The Trident Deception

1

Under normal circumstances, the thirteen men and women seated in the conference room would have been dressed in formal attire, the men wearing crisp business suits, the women turned out in silk blouses and coordinating skirts. They would have struck up lively conversations, attempting to persuade their colleagues to accept one proposal or another, their animated faces reflecting off the room’s varnished chestnut paneling. But tonight, pulled away from their evening activities, they wore sports slacks and shirts, their hair wet and windblown, their faces grim as they sat quietly in their seats, eyes fixed on the man at the head of the U-shaped conference table.

Beads of rain clung to Levi Rosenfeld’s Windbreaker, left there by a spring storm that had settled over the Middle East, expending itself in unbridled fury, sheets of rain descending in cascading torrents. Prime Minister Rosenfeld, flanked by all twelve members of Israel’s National Security Council, fumed silently in his seat as he awaited details of an unprecedented threat to his country’s existence. He wondered how such critical information could have been discovered so late. At the far left of the conference table sat Barak Kogen, Israel’s intelligence minister. Although Kogen was not a member of the Security Council, Rosenfeld had directed him to attend tonight’s meeting to explain the Mossad’s failure.

At the front of the room, a man stood before a large flat-screen monitor. Thin and short, wearing round wire-rimmed glasses, Ehud Rabin’s physical presence failed to reflect the power he wielded as the leader of Israel’s second-strongest political party and as Israel’s defense minister. Ehud waited for Rosenfeld’s permission to begin.

Rosenfeld nodded in his direction.

Pushing his glasses onto the bridge of his nose, Ehud stated what everyone in the room already knew. “The Mossad reports Iran will complete assembly of its first nuclear weapon in ten days.” The lights in the conference room flickered, thunder rumbling in the distance as if on cue.

Rosenfeld looked at his intelligence minister. “Why did we discover this just now, only days before they complete assembly?”

Kogen shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his eyes scanning each member of the Security Council before coming to rest on Rosenfeld. “I apologize, Prime Minister. Nothing is more important than preventing Iran from acquiring nuclear weapons. But Iran has deceived us and the rest of the world. We were fortunate to discover the true extent of their progress in time. We will be more vigilant in the future.”

There was something about Kogen’s quick apology rather than stout defense of his Mossad that gave Rosenfeld the impression he was hiding something. But perhaps the evening’s tension was clouding his intuition. He turned back to Ehud. “What are our options?”

Ehud pressed a remote control in his hand, stepping aside as the monitor flickered to life, displaying a map of Iran. “Weapon assembly is occurring at the Natanz nuclear complex.” A flashing red circle appeared two hundred kilometers south of Tehran. “Uranium for additional weapons is being enriched at Isfahan, and plutonium is being produced at their heavy-water plant near Arak.” Two more red circles appeared in central Iran. “Eliminating the facilities at Arak and Isfahan will be easy, but destruction of their weapon assembly complex at Natanz will be impossible with a conventional strike.” The map zoomed in on the Natanz facility, a sprawling collection of innocuous-looking buildings. “Iran has built a hardened complex beneath the Karkas mountains, connected to the main facility by tunnels. While a conventional strike will collapse the tunnels, it cannot destroy the weapon assembly complex.”

“So how do we destroy this facility?”

“Since the complex cannot be destroyed with conventional weapons, that leaves one option.”

Rosenfeld leaned forward in his chair. “What are you proposing?”

Ehud glared at the prime minister. “You know exactly what needs to be done here, Levi. We have a responsibility to protect the citizens of our country. There is no question this weapon will be used against us, either directly or indirectly. We must destroy this facility before Iran completes assembly of this bomb, even if that means we have to employ one of our nuclear weapons.”

The conference room erupted. Some council members passionately agreed with Ehud while others chastised him for proposing such an egregious break in policy. Rosenfeld slammed his fist on the table, silencing the room. “Out of the question! We will not use nuclear weapons unless they are used against us first.”

Ehud’s eyes narrowed. “Then millions of our people will die, because Iran will use this weapon against us. We can either strike now, before our men, women, and children are murdered, or afterward. If we do not strike first, their deaths will be on your conscience.”

The defense minister’s assertion hung in the air as Rosenfeld surveyed his council members, some of them staring back, others with their eyes to the table. Whether they agreed with Ehud or not, they could not avoid the underlying truth.

If Iran assembled this weapon, it would eventually be used against Israel. That was something Israel could not allow. But a nuclear first strike! Although the prime minister and his Security Council had the authority to authorize the use of nuclear weapons, morally …

Rosenfeld looked down one side of the conference table and then the other, examining the faces of the men and women seated around him, eventually returning his attention to Ehud. “Are there are no conventional weapons capable of destroying this complex? Not even in the American arsenal?”

