commanding Officer. The release of nuclear weapons has been directed.”

The XO spoke into the 21-MC handset, repeating the Captain’s order.

Malone left Control and, after opening the safe in his stateroom, returned a minute later with seventeen keys, each hanging from a green lanyard, which he handed to a missile tech waiting to arm the missile tube gas generators.

A moment later, two junior officers arrived in Control with the CIP key, which they handed over to Malone. He held the key in his hand for a moment before inserting it into the Captain’s Indicator Panel, then flipped up the Permission to Fire toggle switch. The panel activated, the status lights illuminating for Missile Tubes Five through Twenty-Four.

One by one, the missiles were brought online, with the exception of the missiles in tubes Eight, Ten, and Twelve. Malone monitored the progress of the missile gyro spin-up until the indicating lights for seventeen missiles illuminated. The next column of lights toggled from black to red as each missile accepted its target package, carrying the impact coordinates for their warheads. The third column of lights on the Captain’s Indicator Panel turned red as the missile techs in Missile Compartment Lower Level armed the gas generators. One by one, seventeen gas generators were armed.

The USS Kentucky was ready to launch again. All that remained was Malone’s final order. One final command, and seventeen missiles would streak through the atmosphere toward their destination. Malone turned to his phone talker next to him, who would pass the order—You have permission to fire—to MCC.

Standing in MCC, his shoulders sagging, Tom Wilson held the Trigger in his hand, hanging listless by his side. His eyes were blank, a vacant gaze aimed at the Launch Control Panel, awaiting his Captain’s order. Nearby, Petty Officer Tryon, along with the other missile techs, stared at Tom. Tom knew what they were thinking, but didn’t really care. Hours earlier, he had struggled with the launch decision, and it had boiled down to the commitment he made when he took the oath of office, to follow the lawful orders of a superior officer, and in this case, the president of the United States. What he hadn’t bargained on, however, was the personal toll that commitment would take.

The realization that commitment would erase the lives of millions of innocent men, women, and children was something he hadn’t anticipated. From the moment he squeezed the Trigger that first time, he knew he couldn’t live with what he had done. Whether it was one more time or seventeen more times, it didn’t matter.

He would launch the remaining missiles when ordered. He would sort through the rest later.

Malone stood in Control, his hands on each side of the Captain’s Indicator Panel. Next to him, the phone talker waited expectedly for his order to launch.

Malone hesitated.

It didn’t make sense.

An Australian submarine had attacked them. Why? For the last two hours, he had tried to piece together the unusual events of the past ten days, believing this was the key. Why did they attack? Were they trying to prevent them from launching?

Suddenly, the disparate pieces of the puzzle fell into place. Except — they hadn’t received a Launch Termination Order. Why not? Their Radio Room was perfectly operational. Malone shook his head.

It didn’t make sense.

He surveyed the men in Control. His crew was at Battle Stations Missile, and the Kentucky was hovering at launch depth. His phone talker stood next to him, his finger over the button on his mouthpiece, waiting to pass the Launch order.

Malone reviewed the events over the last ten days again. The unexpected Launch order, the strange encounter with the 688s, the mysterious stationary object, the attack by the P-3C, and now the Australian submarine.

It didn’t make sense.

However, their protocols were clear. They would execute their mission unless they received a Launch Termination Order. His hands were tied.

Finally, he made his decision.

He flipped down the Permission to Fire toggle switch.

Looking at the Chief of the Watch, he said, “Secure from Battle Stations Missile.” He turned to the Officer of the Deck. “Make preparations to proceed to periscope depth.”

This situation was beyond unusual.

He would contact COMSUBPAC.

“No close contacts!”

The crew had secured from Battle Stations Missile, and Tom was stationed as Officer of the Deck again. The ascent to periscope depth was uneventful, and as Tom rotated quickly on the periscope, he observed no ships on the horizon. A quick aerial search verified the absence of air contacts, and Tom settled into a low-power search as Malone spoke into the overhead microphone.

“Radio, Conn. Line up for EHF comms. Patch communications to the Conn.”

Radio acknowledged, then reported over the 27-MC a moment later. “Conn, Radio. Request Number One periscope.”

Malone turned to Tom. “Switch periscopes.”

“Switch periscopes, aye.” Tom turned the port periscope until it faced forward, calling out as he reached up and twisted the periscope locking ring, “Lowering Number Two scope.” He stepped to his right. “Raising Number One scope.” The starboard periscope began rising as the port scope settled into its well, and Tom’s eye was soon pressed against the starboard periscope eyepiece, turning slowly clockwise as he continued his search of the horizon.

Tom called out, “Radio, Conn. Number One scope is raised.”

Radio replied a moment later, “Conn, Radio. EHF is lined up to the Conn.”

Malone pulled the red phone from its holster on the Conn, pressing it against his face as he spoke. “COMSUBPAC, this is Kentucky actual. Request to speak to N9, over.”

Malone waited for a response, but there was nothing but silence. He tried again. “COMSUBPAC, this is USS Kentucky’s commanding officer. Request to speak to N9, over.”

Silence again. There was something odd about the silence too. Clean. No static. Just … silence.

Malone glanced at the overhead microphone as he spoke. “Radio, Conn. Are you sure we’re lined up properly? It doesn’t sound like we’re getting through.”

Radio responded a moment later. “Conn, Radio. Everything looks good in here.”

Malone located the Messenger of the Watch, standing on the port side of Control. “Find Chief Davidson and have him report to Control.”

A quick acknowledgment, and the young man was on his way, scouring the ship for the submarine’s Radio Chief. A few minutes later, Chief Davidson arrived in Control.

“Radio problem, Captain?”

“Maybe,” Malone answered. “Can’t get through on EHF comms. And no static either. I need you to check the lineup in Radio.”

“Aye, sir.” Chief Davidson headed into Radio, and a moment later, his voice came across the 27-MC. “Conn, Radio. This is Chief Davidson. I’ve verified the lineup is proper. I’d like you to give it another try.”

Malone pulled the red handset from its holster again. “COMSUBPAC, this is Kentucky actual. Request to speak to N9, over.”

Silence.

Chief Davidson’s voice carried across the 27-MC again. “Conn, Radio. Everything’s working fine on our end. Must be a problem shore-side or with the spot satellite. Perhaps we should try again after we finish launching.”

Malone shook his head, then called out, “Radio, Conn. Line up UHF SATHICOM to the Conn.” He turned to Tom. “We’ll need a multi-function mast.”

“Aye, sir,” Tom replied. “Chief of the Watch. Raise Number Two Multi-Function.”

The Chief of the Watch complied, and the port multi-function antenna was soon raised from the submarine’s sail. A few seconds later, Radio’s report echoed over the 27-MC. “Conn, Radio. UHF SATHICOM is patched to the Conn.”

Malone pressed the handset against his face. “COMSUBPAC, this is Kentucky actual. Request to speak to N9, over.”

Silence. Clean. No static.

Malone’s grip on the handset tightened.

“COMSUBPAC, this is Kentucky actual. Request to speak to N9, over.”

Silence.

Malone slammed the handset back in its holster, then strode into the Radio Room.

Chief Davidson was hunched over one of the radio consoles with the first class leading petty officer, on watch with Petty Officer Greene, manning the other console. Davidson turned as Malone entered.

Stopping next to one of the large gray communication cabinets, Malone surveyed the racks of complex gear. “Chief, there’s no way both EHF and UHF systems are down. And something tells me there’s a Launch Termination Order we haven’t received. That means there’s something’s wrong with our Radio Room. Tear this place apart and figure it out.”

“Sir,” Davidson replied, “our Radio Room is fully operational. We’re copying the broadcast every time we go to PD.”

“Don’t argue with me. Run a complete set of diagnostics. There’s something squirrelly going on with our comms.”