Ehud’s lips drew thin. “The Americans have the necessary weapons. But they will not provide them to us while they engage in discussions with Iran.” Ehud’s voice dripped with disdain as he mentioned America’s attempt to convince Iran to abandon its nuclear ambitions with mere words.

“Do not discount our ally so easily,” Rosenfeld replied. “I will meet with the American ambassador tomorrow and explain the situation.”

“You are blind, Levi.” Ehud’s face tightened. “The Americans have abandoned us, and you fail to recognize it.”

“That’s enough, Ehud! Provide me with the information on the weapons we need, and I will broach this with the United States.”

Ehud nodded tersely.

Rosenfeld stood. “Unless there is more to discuss, I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

The council members filed out of the conference room, until only Rosenfeld and Kogen remained.

Turning to Rosenfeld, Kogen said, “Prime Minister, may I have a word with you, privately?”

“Of course. What would you like to discuss?”

“It’s best we not talk here.”

Footsteps echoed off the gray terrazzo floor as the two men, each lost in his own thoughts, walked down the Hall of Advisers toward Rosenfeld’s office. On their right, paintings of Israel’s prime ministers hung in shallow alcoves, beginning with the image of their country’s first premier, David Ben-Gurion, who guided Israel through its War of Independence. At the far end of the hallway, a conspicuous bare spot on the wall marked the location where Rosenfeld’s portrait would someday hang.

Glancing at the shorter and heavier man walking beside him, Kogen thought Rosenfeld had aged more than could be attributed to the normal passage of time. But that was easily explained. Shortly after his election six years ago, the prime minister had weathered a three-year intifada. Then there was the personal loss he had endured, compounded by his dual responsibilities as father and prime minister. Yet despite the toll of his years in office, the older man walked with a determined pace and slightly forward lean, as if barreling through unseen obstacles in his path. The brisk pace was his only exercise; workouts were always something to be scheduled in the not too distant future. As a result, he had steadily added padding to his midsection. But Kogen knew Rosenfeld considered his weight acceptable as long as the circumference of his waist remained smaller than the width of his shoulders. Fortunately, Rosenfeld had broad shoulders.

Kogen, on the other hand, had retained his youthful physique, lean and muscular. The taller man, always impeccably dressed, he projected an air of competence and confidence. To the uninformed, Kogen was the more ideal image of a prime minister. But his service had been limited to the military and Israel’s intelligence service; he’d been appointed intelligence minister shortly after Rosenfeld’s election as prime minister.

Reaching the end of the hallway, Rosenfeld and Kogen passed through a metal detector and into the Aquarium, the security guard’s eyes displaying no hint of curiosity about their arrival so late on a Monday evening. The Aquarium section of the PMO, the Prime Minister’s Office building, where foreign leaders visited their Israeli counterparts, contained a plush, well-appointed lobby, offices for Rosenfeld and his closest aides, and a communications center that allowed for minute-by-minute contact with the Israel Defense Forces. Kogen reflected on the many decisions Rosenfeld and previous prime ministers had made in that small room, guiding Israel through its turbulent history; decisions that paled in importance to the one that would be made tonight.

Following the prime minister into his office, Kogen sat stiffly in the chair across from Rosenfeld’s desk, scanning the content of the modestly furnished room as he collected his thoughts. The furniture was spartan and utilitarian, the desk and chairs made from natural unstained maple, unadorned with intricate carvings. The shelf behind Rosenfeld was filled with books arranged in no particular order. The office, with its indecipherable filing system and simple furnishings, reflected the prime minister perfectly — it was difficult to gauge his reaction to complex issues, yet straightforward once a decision was made. Although Kogen had known Rosenfeld his entire adult life, he could not predict his friend’s response. Rosenfeld’s decision would determine whether four years of painstaking preparation had been in vain.

Heavy drops of rain pelted the prime minister’s windows as Rosenfeld waited for Kogen to speak. As impatience gathered in Rosenfeld’s eyes, Kogen steeled himself. He cleared his throat, then began. “We must destroy Natanz, Levi. You know better than anyone the sacrifice we will endure as a nation if Iran is allowed to develop nuclear weapons.”

Rosenfeld glanced at the framed portrait of his family, still sitting on his desk. “You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know, Barak.”

Lowering his voice, Kogen continued, “Iran is a cesspool of contempt for Israel, intent on exterminating our people. Natanz must be destroyed before this weapon is assembled. We do not have the necessary conventional weapons. Therefore it must be destroyed with a nuclear strike.”

There was a long silence as Rosenfeld contemplated Kogen’s assertion. Finally, Rosenfeld spoke. “I will not authorize the preemptive use of nuclear weapons. From a political and moral standpoint, that is something we cannot do.”

Kogen leaned back in his chair, a sly smile emerging on his lips. “I never said Israel would launch the nuclear strike.”