Greene turned sideways in his chair, a puzzled expression on his face, looking first at the Captain, then at Davidson, then at the Antenna Patch Panel. “Sir,” Greene began.

“It’s not important,” Davidson interrupted, shooting Greene a stern look.

“What’s not important?” Malone asked.

Davidson replied, “Greene was about to mention the card we installed last Refit. Gives us a new diagnostics capability.”

Malone turned to Greene. “Where?”

Greene pointed to the Antenna Patch Panel.

Malone motioned for Petty Officer 1st Class Rob Mushen to open the panel.

Mushen unscrewed the knurl knobs and opened the panel. Pulling a small flashlight from a nearby toolbox, he examined the cabinet internals, spotting the card Chief Davidson had installed during the previous Refit.

“What the…”

“What is it, Mushen?”

“There’s a card in here, just like Chief said, but I’m not aware of any modifications authorized to this cabinet.” Malone clenched his hands into fists as Mushen examined the card and other modifications to the cabinet. “There are some wiring changes as well. As best as I can tell, our antennas are cut off and everything is rewired to this card.”

Malone swiveled toward Davidson, grabbing him by the collar of his coveralls, slamming him up against the Radio Room cabinets. “What the fuck have you done?”

Davidson said nothing for a moment as Malone glared at him, then replied calmly, “What someone should have done long ago. And proud of it. I helped my country defend itself from those intent on destroying it.”

“Your country?” Malone repeated. “What country is that?”

Davidson looked away.

Malone shoved Davidson to the deck. He picked up the 27-MC. “Officer of the Deck, Captain. Have the COB and two armed petty officers report to Radio.” Turning to Mushen, he said, “Get this Radio Room operational ASAP.”

Mushen’s acknowledgment was interrupted by Tom’s excited voice over the 27-MC.

“Radio, Conn. Captain. Sonar reports a new contact, Sierra two-four, bearing zero-nine-five. High-speed submerged contact!”

82

With his fast-attack submarine at Battle Stations, Commander Dennis Gallagher stood behind the Officer of the Deck’s Tactical Workstation, his attention focused on the sonar display. The Engineer hovered beside him, the urgency of his report written on his face. But Gallagher knew what the Eng was about to tell him; as he pushed the North Carolina past its limits, red alarms were flashing throughout the Engine Room.

Four days earlier, the reactor had scrammed due to a dropped control rod, one they had been unable to relatch. Gallagher had informed Naval Reactors, but as the North Carolina headed home for repairs, he was stunned by the response. He had been directed to turn around and proceed west, authorized to operate at ahead full, exceeding the reactor’s temperature limit. Navy leadership had apparently decided they were willing to accept the destruction of the North Carolina’s core, if that gave them the chance to locate and sink their target. But by operating the reactor at the higher temperature, they were deliberately hurling themselves toward the precipice of a reactor meltdown, and they would soon reach a point from which they could not pull back.

Despite the authorization from Naval Reactors, Gallagher was uneasy; he had been ordered to commit heresy. No submarine had ever deliberately violated reactor operating limits — that was a fundamental rule ingrained into every officer and enlisted man. But the order had been given, along with new criteria beyond which reactor operation would not be allowed. From the look on the Engineer’s face, they were approaching that limit.

“Sir, the reactor fuel cells are beginning to melt. We must shut down.”

Gallagher replied quickly, irritated with the Engineer’s melodramatic, qualitative assessment. “Inform me when radiation levels at the Secondary Shield have reached the new limit. Assuming the ship is out of harm’s way, we’ll shut down then.”

“Yes sir,” the Engineer replied stiffly before leaving Control, allowing Gallagher to return his attention to the tactical situation.

“Pilot, ahead two-thirds,” Gallagher ordered.

As the North Carolina slowed to search the surrounding waters, he reviewed the relevant data.

For the last four days, they’d been heading west at ahead full. Luckily, they had been headed in the right direction, and after detecting an underwater explosion two hours ago, only a minor course correction to starboard was required. They had already slowed in the vicinity of the explosion, but there was nothing there. So Gallagher had continued west, increasing speed to ahead full again. A few minutes ago, Sonar had detected mechanical transients, most likely missile muzzle hatches being opened. Their adversary was close.

Time to slow down and find it.

“Sonar, Conn. Report all contacts.”

83

“Man Battle Stations Torpedo,” Malone announced as he entered Control from Radio.

The Chief of the Watch made the announcement on the shipwide 1-MC, then sounded the General Alarm, followed by a duplicate 1-MC announcement. Men began streaming into Control, manning their workstations.

Malone called out to the open microphone. “Sonar, Conn. Report classification of Sierra two-four.”

Inside the Sonar shack, Petty Officer DelGreco was starting to sort things out. They had already determined it was a submerged contact. A high-speed submarine in the middle of the Pacific Ocean meant it was probably nuclear powered, and that meant it was a U.S. submarine.

DelGreco tapped the Narrowband Operator, Petty Officer Rambikur, on the shoulder. “Look for 688, Seawolf, and Virginia-class tonals.”

DelGreco had lots of experience going up against Los Angeles—class submarines, and one glance at the frequencies told him this was no 688. That meant it was either a Seawolf or a Virginia. Rambikur came to a more specific conclusion.

“Sonar Sup. Sierra two-four is classified Virginia-class submarine.”

“Conn, Sonar. Hold a new contact, designated Sierra five-seven, bearing two-seven-two, classified submerged.”

“Sonar, Conn. Aye,” Gallagher replied.

This was their target.

“Attention in Control. Designate Sierra five-seven as Master One. Track Master One. Carry on.”

Gallagher turned his attention to the geographic display. They were headed directly toward their target, but had no idea yet how far away it was. Headed toward it, they weren’t going to get any useful bearing rate information for their combat control algorithms.

Time to turn.

“Pilot, right fifteen degrees rudder, steady course north.”

The Pilot acknowledged, and the North Carolina began turning.

“Conn, Sonar. Contact zig! Sierra two-four has turned away to the north.”

Malone glanced at the one of the three combat control displays, then at the XO, who nodded, confirming Sonar’s preliminary analysis.

Not good.

The Kentucky had been detected, and Sierra two-four was beginning target motion analysis. They were developing a firing solution.

Under normal circumstances, Malone could probably extend the cat-and-mouse game for hours, constantly maneuvering, making his adversary’s job of developing a firing solution a nightmare.

But Malone was at periscope depth, moving slowly at five knots. His first priority at the moment was to repair the Radio Room and communicate with COMSUBPAC. It looked like American submarines, and not just the Australians, had orders to hunt down the Kentucky, and the sooner Malone contacted COMSUBPAC, the safer they would be.

There was a problem with his plan, however. The Virginia-class submarine would not receive new messages until she went to periscope depth. Even if Malone contacted COMSUBPAC and they ordered the Virginia-class submarine to stand down, she would not receive the message until after she had sunk the Kentucky and went to periscope depth to report.

Should he stay at periscope depth and communicate with COMSUBPAC, or go deep and run?

They had been fortunate against an Australian submarine with Mod 4 torpedoes. But against a Virginia-class, most likely carrying MK 48 Mod 7s?

Their only hope was to convince the Virginia-class submarine to not attack.

But how?

Radio messages were not an option. That left …

Sonar.

Malone spoke into the open microphone. “Sonar, Conn. Line up the WQC for underwater comms.”

“Steady course north.”

Gallagher acknowledged the Pilot’s report, then turned his attention to the sonar displays, waiting for the towed array to stabilize after the turn. This was the same contact they had encountered before — it had the same tonals — and it was a very quiet target, held only on narrowband. They would have to wait until the towed array stabilized and accurate bearings were fed into their Combat Control System. A few minutes passed, and the awaited report came from the Sonar Supervisor.

“Conn, Sonar. The towed array has stabilized. Sending bearings to fire control.”

The submarine’s Executive Officer stopped behind each of the three combat control consoles, examining each operator’s solution, going back to the middle fire control technician, tapping him on the shoulder.

“Promote to Master.”

Their target was moving slowly, and hadn’t maneuvered.

Turning to Gallagher, the XO said, “I have a firing solution.”

“Conn, Sonar. WQC is lined up to transmit.”

Malone pulled the WQC microphone from its holster. He held it an inch away from his mouth. His voice would be transmitted by sonar hydrophones though the water and would be difficult to understand. He pressed the microphone button, then spoke slowly, distinctly.

“United States submarine. This is the USS Kentucky. Do not attack. Repeat. This is the USS Kentucky. Do not attack.”

Malone waited a minute, then repeated his announcement.

“Conn, Sonar. Receiving underwater comms.”

Gallagher looked up from the combat control display. He exchanged surprised glances with his Executive Officer, then turned to the Sonar Supervisor.

“Put it on speaker.”

“Aye, sir.”

There was only the background noise of ocean biologics for a moment, then a warbly but understandable message. “United States submarine. This is the USS Kentucky. Do not attack. Repeat. This is the USS Kentucky. Do not attack.”

The Control Room broke out in a flurry of conversations. Gallagher was stunned by the communication. So was his Executive Officer, by the look on his face. But then his expression hardened. Gallagher wanted to hear his thoughts, but there was too much commotion in the Control Room.

“Silence in Control!”

The conversations ceased immediately.

“What are you thinking, XO?”

It took a moment for the XO to answer, but when he did, he answered emphatically.

“They’re lying, Captain!”

The XO continued, “The Chinese built a replica of a Trident submarine and they know they look like one on sonar. Now that we’ve caught them, they’re pretending to be an American submarine. It’s a ploy, sir.”

Gallagher absorbed his XO’s opinion. If he was wrong and he attacked, they would sink a U.S. submarine. Was it possible this was the Kentucky?

He turned to his Navigator. “What do we know about waterspace assignments for Trident submarines? Can we confirm the Kentucky is supposed to be in this area?”

“No, sir,” the Nav answered. “We’re not privy to Trident waterspace assignments. There’s no way for us to know if the Kentucky is supposed to be here or not.”

Gallagher folded his arms across his chest. They were lacking the necessary information to make this critical decision. He would have to rely on the counsel of his XO and his department heads. His most senior department head, the Engineer, would normally have been his Officer of the Deck. Unfortunately, he had been assigned to Maneuvering due to the dropped control rod, and there was no time to bring him forward. That left the XO, whose opinion was clear, the Nav, and the Weps.

“Weps, what do you think?”

“Sir, if it could be the Kentucky, we should err on the side of caution. The ramifications are too great if we’re wrong.”

Gallagher nodded thoughtfully, then turned to the more senior department head.

“Nav, what’s your opinion?”

“We would not have been sent into an area, weapons free, with one of our own submarines in it. There’s no way Master One is an American submarine.”

Gallagher’s head tilted down toward the deck for a moment. Then he looked up, his eyes canvassing the other men in Control. “Anyone else have any thoughts?”

No one said anything.

Commander Dennis Gallagher considered his XO and department heads’ words, and the orders he’d been given. He was weapons free, the target was in the area as expected, and it had Trident tonals as expected. What were the odds the Kentucky was also in the area and COMSUBPAC didn’t know about it?

Gallagher made his decision.

“Firing Point Procedures, Master One, tube Two. Open outer doors, tubes One and Two.”

With the Kentucky at Battle Stations Torpedo, the sonar shack was now at full manning. Seated at the spherical array display, headphones against his ears, was Petty Officer 2nd Class John Martin. Unlike Cibelli and DelGreco, Martin had completed a previous tour on a Virginia-class submarine. When he heard the unusual, low-frequency sound in his headphones, followed a few seconds later by the exact same sound, he knew exactly what it was.

“Conn, Sonar. Sierra two-four is opening torpedo tube outer doors!”

Commander Malone was standing on the Conn, WQC microphone still in his hand, when the 27-MC announcement blared from the speakers.

Malone resisted the urge to order torpedo evasion — evading at this point was futile. The Virginia was obviously entering Firing Point Procedures and the Kentucky would not get away from its MK 48 torpedo. Their only hope was to talk their way out of it. His first attempt had failed. Perhaps a more personal approach would work. But for that, he needed to know who was in command.

Malone called into the overhead microphone. “Sonar, Conn. I need you to determine which Virginia-class submarine is out there. And I need the answer in thirty seconds.”

Inside the sonar shack, the sonar operators were already on it. Cibelli was pulling up the Virginia-class tonals from the database, while DelGreco was analyzing the frequencies of Sierra two-four, attempting to identify a unique tonal present on that Virginia submarine, and no other. The problem was the time. Given enough of it, they could eventually identify which submarine they were up against. But they had just thirty seconds. That meant they could pick only one frequency and bounce it against the database. If they were lucky, it would be unique, emitted by only one Virginia—the one about to sink them. Pick the wrong tonal, and it would show up on every Virginia, and they would have no idea which submarine was out there.

DelGreco scanned the frequencies. Had it been a 688, an unusual frequency would have jumped out at him. But he was unfamiliar with the Virginia-class. Several of the frequencies he stared at looked unusual. He quickly ruled out the common machinery tonals, but that left three to choose from.

They had fifteen seconds left, and Cibelli still had to look up which submarine it correlated to.

DelGreco scanned the three tonals again.

He couldn’t figure it out.

He grabbed Martin by the arm. “Which one?”

Martin leaned over, squinting at the display in the darkness. He pointed to the lowest frequency. “It’s not that one. That’s common. Don’t know about the other two.”

That narrowed it down. But unfortunately it still left two.

There was no way for DelGreco to figure it out.

He picked one.

Cibelli punched the frequency into the database. It took only five seconds for the results to display on the screen.

“Shit! That’s not it,” Cibelli said. “They’ve all got that tonal.”

DelGreco picked the next one and passed it to Cibelli. He looked at the clock. They had passed the thirty-second mark.

“Sonar, Conn,” Malone called into the microphone. “I need an answer, and I need it now!”

“We’re working on it, Captain.”

“Working on it isn’t good enough. I need a goddamn name!”

There was no immediate response from Sonar.

Then an excited announcement blared across Control. “It’s the North Carolina! The North Carolina!”

Malone brought the WQC microphone to his mouth again. He knew most of the submarine commanding officers in the Pacific, and all of the Virginia-class submarine COs. He prayed there hadn’t been a last-second change of command, and that Dennis Gallagher was still in command of the North Carolina.

“Weapon ready, tube Two!” the Weapons Officer called out, verifying the torpedo presets were matched with combat control.

“Solution ready!” the XO announced, verifying the best target solution had been promoted to Master.

“Ship ready!” the Navigator reported, ensuring the counterfire corridor had been identified and that the ship’s torpedo countermeasures were ready to deploy.

The North Carolina was ready to engage.

The only step remaining was Commander Gallagher’s order to shoot.

Gallagher reviewed the geographic display one last time, and was about to issue the order when the Sonar Supervisor interrupted him.

“Conn, Sonar. Receiving underwater comms again.”

“On speaker,” Gallagher ordered.

The Sonar Supervisor acknowledged, and the warbly underwater sound emanated throughout Control.

“… on the North Carolina. Repeat. This is Commander Brad Malone on the Kentucky. Request to speak to Commander Dennis Gallagher on the North Carolina, over.”

This was a new wrinkle. However, the men in command of American submarines was common knowledge. This last underwater communication proved nothing. The North Carolina was locked and loaded, a button push away from launching — and sinking — their target.

However, they could afford another minute to investigate further.