Rosenfeld blinked, not comprehending Kogen’s statement. “Then who?”

The younger man’s smile widened. “America.”

A puzzled expression worked its way across Rosenfeld’s face. “America? The president would never authorize this.”

Kogen hesitated a moment before continuing. It was finally time to reveal the Mossad’s most closely held secret. “The president’s authorization isn’t required, Prime Minister. Only yours. The Mossad stands ready to initiate an operation that will result in America destroying Natanz. Your authorization is the only step remaining.”

Rosenfeld stared at Kogen for a long moment, then his eyes went to the portrait of his family again. No one understood better what was at stake than Rosenfeld, and Kogen knew he was struggling. Iran didn’t have an army massed on Israel’s border. They didn’t have a nuclear arsenal in the process of being launched. Yet the threat Iran posed was severe. It had to be dealt with, and deceiving America into employing one of its nuclear weapons was the perfect solution.

It didn’t take long for Rosenfeld to come to a decision.

“Absolutely not!”

Frustration boiled inside Kogen. Still, he harbored hope Rosenfeld would eventually come to the proper decision. The Mossad plan was a radical proposal, and the prime minister would need time to accept it. After a few days of reflection, Rosenfeld would see the wisdom in Kogen’s solution.

Showing no outward sign of his frustration, Kogen stood. Before turning to leave, he said, “In ten days, Prime Minister, Iran will complete assembly of this weapon. You have until then to decide.”

2

Just off the south shore of Oahu, as the sun began its climb into a clear blue sky, the USS Kentucky surged through dark green water, the seas spilling over the bow before rolling down the sides of the long black ship. Standing on the Bridge in the submarine’s tall conning tower, Lieutenant Tom Wilson, on watch as Officer of the Deck, assessed a large gray warship crossing the submarine’s path ahead. The ship’s Captain, Commander Brad Malone, stood next to Tom, binoculars to his eyes, likewise studying the U.S. Navy cruiser four thousand yards ahead, inbound to Pearl Harbor. Standing behind them atop the conning tower, or sail, as it was commonly called, the Lookout scanned the horizon for additional contacts. But the cruiser just off the port bow was the most pressing concern, and Tom decided to alter the Kentucky’s course to maintain a safe distance.

Pressing the microphone in his hand, the lieutenant passed his order to the Control Room below. “Helm, left full rudder, steady course two-six-zero.” Tom turned aft to verify the order was properly executed, watching the top of the rudder, poking above the ocean’s surface, rotate left. Behind the ship, the submarine’s powerful propeller churned a frothy white wake as the Kentucky began its slow arc to port.

Tom knew the Kentucky would not turn quickly due to its tremendous size, which could not be appreciated while the submarine was underway or alongside a pier. Like an iceberg, most of the ship was underwater. Only in dry dock was the immensity of the submarine apparent — almost two football fields long, wide as a three-lane highway, and seven stories tall from the keel to the top of the sail. A tenth of a mile long, the submarine did not maneuver easily. But that hadn’t been a factor in the tense weeklong exercise the crew had just completed.

Two weeks earlier, the Kentucky had slipped from the quiet waters of Hood Canal in Washington State, passed Port Ludlow and the Twin Spits into the Strait of San Juan de Fuca, and entered the Pacific Ocean en route to her patrol area. Less than a day after getting under way, however, they were diverted to the Hawaiian operating areas for an unexpected week of training. The Kentucky had performed well during the exercise and had just offloaded a group of students onto a tug outside the entrance to Pearl Harbor. Finally, after months of training in port and the unscheduled diversion at sea, the Kentucky was heading out to relieve another Trident ballistic missile submarine on patrol.

The submarine’s rudder returned to amidships, and the young Officer of the Deck turned his attention to the submarine’s new course: westerly toward its patrol area.

Commander Malone dropped the binoculars from his eyes. “It’s good to be back at sea, isn’t it, Tom?”

Tom turned to the ship’s Commanding Officer.

Not really.

Several weeks ago, as the crew prepared for another two-and-a-half-month long patrol, the tension between Tom and his wife had escalated. Nancy’s disillusion with Navy life had grown sharper with each deployment, and now that she’d given birth to twin girls, the stress of his pending departure had sparked an explosive confrontation. Tom had finally agreed to submit his resignation when he returned from sea. This would be his last patrol.

Malone stared at him, and Tom realized he hadn’t answered the Captain’s question. “Yes, sir. It’s good to be under way again.”

The older man smiled, placing his hand on the young officer’s shoulder. “You don’t have to lie to me, Tom. I know it’s not easy.”

A report from below echoed from the Bridge communications box. “Bridge, Nav. Passing the one-hundred-fathom curve outbound.” Tom acknowledged the report, then glanced at the Bridge Display Unit, checking the Kentucky’s progress toward the Dive Point.

“Shift the watch belowdecks,” Malone ordered. “Prepare to dive.”

Tom acknowledged the Captain’s order as Malone ducked down into the ship’s sail, descending the ladder into Control. Tom squinted up at the sun; it’d be two long months before he saw it again. Two months of fluorescent lighting and artificially controlled days and nights. Two months before the Kentucky returned home, the crew greeting their wives and children waiting on the pier. As much as he enjoyed his job, it paled in comparison to the joyful reunion with his wife, and now his two young daughters, at the end of each long patrol.

With his thoughts lingering on his family, Tom dropped his gaze to the horizon, then flipped the switch on the Bridge box, shifting the microphone in his hand over to the shipwide 1-MC announcing circuit.

“Shift the watch belowdecks,” Tom ordered. “Prepare to dive.”

Twenty minutes later, Tom descended the ladder into Control, stopping five rungs from the bottom. He pulled the heavy Lower Bridge hatch shut, spinning the handle until the hatch lugs engaged.

“Last man down, hatch secure,” he announced to the new Officer of the Deck stationed on the Conn, a one-foot-high platform in the center of Control, surrounding the two periscopes. Tom signed the Rig for Dive book, then reviewed the status of the rest of the submarine’s compartments. He turned to Commander Malone, standing next to the Officer of the Deck. “Captain, the ship is rigged for Dive.”

Malone nodded thoughtfully. “Since this is your last patrol, why don’t you take her down?”

How did he know?

Neither Tom nor Nancy had told anyone, but Tom wasn’t surprised. Malone seemed to know everything about his ship and the crew that manned it.

He grinned. “I’d love to, sir.” After receiving a quick update on the ship’s status, he relieved as OOD, this time in Control instead of on the Bridge above, informing Malone once the turnover was complete. “Sir, I have relieved as Officer of the Deck.”

“Very well. Submerge the ship.”

“Submerge the ship, aye, sir.”

Before submerging, Tom surveyed his watch section in Control. Fire control technicians manned two of the four combat control consoles on the starboard side of the ship, calculating the course, speed, and range of contacts held on the ship’s sensors. The Quartermaster, responsible for determining the ship’s position and monitoring water depth, was bent over the chart table near the Conn. In front of Tom sat the ship’s Diving Officer, supervising the two planesmen — the Outboard watchstander, who operated the submarine’s diving control surfaces on the stern, and the Inboard watchstander, or Helm, who operated both the rudder and the depth-control surfaces on the submarine’s sail. On the left side of the Diving Officer sat the Chief of the Watch, who was responsible for adjusting the ship’s buoyancy, both overall and fore-to-aft, and operated the submarine’s masts and antennas.

After carefully reviewing the status of his watch section, Tom announced loudly, “All stations, Conn. Prepare to submerge.”

The Quartermaster examined the ship’s Fathometer, announcing, “Two hundred fathoms beneath the keel,” and the Chief of the Watch reported, “Straight board, sir. All hull penetrations sealed.”

Satisfied his watch section was ready, Tom approached the port periscope, which was already raised, turned the scope until it looked forward, then pressed his face against the eyepiece, peering through the scope with his right eye. “Dive, submerge the ship to one-six-zero feet.”

The Diving Officer nodded to the Chief of the Watch, who announced, “Dive, dive,” on the 1-MC, then activated the ship’s diving alarm. The characteristic oooggh-aaahh resounded throughout the submarine, followed by “Dive, dive,” again on the 1-MC. The Chief of the Watch opened the vents on top of the main ballast tanks, letting water flood up through grates in the ship’s keel, and the Kentucky gradually sank into the ocean as it lost buoyancy. As the waves passed over the submarine’s bow, the escaping air rushing out of the main ballast tank vents shot geysers of water mist high above the Kentucky’s sail.

“Forward tanks venting.” Tom swung the scope around, looking back over the ship’s stern. “Aft tanks venting.”

The Kentucky gradually sank into the ocean, and soon only the submarine’s sail was visible above the surface, the waves now passing over the top of the Missile Compartment deck.

“Deck’s awash.”

The Kentucky continued its descent, the top of the submarine’s sail disappearing into the ocean as the Diving Officer announced, “Passing eight-zero feet.” Waves began breaking over the top of the periscope, increasing in frequency as the Kentucky slipped into the depths of the Pacific Ocean.

“Scope’s under.”

Returning the periscope to a forward view, Tom folded the handles and reached up, rotating the periscope locking ring counterclockwise, lowering the scope into its well. The Control Room was quiet, except for occasional reports and orders between watchstanders. Tom listened closely to the Diving Officer and the Chief of the Watch as they monitored the submarine’s buoyancy, determining whether they needed to flood water into or pump water out of the variable ballast tanks.