Gallagher walked over to the sonar consoles. “Line up for underwater comms.”

As Gallagher waited for the sonar operators to complete the lineup, he thought about the underwater message. If this really was Brad Malone, he would know a few personal details. He and Brad had gone though Prospective Commanding Officer training together. They had worked out at the gym together and hung out on the weekends during the six-month-long PCO pipeline.

A few seconds later, the Sonar Supervisor announced, “Lined up for underwater comms.”

Gallagher took the microphone. “Kentucky, this is North Carolina actual. If you are Commander Malone, convince me. You have one minute.”

There was a momentary wait as the sound traveled through the water. A few seconds later, the response came through the Control Room speakers.

“Dennis. Do you really want me to tell everyone what you have tattooed on your ass?”

Gallagher’s eyes went wide for a moment, until he realized Brad Malone had spotted his tattoo as he stepped out of the showers at the gym one day.

He broke into a wide grin.

“Brad, what the hell are you doing here? We almost sank you.”

Another short wait, then, “It’s a long story, Dennis. I’ll fill you in later. We’ll be contacting COMSUBPAC shortly and will proceed as directed.”

“Understand, Brad. We’ll hang out until then and make sure no one else pesters you.”

“Thanks, Dennis. Kentucky, out.”

Gallagher placed the WQC microphone back into the holster, then turned back to the Fire Control Tracking Party. Realizing they were still at Firing Point Procedures, he terminated the firing order.

“Check Fire,” he announced. “Secure from Battle Stations.”

Turning to his Officer of the Deck, he said, “Make preparations to come to periscope depth.”

He stopped beside his XO. “We need to have a chat with COMSUBPAC.”

84

“Conn, Radio. Repairs are complete. Lining up EHF to the Conn.”

Tom acknowledged Petty Officer Mushen’s 27-MC report as he rotated on the periscope. Malone emerged from Radio and stepped onto the Conn, stopping next to the red phone. Moments later, the awaited report came over the 27-MC.

“Conn, Radio. EHF is lined up to the Conn.”

Malone placed the handset to his face. “COMSUBPAC, this is Kentucky actual, over.”

This time, instead of silence, there was a burst of static, followed by a man’s excited voice. “USS Kentucky, this is COMSUBPAC N3. You are a sound for sore ears. Request you acknowledge nuclear launch termination orders, over.”

“COMSUBPAC, Kentucky. Acknowledge nuclear launch termination orders. Repeat, acknowledge launch termination orders.”

Malone paused for a moment, his thoughts turning to the missiles they had launched, realizing their launch order must have been fake and no nuclear bomb had been detonated in Washington, D.C. They had retaliated against innocent Iranians.

“COMSUBPAC, Kentucky. What is the status of the four missiles we launched, over?” Malone’s stomach tightened as he awaited the response.

“Kentucky, COMSUBPAC. All missiles and warheads were destroyed by ABM defenses in the Middle East, over.”

Malone’s head sagged in relief.

After a long moment, he looked back up and spoke into the receiver. “COMSUBPAC, Kentucky. Thanks for the info. Anything else, over?”

“Kentucky, COMSUBPAC. You are directed to return to port at best speed. Waterspace assignments will be forthcoming, over.”

“COMSUBPAC, Kentucky. Understand. Any other instructions, over?”

“Kentucky, COMSUBPAC. Not at this time, over.”

“COMSUBPAC, Kentucky. Out.”

Malone slowly placed the handset back into its holder, leaving his hand there for a moment, reflecting on the last ten days. It was going to be one hell of a patrol report. He looked over at Tom, still on the periscope.

“Officer of the Deck, bring her down to four hundred feet, ahead full, course zero-eight-zero. We’re heading home.”

Tom acknowledged Malone’s order, and as the periscope began sliding into its well, he looked up, and Malone could see the relief on Tom’s face as well. The missiles he’d launched had done no harm.

For the first time in nine days, Lieutenant Tom Wilson smiled.

He called out to the overhead microphone.

“All Stations, Conn. Going deep.”

85

As Christine stood at the window in Hendricks’s office, she ran her finger lightly down the side of her swollen nose, noting the odd angle as it veered to the right. It hurt to move her jaw and she could still taste the ferrous tang of blood in her mouth. The adrenaline from this afternoon had worn off and her body ached. She was exhausted. She wondered why she remained in the Current Action Center. Without any antiballistic missiles, if the Kentucky launched again, all they could do was watch helplessly as Iran was annihilated.

But Brackman had reminded her about the North Carolina, entering Emerald as the Collins was reported sunk. Even limited to ahead full, the nuclear-powered submarine was quite speedy, and might catch the Kentucky before she launched her remaining missiles. The North Carolina would need to get lucky to find her, though.

Christine spotted Brackman walking briskly toward Hendricks’s office. He opened the door and spoke quickly. “We’ve got COMSUBPAC online. They’ve contacted the Kentucky.”

Christine was suddenly no longer weary. She hurried across the Current Action Center, keeping up with Brackman’s long strides. They stopped by the Watch Captain’s workstation, listening to his conversation, which he had put on speakerphone.

“COMSUBPAC, NMCC. Understand Kentucky has acknowledged the nuclear launch termination order and is proceeding to home port.”

Relief poured through Christine’s veins, leaving her almost too exhausted to stand. They had finally succeeded.

The Watch Captain continued, “COMSUBPAC, NMCC. Did they say why they took so long to acknowledge the Launch Termination Order and launched four missiles?”

“NMCC, COMSUBPAC. We didn’t get into the details. We’ll get a full debriefing when she returns to port.”

“COMSUBPAC, NMCC. Understand. Anything else?”

“NMCC, COMSUBPAC. That’s it. You know where to find us.”

The Watch Captain hung up the secure phone and turned to Captain Brackman and Christine. “What now?”

Brackman deferred to Christine.

“Order Pacific Fleet to terminate their order to find and sink the Chinese submarine.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The Watch Captain began drafting the required order.

Christine turned to Brackman. “I’m going to head over to the White House and brief the president. You coming with me or staying here?”

Brackman surveyed Christine. She was still in her bloodied blouse and hadn’t yet washed the sheen of dried blood from her skin. Her face was a mess, to put it mildly.

“I’ll escort you back. I’m not sure you’re completely good to go.”

Christine thanked the Watch Captain for his efforts, then walked with Brackman toward the exit. She stopped at the door, turning to examine the screen at the front of the Current Action Center.

All evidence of what had almost been the annihilation of seventy million people was gone from the screen. The red and green missile traces had faded, as had the blue circle representing the Collins. Only the Kentucky remained, headed east now, toward home.

The nightmare was finally over.

86

In a darkened alcove between the West Wing and the Executive Residence of the White House, Press Secretary Lars Sikes leaned against the cool wall, dabbing the perspiration on his forehead with his handkerchief. Beneath the floor where he stood, abandoned for forty years, lay the swimming pool built in 1933 for Franklin Delano Roosevelt to accommodate his therapy for polio, the crippling disease he had contracted at the age of thirty-nine. But Sikes’s thoughts today were focused instead on the room on the other side of the wall against which he leaned. Inside the James S. Brady Press Briefing Room, more than one hundred reporters were crammed into a space with forty-eight permanent seats, the overflow of bodies lining the walls and back of the small room.

Leaning quietly against the wall besides Sikes were the president’s chief of staff on one side and his national security adviser on the other. Sikes had been shocked when he entered the Oval Office yesterday evening and Christine, sitting in the chair across from the president’s desk, turned to greet him. Her features lay shrouded in the darkness this morning, and Sikes wasn’t sure who was more thankful, he or Christine. In the early morning hours preceding today’s briefing, they had explained what had happened and had drilled him in preparation for the grilling he was about to endure. During his two-year tenure as press secretary, he had prepared for hundreds of briefings, but none of the topics had been as disturbing as the ones he’d be discussing today.

Hardison checked his watch. “It’s time.”

Sikes took a deep breath, then opened the door and briskly entered the room, stopping in front of the black-and-gold oval emblem of the White House affixed to the blue curtain backdrop. Placing his hands on each edge of the podium, he maintained a casual demeanor, his posture relaxed, nodding as his eyes greeted the more prominent reporters in the front row. After waiting an appropriate amount of time for the conversation to die down, he cleared his throat to signal the beginning of today’s briefing.

“Yesterday, at approximately two P.M. eastern standard time, we conducted a successful no-notice test of our ballistic missile defense systems. Four missiles were launched from a Trident ballistic missile submarine operating in the Pacific Ocean, and her missiles and test warheads were destroyed by our Terminal High Altitude Area Defense battery and SM-3 antiballistic missiles launched from Aegis-class cruisers in the Persian Gulf.”

A flurry of hands went into the air, and Sikes signaled a reporter in the front row.

“How many antiballistic missiles were required to shoot down the four missiles?”

“We will not comment on the details of this test launch,” Sikes replied, “except that it was a resounding success.”

“What units were involved?” another reporter interjected.

“As I said, the details will not be disclosed.”

“Why did Iran initiate a countrywide civil disaster evacuation drill the day before the test launch?” a reporter from the Washington Post asked. “And then the four test missiles were fired at Iran. That’s a strange coincidence.”

Sikes resisted the urge to run his finger inside his shirt collar as he answered, “Our administration has been working hard to strengthen diplomatic relations with Iran. When we learned of the military’s plans to test our ballistic missile defense systems, we informed the countries in the vicinity so they wouldn’t be alarmed. Iran choose to fold our exercise into a national disaster drill for realism purposes, and the administration is very pleased our two countries were able to work together on these exercises to our mutual benefit. Next topic.”

Sikes scanned the audience, and he quickly pointed to a reporter in the second row. The woman asked, “What about the Australian submarine that hasn’t reported in? Is the United States involved in any way?”

“Well, of course we’re involved, but only in the search-and-rescue phase. We’re assisting our Australian friends in every way we can, and our thoughts and prayers are with them as we search for the Collins, presumed lost with all hands.”

A reporter in the back row was eagerly waving his hand, and Sikes acknowledged him.

“What about the report of a reactor meltdown on the fast-attack submarine North Carolina?”

“There was no reactor meltdown,” Sikes replied, thankful they had quickly shifted to the last essential topic. “Yes, there was a malfunction in her reactor control circuitry and the reactor overheated. But she was on a shakedown cruise, and these kinds of problems are what we attempt to discover after extensive shipyard maintenance. There’s a kernel of truth to this rumor, in that the North Carolina’s reactor was damaged and will require replacement, but there was no core meltdown. The submarine is safely on the surface, being towed back to Puget Sound Naval Shipyard in Washington State.”

Most of the reporters still had their hands raised, many of them shouting questions. But Sikes had addressed the relevant topics. He smiled and waved, ignoring their animated gestures and requests to answer additional questions. He turned away from the podium and retreated toward the exit. The cover story for the Kentucky’s near destruction of Iran had been carefully constructed, with all parties briefed and their silence assured. But there was always the possibility they had overlooked something.

He hoped to God they hadn’t.

87

On the south lawn of the White House, a Marine in dress blues stood by the entrance to a Sea King helicopter painted in the characteristic two-tone white over green presidential livery. As the downdraft from the five-bladed rotor rippled across the blades of grass, still wet from the morning’s dew, Christine and Hardison ducked their heads as they followed the president from the Rose Garden toward the waiting helicopter. Saluting the staff sergeant, the president, followed by Christine and Hardison, climbed up the access stairs into Marine One.

Once the stairs were retracted and the entrance sealed, the sound of the helicopter’s twin engines faded entirely. Marine One was well insulated, the padded walls and ceiling allowing its passengers the luxury of talking in normal tones during flight. Hardison eased into his seat, joining Christine across from the president. He sat unusually close to her, their arms almost touching, something he would not have done two days earlier.

Christine had to admit she had misjudged him. Two days ago, Hardison had stopped by the Command Center to discuss Hendricks’s continued silence, assured by a hefty financial incentive. There was something about her ex-husband’s response that caught Hardison’s attention; he had dealt with crooked politicians long enough to recognize feigned honesty and indignation. But there was something more he couldn’t place. He had decided to discuss his thoughts with Christine before she returned to the Pentagon, arriving at her town house in the nick of time.

As far as Hendricks’s brutal attack went, it appeared he hadn’t done any long-lasting damage. Christine’s split lips had sealed into vertical scabs matching the thin cut in her neck, and her nose had been straightened but remained swollen, joined now by a pair of moderately black eyes as her body began the healing process. Hardison seemed relieved that Christine’s beauty hadn’t been permanently marred, and she couldn’t help but notice the subtle change in his demeanor.

Christine’s thoughts returned to the present as Marine One lifted off for its short trip to Andrews Air Force Base southeast of Washington and its rendezvous with Air Force One, waiting to take the president to Berlin for his meeting with the German chancellor. Glancing out the starboard windows, Christine spotted two of the four identical Sea Kings accompanying the president on his trip, already shifting their positions in an endless shell game, obscuring the location of the president from would-be assassins on the ground.

Now that they were en route to Andrews, the president prepared to address the matter they had been unable to resolve in the Oval Office earlier this morning. Hours after the Kentucky’s missiles were shot down, Prime Minister Rosenfeld had come clean, explaining everything to the president over a secure line. Christine had led the effort to craft a satisfactory response to Israel’s transgression, as well as what to do about the pending assembly of Iran’s first nuclear weapon. The president had finally agreed, on Christine’s firm insistence, to transfer the bunker-busting bombs Israel had requested. The weapon facility had been destroyed only a few hours ago. Satellites had detected the residual radiation commensurate with a fifty-kiloton nuclear weapon, confirming the destruction of Iran’s first nuclear bomb.

Although the president had agreed with most of Christine’s plan to respond to Israel’s transgression, he hadn’t agreed to the risky final element. They would land at Andrews in a few minutes, and it was clear the president intended to resolve the matter by then.

“Israel has promised appropriate action will be taken,” he said. “We should leave it at that.”

Christine replied, “You may be able to leave it at that, but I cannot. It’s personal.”

She could barely contain her fury. She had been relieved at first, the threat of a nuclear holocaust unleashed by one of their own submarines finally eliminated. But then a lump formed in her throat as her thoughts turned to the men and women aboard the Collins. Men and women who now rested in their watery graves, leaving behind parents, husbands and wives, and children who would never see them again.

Someone would be held accountable. That much was clear. And having come within seconds of losing her life, Christine believed she was vested in that retribution.

The president sighed. “What are the details?”

Christine handed him a manila folder. “It’s ready to implement, pending your approval.”

The president opened the folder, skimmed the first page, then lifted it up to read the second. Halfway down the page, his eyes shot toward Christine. “You’re not serious?”

“Yes, sir. I am.”

He turned to his chief of staff. “What do you think, Kevin?”

“I have my reservations, sir. But considering the circumstances, I agree with Christine’s plan.”

Christine’s eyes went from Hardison to the president, and as Marine One landed, the president seemed on the verge of committing.

The president stood to transfer to Air Force One, then shook Christine’s hand. “Good luck. And be careful.”

88

It was almost noon, the sun climbing into a clear blue sky above the rolling Judean hills west of Jerusalem, when a black Mercedes S600 turned onto a narrow gravel driveway lined with towering umbrella pines. After a two-hundred-yard drive down the winding path, the car’s heavy suspension swaying over the uneven surface, the sedan pulled to a stop in front of a sprawling hilltop villa, the lunchtime destination for the American national security adviser and her driver, William Hoover.