“Shutting main ballast tank vents,” the Chief of the Watch reported, sealing the tanks in case the ship was grossly overweight and an Emergency Blow was required to restore buoyancy.

The submarine gradually slowed its descent until it leveled off at 160 feet. “On ordered depth,” the Diving Officer announced. The Kentucky had submerged without a hitch, the evolution executed flawlessly.

“Well done, Tom,” Malone said. “Get relieved and meet me in Nav Center with the XO and department heads.”

In the Navigation Center behind Control, Tom joined Malone beside the chart table, along with the ship’s Executive Officer and the submarine’s four department heads. On the right of the ship’s Commanding Officer stood the Executive Officer, or XO. Responsible for all administrative issues and the daily execution of the ship’s activities, Lieutenant Commander Bruce Fay was the submarine’s second in command. Beneath the CO and XO in the military hierarchy stood the submarine’s four department heads, all on their second submarine tour with the exception of the ship’s Supply Officer, the only non-nuclear-trained officer aboard.

The most senior department head, Lieutenant Commander John Hinves, standing to Malone’s left, was the ship’s Engineering Officer, or Eng, responsible for the nuclear reactor and propulsion plant, as well as all basic mechanical and electrical systems throughout the ship. The other three department heads were all senior lieutenants. Pete Manning was the Weapons Officer, or Weps; Alan Tyler was the Navigation Officer, or Nav; and Jeff Quimby was the submarine’s Supply Officer, or Suppo, although many had not yet broken the habit of referring to the man responsible for serving the pork and beans as the Chop. Tom, one of nine junior officers aboard the submarine for their first three-year sea tour, was the only JO in Nav Center because of his assignment as Assistant Weapons Officer, responsible for the more detailed aspects of the submarine’s tactical and strategic weapon systems.

As the six other men waited quietly around the chart table, Malone opened a sealed manila envelope stamped TOP SECRET in orange letters, retrieving a single-page document containing the ship’s patrol orders. Until this moment, no one aboard the Kentucky knew their assigned operating area, where they would lurk for the duration of their patrol. Malone skimmed the document, pausing to read aloud the pertinent information.

“‘Transit through operating area Sapphire, then commence Alert Patrol in Emerald.’” Malone turned to the ship’s Navigator. “How long to Emerald?”

Tyler measured off the distance on the chart between the Kentucky’s current position and the entrance to Emerald.

“Ten days, sir.”

3

“So what have you learned?”

Captain Murray Wilson stood between the Houston’s two periscopes, his arms folded across his chest, glaring at the ten Prospective Commanding and Executive Officers gathered in the submarine’s Control Room. The atmosphere in Control was subdued, with most of the ten PCOs and PXOs staring down at the submarine’s deck. As Captain Wilson dressed down his students, the Houston’s crew sat quietly at their watch stations, painfully aware their performance during the Submarine Command Course had been dismal as well.

“In twenty engagements over the last week, the Kentucky consistently defeated you, sinking this ship every time. A ballistic missile submarine, not even one of our front-line fast attacks, handed your ass to you.” Wilson shook his head, then asked his question again. “So what have you learned?”

One of the PCOs, headed to relieve as commanding officer of the USS Greenville, spoke. “We need to better position the ship, taking advantage of the ocean’s thermal layer. The Kentucky gained her advantage through better employment of her sensors.”

“True,” Wilson replied, “but that’s not the answer I’m looking for.”

An uneasy silence settled over the Control Room again until a second PCO spoke, this one headed to relieve as commanding officer of the West Virginia. “Countermeasures aren’t very effective against our ADCAP torpedo. You have to be more aggressive in your evasion tactics when you’re being shot at with advanced digital torpedoes.”

“Another good observation,” Wilson said, “but still not what I’m looking for.”

Silence returned to the Control Room as Murray Wilson, the most senior captain in the Submarine Force, waited for the obvious answer from one of the students in the twelfth Submarine Command Course under his instruction. Each year, the Submarine Force held four command courses, ensuring each officer tapped to relieve as a submarine commanding or executive officer fully grasped the knowledge and tactical guidance necessary to successfully lead his crew in combat. The three months of intense training culminated in a weeklong exercise at sea, the students split between two submarines, pitted against each other day and night, their Torpedo Rooms filled to the gills with exercise torpedoes.

The Houston was supposed to go head-to-head against another fast attack, the Scranton, but an electrical turbine casualty sent the Scranton to the yards for repair, and the Kentucky was hastily drafted into service. When the students assigned to the Houston learned the Kentucky, which specialized in launching missiles instead of hunting enemy submarines, had replaced the Scranton, their reaction was glib; they were confident they would defeat the Kentucky without breaking a sweat.

They couldn’t have been more wrong.

Wilson’s gaze swept across his now humble students, stopping on Commander Joe Casey, headed to the USS Texas, one of the Virginia-class fast attacks. He’d been the most boisterous of his students, loudly proclaiming they’d crush the Kentucky in every scenario.