Earlier this morning, as Christine stepped onto the tarmac at Ben Gurion International Airport, she had been surprised when she was greeted by the same man who had threatened to kill her if she ever tried to track him down. However, circumstances had changed somewhat over the last three days, and the “agreement” the United States had dictated to its ally in the Middle East required she be met by a man of Hoover’s background. After reviewing how things would unfold at lunch, she had stepped into the back of the sedan for the short trip to her destination. Hoover sensed her nervousness and tried to ease her apprehension, talking incessantly the entire trip, his eyes flitting between the road and the rearview mirror. However, he fell silent as he climbed out of the sedan, opening the rear door for his quiet passenger, who had not said a word in response.

On the flagstone patio behind his villa, Israeli intelligence minister Barak Kogen sat at a table neatly prepared with two place settings. As he waited for his guest, he leaned back in his chair, looking west over the patio’s waist-high limestone wall. The heavy rain that had quenched the parched countryside a fortnight earlier had left behind a bright green carpet of new flora, and in a few weeks the rockrose and thorny broom would turn the hillsides a pastel pink, white, and yellow. However, with the departure of the overcast skies, the days had turned unseasonably warm, the heat almost uncomfortable. Thankfully, a glass pitcher of iced tea, resting in the center of the table, would quench his thirst once his guest, Ariel Bronner, head of the Metsada, arrived.

The doorbell rang and Kogen called out, “In back. Come join me.”

A woman appeared around the corner of the villa, following a stone pathway to the back of the house. Kogen stood abruptly. “Who are you? And where is Ariel?”

“I’m Christine O’Connor,” the woman replied in English, “national security adviser to the president of the United States. Ariel was called away and he asked me to meet with you instead.”

Kogen suddenly recognized Christine, eyeing her suspiciously. His unexpected guest was attractive, although she wore her makeup a bit too heavy for his taste, concealing faint black circles under her eyes.

“Ariel’s waiting for your call,” she said. “He’ll confirm.”

Pulling out his cell phone, Kogen dialed Bronner’s office. CALL FAILED appeared on the display, and he noticed the antenna had no signal strength. He looked up at Christine. “I’ll have to use a landline to call Ariel. I’ll be back shortly.” He entered the villa and returned a moment later, his shoulders relaxed, a friendly smile on his face.

“Please, have a seat,” he said, gesturing toward the table. Christine took the proffered chair while Kogen settled in beside her. “So what brings you to my villa in place of my Metsada chief, Miss O’Connor?”

“This is unusual,” she answered, “but one of the conditions for continued good relations between our two countries, considering what just transpired, was that I meet with you.”

“What are you referring to?” Kogen feigned ignorance for the moment, unsure how much his unexpected guest knew.

“I wanted to meet the mastermind behind the plot that almost resulted in one of our ballistic missile submarines completely destroying another country.”

Her words hit him in the chest like sledgehammer. Bronner had apparently told her everything. But why? The operation had been meticulously planned to ensure its genesis could not be traced back to Israel.

She continued, “I have to admit that you developed an exceptional plan. Ariel has given me the entire file, which I assure you we’ll thoroughly review. There are a few things we could no doubt learn from your organization.”

Kogen’s nervousness eased. Perhaps there was nothing sinister in her visit to his villa. Intelligence organizations around the world interfaced in a civilized manner, even though agents constantly strove to ensure their country gained at another’s expense. Perhaps that was the purpose for her visit; to discuss to what extent their two organizations could work together. However, he was guessing at her motive, and was not a fan of conjecture. “So why are you here, Miss O’Connor?”

“Did you ever watch the Merrie Melodies cartoons when you were a kid?” she asked.

He gave her an empty stare.

“I suppose not.” Christine’s eyes rested intently on him as she expounded. “There was this wolf who tried to steal lambs from a flock of sheep protected by a sheepdog, and they would battle each other all day long. The wolf constantly devised plots while the sheepdog consistently thwarted them, usually resulting in great physical harm to the wolf. But both the wolf and the sheepdog realized they were just doing their jobs, and when the lunch whistle blew, they sat at the table as friends, sharing their meal until the whistle blew again, putting them both back on the clock.

“That relationship is analogous to how our national intelligence agencies interact. We all have a job to do, and we constantly battle each other with the noble goal of benefiting our respective countries. But when the lunch whistle blows, you and I can sit at a table and discuss our disagreements in a civilized manner.”

Kogen nodded enthusiastically, the woman’s comments matching his thoughts exactly. The subterfuge their agencies employed to gather the vital information they needed was just part of the job, and she realized that.

“For example,” she continued, “you and I can sit here and discuss the death of Levi’s daughters, and how you were responsible for recruiting the suicide bomber who killed them.”

Kogen swallowed hard.

How did she know? How did anyone know?

Had Bronner learned of his duplicity in the death of Rosenfeld’s daughters and told her? And if he’d told Christine, he must have also told …

His throat felt parched from the day’s heat. He reached for the pitcher of tea, filling the glasses in front of him and his guest, taking a sip of the refreshing liquid as his guest raised her glass to her lips.

“But don’t worry,” she said. “Ariel promised me that neither he nor Levi would take retribution against you.”

“Why is that?”

“Because that’s my privilege.” The woman’s eyes hardened. “Lunch is over. We’re back on the clock.”

Kogen returned his glass to the table, uncertain of the meaning behind Christine’s last comment. He felt warm; perspiration collected on his brow. He went to wipe his forehead, but his hand didn’t release from around the glass. He stared at his hand, unable to relax his fingers.

His chest tightened.

He glanced at Christine, realizing too late that the woman had only held the glass to her lips; she hadn’t taken a drink. There was a faint bitterness in the tea’s aftertaste, contrasting with the subtle sweetness of the raspberry flavor. His stomach contracted violently, throwing him forward, his chest and face slamming onto the table. He remained there, his face turned to the side, staring at Christine.

Holding her glass out to the side, she slowly poured the liquid onto the stone patio. Kogen stared directly ahead, unable to move his eyes, unable to expand the muscles in his chest. His lungs screamed for oxygen, terror strangling his thoughts as he realized he would soon be dead.

“Ariel sends his regrets on not being able to attend our meeting,” Christine said as she stood. “I got the impression he would have enjoyed it.”

The woman exited his vision, her light footsteps on the rough stone fading away.

Intelligence Minister Barak Kogen’s heart strained, then beat one final time.

Christine walked around the corner of the villa, greeted by William Hoover. He holstered his pistol, which he had held ready in case something went wrong, and placed the mobile jammer he held in his other hand into his coat pocket. Jamming Kogen’s cell phone had forced him inside to call Bronner, giving Christine the opportunity she needed to poison the tea.

“Excellent job, Miss O’Connor. A professional couldn’t have done it better.”

She handed him a small metal vial she had concealed in her hand, then unclipped a beret from the back of her hair as Hoover removed the corresponding receiver from his ear. He took the beret from Christine, then opened the rear door of the car. She slid into the back as he eased into the driver’s seat and buckled up.

“If you ever decide to change your line of work,” he said while looking at Christine’s reflection in the rearview mirror, “give me a call.”

“I’m afraid this was a onetime deal,” she replied. “It’s back to a desk job for me.”

Hoover smiled. “Where to now?”

“Airport, please.”

Christine closed her eyes, leaning back against the headrest as the car rode slowly over the winding gravel driveway. It’d been a long two weeks, and the physical exhaustion combined with the mental stress of preparing for her meeting with Kogen had finally taken its toll. As Daniel Landau turned the sedan onto the smooth, paved road, headed east toward Ben Gurion International Airport, he looked into the rearview mirror. Although her slumber would be restless and her dreams troubled, Christine O’Connor was already asleep.

EPILOGUE

Twelve hundred feet underwater, a weak yellow light bobbed in the darkness, slowly making its round through the abandoned lower level of the Collins’s Forward Compartment. In the partially flooded Weapon Stowage Compartment, the fading light shone forlornly on sixteen green warshot torpedoes, still in their stows. Only three of the six torpedo tubes remained visible; the other three were submerged, casualties of the steadily rising water and the submarine’s thirty-degree list to starboard. The light turned abruptly and headed aft, sweeping back and forth across the darkened Galley before a quick trip through Junior Sailor Berthing, likewise deserted, the bottom starboard racks also underwater.

After climbing to the upper level of the compartment where the thirty-nine survivors shivered in the frigid air, the dim light paused in Senior Sailor Berthing to examine the injured in their bunks and the man who tended them. With a mournful shake of his head, the weary Corpsman, stretched beyond his means by the injuries, pulled the blanket over the face of one of the men, reducing the number of the living to thirty-eight. The dying light passed into Control, examining the filthy and sometimes bloody faces of the men and women who huddled together in small groups.

The light was set a moment later on the side of the atmosphere monitoring station. There was no power and the automatic air-sampling system was inoperative, so the light illuminated a handheld air sampler. It took five squeezes to suck in the stale air and deliver the unwelcome, but not unexpected, news. Bobbing through the compartment again, the light approached two officers sitting on the deck in Control, their backs against the Attack periscope. One of the men was the submarine’s Commanding Officer, who awaited the results of the latest inspection round. The second man, his American friend, wore a summer white uniform, the white cloth now marred with the ship’s grime and stained with the crew’s blood. The two officers stood to greet Chief Marine Technician Kim Durand as she approached.

Five days ago, the Kentucky’s torpedo had punched an eight-foot-diameter hole in the submarine’s Motor Room, flooding the Aft Compartment. The Collins’s stern sank as lights throughout the submarine flickered, then were extinguished as the ship lost power. The stern continued to tilt downward until the ship reached a ninety-degree angle, the crew holding on to equipment as best possible as they plummeted into the ocean depths. The hull groaned as the outside pressure increased, the crew waiting in the darkness for the hull to collapse around them.

Their descent halted abruptly, announced by the sound of screeching metal pierced by screams of terror and pain, as the Collins crashed into one of the thousands of submerged seamounts scattered across the Pacific. The bow careened downward, joining the stern on the mountain’s surface. The ship tilted slowly to starboard, then slid down the steep mountain incline, finally slowing and coming to rest on the edge of a cliff overlooking the abyssal plain three thousand feet below.

Battle lanterns flicked on, their bright beams illuminating the darkness as the crew frantically assessed the condition of the ship and the status of the injured. Two-thirds of the crew were still alive, the men and women lucky enough to be in the Forward Compartment. A fourth of those were injured, and they were tended to once the watertight integrity of the submarine was addressed. Water oozed past the Aft Compartment watertight door, a telltale reminder of what awaited them outside their fragile steel cocoon.

Humphreys and Wilson, doing their best to keep fear from leaking into their voices, directed the crew to shore up the watertight hatch and shut every hull and backup valve, hoping to keep the water out of the Forward Compartment. But the thin trickle seeping past the Aft Compartment watertight door had increased to a steady stream, indicating the door seal was failing. The water collected in the bilge, rising steadily until the lower level of the Forward Compartment had become uninhabitable. However, the rising water wasn’t their only concern; the frigid temperature and limited oxygen supply were more important factors.

The submarine cooled quickly to the ambient temperature of the ocean depth, only 3 degrees above freezing. Hypothermia threatened to claim what remained of the crew, and they donned their foul-weather gear and huddled closely together to conserve body heat. And although the ship had ample emergency carbon dioxide curtains, scavenging the CO2 from the air, the amount of oxygen was another matter. The crew burned their limited supply of emergency oxygen candles, each one generating enough oxygen to sustain the crew for a few hours.

The battle lanterns had faded now, and the last operable one was in Kim Durand’s hand, faintly illuminating the crew as they huddled in the darkness. The air was stale and cold, the quiet periodically pierced by a sickening screech as a hull plate deformed under the intense ocean pressure. They would either succumb to the lack of oxygen, or soon, like the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back, a bolt would finally shear and the nearby fasteners would fail in quick succession. A flange would part from its mate, and the ocean would claim them.

Either way, it would not be long before the Collins would be unable to sustain human life.

Even so, the crew clung to the faint hope they would be rescued: that the Collins’s emergency beacon had made it to the ocean’s surface undamaged, that someone had picked up the beacon’s signal in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, and that a deep-sea submersible rescue ship would arrive before their supply of oxygen ran out.

The odds were slim, but that hope and one oxygen candle were all they had left.

As Chief Durand approached, Wilson stood stiffly, shivering inside the foul-weather jacket he had borrowed from one of the dead crewmen. Humphreys climbed to his feet beside him, awaiting the report from his senior Weapons Chief. The faint yellow light from her battle lantern illuminated her grime-smeared face and blue eyes that were glazed over in a glassy sheen, as if they were not quite focused. A curled lock of blond hair escaped from the hood of her foul-weather jacket, tied tight around her face to keep the precious heat within. Her breath condensed into white fog as she spoke, her words coming out slightly slurred, her mind sluggish from the low oxygen content in the air.

“Oxygen is at fourteen percent, Captain. We can’t wait any longer. Request permission to burn the last candle.”

Humphreys examined the dirt-streaked face of his chief, resignation and despair in her eyes. They had survived five days together, keeping alive the hope they would somehow be rescued. But the submarine’s oxygen supply had steadily depleted, and the one remaining candle would sustain them for only a few hours more. Thankfully, as the oxygen level fell below what was required to sustain human life, they would slip into unconsciousness; their deaths would be painless. This last order, however, was not.

“Burn the last candle.”

“Aye, sir.” Kim Durand turned away, then stopped and faced back toward Humphreys and Wilson. “It was an honor serving with you,” she said.

“The honor was mine,” Humphreys said, extending his hand.

“And mine,” Wilson said, shaking the woman’s hand after Humphreys.

A metallic screech tore through Control as the submarine tilted a few more degrees to starboard. Wilson grabbed the periscope to steady himself, wondering if the Collins was teetering on the brink of an abyss, the ledge finally giving way under the weight of the crippled ship. Kim shined the battle lantern around Control, examining the compartment for sign of flooding — a small crack in the hull or piping giving way under the tremendous ocean pressure. A series of metallic scrapes reverberated through the ship, this time from farther aft and above. As the crew listened tensely with upturned faces, five distinct taps, each one second apart, echoed through the hull.

The crew broke out in cheers.

A rescue ship was latching onto the outside of the Collins’s hull.

Three hours later, blinking in the sunshine, Captain Murray Wilson stepped off LR5, the Australian submersible submarine rescue ship, onto the deck of the salvage ship that had carried it across the Pacific Ocean. LR5 had just finished the last of four round-trips between the Collins and the salvage ship, ferrying the survivors to the surface. Wilson and Humphreys were the last to leave the stricken submarine and the last off LR5. After stepping onto the deck of the salvage ship, which rolled gently in the calm seas, Wilson stopped and reflected on what Commodore Lowe had told them.

Lowe had boarded the Collins from LR5 after it secured itself to the submarine’s hull and the hatches between them were opened, then briefed the crew on what transpired after the Kentucky’s torpedo sent the Collins to the bottom. After being fired on by the Collins, Commander Malone figured out his Radio Room had been sabotaged and had restored communications. They received the Launch Termination message, and orders to Pacific Fleet to sink the Kentucky had been canceled.

The Kentucky’s crew had been spared.

Tom was alive.

Captain Murray Wilson looked up, squinting at the bright yellow sun suspended in the clear blue sky. His eyes filled with tears as the sun shone down, offering warm relief from the cool ocean breeze.