“Commander Casey. What’s the most important lesson you learned this week?” Casey looked up, and Wilson knew from the look in the young commander’s eyes that he had learned his lesson.

Casey said, “Don’t be too cocky.”

Wilson smiled. “That’s exactly right, gentleman. Never underestimate your opponent, which is exactly what you did this week. When you found out the Kentucky replaced the Scranton, you expected a cakewalk. Going up against a ballistic missile submarine instead of one of our fast attacks was going to be like what, Commander Bates?”

Doug Bates, standing next to Casey, looked up and answered quietly, “Like shooting fish in a barrel.”

“Things didn’t turn out quite the way you expected, did they? Just because the Kentucky is a ballistic missile submarine doesn’t make her any less capable than a fast attack. All of her department heads have served on fast attacks — and don’t forget, I trained her commanding officer and executive officer. True, her sonar and combat control systems are a generation behind what we have on our fast attacks, but they are capable enough in the hands of a crew that understands the ship’s strengths and weaknesses, and most important, doesn’t underestimate their opponent. When you lead your submarine into the Western Pacific or through the Red Sea into the Gulf, you’ll be pitted against what could easily be considered an inferior adversary, lacking the sophisticated equipment and training you enjoy. But all it takes is one mistake, one incorrect assumption, one torpedo to send you and your crew to the bottom.”

Wilson’s ire began to build as he contemplated the fate of his students. He ought to fail them all, permanently ending their careers, a fitting reward for their inability to lead their crew in combat. But as he scanned the faces of the sullen and embarrassed officers, he wondered if instead of this being his worst class, it was his best. No other group of Prospective Commanding and Executive Officers had learned this critical lesson more thoroughly than the men standing in front of him.

“Excuse me, sir.” The Houston’s Junior Officer of the Deck interrupted Wilson. “The Captain requests your presence on the Bridge. The Kentucky has returned to periscope depth and is requesting release.”

Wilson acknowledged the officer’s report, then finished addressing his students. “When we get back to port, I want a complete reconstruction of each encounter, with detailed analysis of what you did wrong and what you could have done better in each scenario. You have seventy-two hours to complete reconstruction of all twenty events.”

A moment later, Murray Wilson emerged onto the Houston’s small Bridge cockpit, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the bright daylight, joining Commander Kevin Lawson, the Houston’s commanding officer.

“Looks like I’ve got some work to do,” Lawson said, a look of embarrassment on his face. “I know I’ve got a new Sonar Chief, but I didn’t realize how far the sonar shack’s proficiency had fallen. We’ll spend a few weeks in the sonar trainer before our next deployment.”

Wilson didn’t reply. He knew Lawson would take a turn on his crew as soon as they returned to port. Instead, his eyes searched the horizon for the Kentucky.

“Bearing two-seven-zero relative,” the Lookout behind Wilson said.

Turning to his left, Wilson spotted the Kentucky’s periscope and antenna just off the Houston’s port beam, only a few hundred yards away as the ballistic missile submarine headed out to sea for her long strategic deterrent patrol.

Lawson passed the handheld radio to Wilson. “The Kentucky’s on channel sixteen.”

Wilson took the radio, holding it close to his mouth. “Outbound Navy unit, this is inbound Navy unit, over.”

A familiar voice crackled from the radio; Murray’s son, Tom, responded to the Houston’s hail. “Inbound Navy unit, request release, over.”

Wilson replied, “Outbound Navy unit, you are released for other duties. Godspeed and good hunting, over.”

There was a burst of static, followed by Tom’s response. “That’s not an appropriate wish for this class of submarine, but thanks anyway. See you in a few months, sir. This is outbound Navy unit, out.”

Wilson handed the radio back to Lawson, then watched the Kentucky’s periscope grow smaller as the submarine headed out to sea, finally disappearing altogether as she descended into the murky ocean depths. A brisk wind whipped through the fast attack’s Bridge, sending a chill down Wilson’s spine. He rubbed both arms as he looked up, noting a towering bank of dark gray cumulous clouds approaching from the west, the direction the Kentucky was headed. But Wilson’s son and the rest of the submarine’s crew wouldn’t even notice the storm churning the water’s surface several hundred feet above them.

“The cold front’s rolling in fast,” Wilson said, turning to Lawson. “Let’s get in before we get caught in the storm.”

4

National Security Adviser Christine O’Connor sat in her West Wing office with her elbows propped on her polished rosewood desk, rubbing her temples with her fingertips in a slow circular motion. As she gazed out her window overlooking the White House south lawn, hoping for relief from her pounding headache, she took no notice of the gray skies and steady rain that had moved in overnight. Instead, her thoughts dwelt on the upcoming meeting with the president’s chief of staff; the reason, she was sure, for her painful migraine.