COMPLETE CAST OF CHARACTERS

ROBERT TOMPKINS, vice president

KEVIN HARDISON, chief of staff

CHRISTINE O’CONNOR, national security adviser

NICHOLAS WILLIAMS, secretary of defense (referenced only)

CAPTAIN STEVE BRACKMAN, senior military aide

LARS SIKES, press secretary

RUSSELL EVANS, White House aide

ADMIRAL TRACEY MCFARLAND, Director (referenced only)

DAVE HENDRICKS, Deputy Director

MIKE PATTON, Section Two watchstander

RON COBB, Section Two watchstander

ISAIAH JONES, Section Two watchstander

ANDREW BLOOM, Section Two watchstander (referenced only)

BRADLEY GREEN, Section Two watchstander (referenced only)

KATHY LEENSTRA, Section Two watchstander (referenced only)

LEVI ROSENFELD, prime minister

HIRSHEL MEKEL, prime minister’s executive assistant

EHUD RABIN, defense minister

BARAK KOGEN, intelligence minister

ARIEL BRONNER, director, Metsada

DANIEL LANDAU (ALIAS WILLIAM HOOVER), Metsada agent

GREG VANDIVER, U.S. Ambassador to Israel

JOYCE EDDINGS, Ambassador Vandiver’s executive assistant

JOHN STANBURY, Commander, Submarine Force Pacific

MURRAY WILSON, Senior Prospective Commanding Officer Instructor

ERROL HOLCOMB, Admiral Stanbury’s Chief of Staff

DAVID MORTIMORE, Admiral Stanbury’s Aide

LACONTA COLEMAN, Strategic Watch Officer

JARRED CRUM, N7 Operations Officer

ADMIRAL STEVE CASERIA, Program Executive Officer (Submarines)

CAPTAIN JAY SANTOS, program manager, PMS 401 (Sonar)

BRETT HUMPHREYS (COMMANDER), Commanding Officer

KIM DURAND, Marine Technician Chief

KEVIN LAWSON (COMMANDER), Commanding Officer

WARDROOM (OFFICERS)

• BRAD MALONE (COMMANDER), Commanding Officer

• BRUCE FAY (LIEUTENANT COMMANDER), Executive Officer

• JOHN HINVES (LIEUTENANT COMMANDER), Engineering Officer

• PETE MANNING (LIEUTENANT), Weapons Officer

• ALAN TYLER (LIEUTENANT), Navigator

• JEFF QUIMBY (LIEUTENANT), Supply Officer

• TOM WILSON (LIEUTENANT), Assistant Weapons Officer

• HERB CARVAHLO (LIEUTENANT [JG]), Electrical Division Officer

• HECTOR LOPEZ (ENSIGN), Torpedo Division Officer

• OCTAVE COSTA (LIEUTENANT), Sonar Division Officer

• CHRIS VECCHIO (LIEUTENANT), Reactor Controls Division Officer (referenced only)

RADIO DIVISION

• ALAN DAVIDSON, Chief Petty Officer

• ROB MUSHEN, First Class Petty Officer

• PETE GREENE, Third Class Petty Officer

SONAR DIVISION

• TONY DELGRECO, First Class Petty Officer

• BOB CIBELLI, Second Class Petty Officer

• JOHN MARTIN, Second Class Petty Officer

• ALEX RAMBIKUR, Second Class Petty Officer

MISSILE DIVISION

• ROGER TRYON, First Class Petty Officer

• JODI KREUGER, First Class Petty Officer

• SCOTT SANTOS, First Class Petty Officer

• DAVE REYNOLDS, Second Class Petty Officer

• SCOTT WALWORTH, Second Class Petty Officer

OTHERS

• STEVE PRASHAW, Chief of the Boat

• JOHN BARBER, Torpedo Division Third Class Petty Officer

• BOB MURPHY, Machinery Division Third Class Petty Officer

• TED LUTHER, Night Baker

MARY CORDEIRO (CAPTAIN), Commanding Officer

BRIAN MCKEON (SEAMAN), Helmsman

DENNIS GALLAGHER (COMMANDER), Commanding Officer

JOSEPH RADEK, Reactor Controls Division Chief

MIKE TELL, Reactor Controls First Class Petty Officer

KEN TYLER (COMMANDER), Commanding Officer

TOM BRADNER, Sonar Division Petty Officer

AL KENT (SERGEANT), 11th Air Defense Staff

BRUCE CHERRY (CORPORAL), 11th Air Defense Staff

JON DEWIRE (MAJOR), Commanding Officer, Alpha Battery, 4th Regiment (THAAD)

SCOTT GRAEF (LIEUTENANT COMMANDER), Tactical Coordinator

PETE BURWELL (LIEUTENANT), Communicator

AL CULVER, Watchstander

FRED HARMON, Maintenance Technician

ADMIRAL TIM HALE, Commander, U.S. Pacific Command (referenced only)

ADMIRAL DENIS HERRELL, Commander, U.S. Pacific Fleet (Referenced Only)

COMMODORE RICK LOWE, Australian Submarine Fleet Element Group Commander

COMMANDER JOE CASEY, PCO aboard USS HOUSTON

COMMANDER DOUG BATES, PCO aboard USS HOUSTON

DANA COOKE, Landover Engineering Systems employee

CLAIRE WILSON, Murray Wilson’s wife

NANCY WILSON, Tom Wilson’s wife (referenced only)

THERESA PATTON, Mike Patton’s wife (referenced only)

SARAH ROSENFELD, Levi Rosenfeld’s daughter

RACHEL ROSENFELD, Levi Rosenfeld’s daughter

KATHERINE JANKOWSKI, mother with infant at Sandrino’s Café

KHALID ABDULLA, suicide bomber

CINDY COREY, pleasure craft sunbather

RANDY COREY, pleasure craft fisherman

MICHIYA AOCHI, fisherman on Daisan Shinsho-Maru

DOREEN CORNELLIER, Channel 9 News reporter

RICK LARSON, FBI Director (referenced only)

KEN RONAN, CIA Director (referenced only)

JOHN KENNEY, CIA Agent

AUTHOR’S NOTE

I hope you enjoyed reading The Trident Deception.

I tried to make it as realistic as possible considering the constraints. In particular, no classified information could be revealed, which required me to alter some capabilities of ships and weapons employed in the novel (speed and range, for example), which I’m sure some of you have detected and have no doubt exclaimed, “That’s not right!” You are correct. If they were accurate, this novel would be classified, so I had to “tweak” a few things.

Also, some of the tactics employed by the submarine crews were generic and also not accurate. For example, torpedo employment and torpedo evasion tactics are classified and could not be accurately represented in this novel. Finally, some of the submarine terminology and dialog isn’t right either. If they were completely correct, some it would be unintelligible due to the acronyms, and I’d have to stop frequently to explain, and the story would lurch along. So I compromised on some of the dialogue and on some of the “accuracy” of the scenes, in order to keep the story flowing smoothly along.

For all of the above, I apologize. I did my best to keep everything as close to real life without making it classified or bogging it down with acronyms or terminology too difficult or time-consuming to explain. Hopefully it all worked out and it came together into a suspenseful, page-turning novel.

Thanks for your time and I hope we get a chance to meet some day. And of course — I hope you liked The Trident Deception enough to buy the sequel, Empire Rising. Thanks again!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

RICK CAMPBELL, a retired Navy Commander, spent more than twenty years on multiple submarine tours, finishing his career with the Naval Operations staff in the Pentagon and in the Washington Navy Yard. On his last tour, he was one of the two men whose permission was required to launch the submarine’s nuclear warhead — tipped missiles. Rick lives with his wife and three children in the greater Washington, D.C., area. The Trident Deception is his first novel and he is currently working on the sequel.