Searching through her desk, Christine located and then downed four ibuprofen with a gulp of lukewarm coffee. Although she felt far older today, she was only forty-two, not that most people would have guessed; only the thin lines around her slate-blue eyes gave her age away. Still, it felt like her time in the administration had aged her more than it was worth. As Christine brushed a strand of auburn hair away from her face, she wondered, not for the first time, if she had made the right decision.

Two years earlier, in the incoming administration’s temporary spaces off Pennsylvania Avenue, Christine had sat nervously across from the president-elect, answering pointed questions from the man she’d met only moments earlier. She hadn’t expected the interview to go particularly well; she disagreed with the president-elect’s positions on national security on almost every point and made no effort to imply otherwise. However, there must have been something about her straightforward responses and poised demeanor that sealed the deal for the president. Christine had accepted the appointment, even though she knew it would be difficult working in an administration whose political views she didn’t share. Unfortunately, she hadn’t counted on the animosity between her and the president’s chief of staff.

Kevin Hardison was the kind of type A personality who cared only about results. As the president’s right-hand man, he was unencumbered with the obligation — or the talent — to maintain personal relationships. He didn’t seem to care whose feelings he hurt or careers he ruined in his quest to achieve the administration’s goals. Although Hardison treated the rest of the White House staff fairly, with equal disdain, he seemed to have reserved a special spot in that black void where his heart should have been for Christine.

This wasn’t the first time she had worked with Hardison, and the previous experience had been altogether different. The two had met on Congressman Tim Johnson’s staff, working in his office in Rayburn Hall. Christine, fresh out of Penn State with a political science degree, had been paired up with Hardison, ten years her senior, to learn the ropes. The two had gotten along well, developing what she thought was a strong friendship.

So it was no surprise to Christine that Hardison had recommended her to the president. However, Hardison had assumed she was still the malleable staffer she once was, and that he would be able to force her to acquiesce to his policy initiatives. Hardison hadn’t responded well to his rude awakening once she assumed the role of national security adviser.

As Christine navigated the hazards of disagreeing with the powerful chief of staff, it didn’t take long to determine why the president had selected her for his national security adviser. As a congressional staffer, Christine had specialized in weapon procurement programs, analyzing and recommending adjustments to the budget. Her weapon system expertise had proved valuable to the current administration, as few, if any, on staff knew the difference between a Tomahawk and a Standard missile, between a Sidewinder and an AIM-9X, or even the basic difference between a mortar, a howitzer, and an artillery gun, the latter distinction being crucial to those fighting in the mountainous regions of Afghanistan.

Perhaps even more important was the experience she had gained as the assistant secretary of defense for special operations and low-intensity conflict, along with a two-year stint as the director of nuclear defense policy. Her track record working for both Republicans and Democrats was noteworthy, and her ties to the Defense Department’s congressional supporters were extensive. Her ability to liaison effectively with key representatives and senators on both sides of the aisle had proved useful to the president, who, as a former governor of a Midwestern state, was considered a Washington outsider.

One of the staff secretaries entered Christine’s office with a stack of files in her arms. Seeing the bottle of ibuprofen, the secretary came to a quick and correct conclusion. “You’re meeting with Hardison, aren’t you, Miss O’Connor?”

Christine nodded, smiling weakly. The chief of staff had crafted yet another plan to restructure the nation’s intelligence agencies, no different from the last in any meaningful way, and was awaiting her endorsement. That endorsement would not be forthcoming. She believed the endless reorganizations, despite the impressive names and ambitious proclamations, did nothing more than change the tablecloth. The only way to make significant changes was to break some china. But the venerable intelligence agencies had far too many congressional allies for any meaningful reorganization to occur.

As Christine prepared to review the four reorganizations since September 11, 2001, the secretary clutched the files against her chest, evidently not noticing Christine wasn’t in a particularly talkative mood. Christine was about to politely request the files when she spotted Hardison, headed down the hallway toward her office, a frown on his face.

“Speak of the devil,” the secretary whispered. “And he doesn’t look too pleased.”

Hardison entered Christine’s office, wasting no time on pleasantries. He grabbed the remote on Christine’s desk, pointing it at the TV on the wall across the room. A reporter appeared on-screen, umbrella in hand protecting her hair and makeup from the steady drizzle, the spandrels of the Calvert Bridge arching gracefully behind her. “To recap today’s gruesome discovery, the murder victim discovered in Rock Creek Park has been identified as twenty-two-year-old Russell Evans, a White House intern. Police officials have provided few additional details, but we’ll keep you up-to-date as new information is obtained. This is Doreen Cornellier, Channel Nine news.”

Christine stared at the TV in disbelief. Russell … murdered?

The TV went black, and Hardison tossed the remote control back onto Christine’s desk. “Leave,” he said to the secretary, who was still clutching the files.

Christine stood to accept the files. She numbly thanked the older woman, who avoided the chief of staff’s stare as she hurried out of the office.

“When was the last time you talked with Evans?” Hardison asked.

She placed the files on her desk, then focused on Hardison’s question. “Friday night. I stopped by his desk on my way out and he said he’d be working late.”

“What was he working on?”

“I had him reviewing nuclear weapon policy initiatives we have under development. Why do you ask?”

Hardison’s eyebrows furrowed. “Call me paranoid, but someone just murdered your intern, and I’d like to convince myself his death was unrelated to his work. That he didn’t piss off a powerful constituent or lobbyist group.”

“You think his murder was politically motivated?”

“No, it was probably just a mugging gone wrong. But we’re meeting stiff resistance to some of the legislation we’re pushing forward, and I’d like to know if he was working on anything sensitive.”

“I don’t think so, Kevin.” Christine glanced at the dark TV. “Do you want me to look into it?”

“No, I’ll take care of it. Get back to work. Did you approve the intelligence agency restructuring?”

“No,” Christine replied coolly.

Hardison approached Christine behind her desk, stopping a foot away, a scowl on his face. The strong scent of his aftershave assailed her. “Why are you here? Why did you take this job?”

Standing her ground, Christine refused to be intimidated by Hardison’s physical presence. “Because the president asked me to. Because he, unlike you, values dissent, wants to hear the other side of the story and not just the stilted one-sided crap you feed him.”

The muscles in Hardison’s jaw twitched. “The president has the vision, and I do the heavy lifting. I’ve melded this White House staff into a formidable team, and you refuse to join that team, bucking my policies at every turn.”

Christine glared up at him. “You mean the president’s policies. Or do you?”

“Don’t mince words with me, Christine. Either get on board, or get out of the way.”

Christine pressed her lips together as several inflammatory responses flashed through her mind. Instead, she took a more personal approach. “What happened to you, Kevin? We used to be friends, working together to achieve the same goals.”

“That was twenty years ago, Christine. I’ve become a realist, while you cling to your idealistic dreams. I achieve results, while you do nothing more than make my job difficult.”

It was pointless to continue the discussion. She settled into her chair. “Is there anything else you’d like to discuss?”

“I want your concurrence on the restructuring proposal.”

Christine smiled. “Don’t hold your breath.”

Hardison gritted his teeth, then turned and left.

Leaning back in her chair, Christine rubbed her temples again with both hands. Maybe Hardison was right. She felt like a salmon swimming upstream, making no headway against the current of well-intentioned, but ultimately damaging, policies being pushed forward. Then again, she had taken the job not because she thought she’d be able to implement policies she believed in, but because she believed in damage control. If she could derail just a few of the administration’s disastrous initiatives, her suffering would be worth it.

As Christine dwelt on her misery, her thoughts turned to Russell Evans. The young man’s mysterious death weighed heavily on her, and her heart went out to his parents. She couldn’t imagine their grief upon opening their front door to a police officer delivering the unwelcome news.

Pushing her thoughts about Evans aside, Christine checked her e-mail, picking up where she’d left off Friday evening. After she’d replied to a few e-mails, her hand froze as the mouse cursor passed over a message with no subject.

It was from Evans. Sent last night, just after midnight.

Christine clicked to open the e-mail and was greeted with a white screen containing a single phrase: E DRIVE.

e drive?

Checking the TO: and CC: fields, Christine noted the e-mail had been sent only to her. Turning her attention back to the solitary phrase, she contemplated why Evans would send her this cryptic e-mail. Perhaps the message was incomplete.

Or maybe it was everything she needed to know.

Opening the My Computer icon on her desktop, she searched through the drive directory. The C and D drives were folders on the computer’s hard drive. The E drive was her CD drive. Christine pressed Eject, waiting as the drive tray slid out.

There was nothing in it.

She tapped her index finger on her desk, wondering if Evans meant his E drive. Stepping outside her office, Christine scanned the desks in the adjacent West Wing alcove where several interns and office staff worked, her eyes coming to rest on the computer beside Evans’s desk. Her intuition gnawed at her, warning her to consider carefully to whom she revealed Evans’s e-mail, as well as the results of her search. After verifying no one else was within view, she stopped by Evans’s desk, pressing Eject on his computer.

A disk slid out.

Christine placed the CD into a plastic case resting on Evans’s desk, and a moment later she was back in her office. When she slid the disk into her computer, a windowpane opened on her monitor, displaying the contents of the CD. There were several dozen files, their names consisting of random letters and numbers. Christine double-clicked on the first file, but nothing happened. She tried to open it with various applications, each failing to respond or returning a pane of gibberish.

As she searched, a Recall notice from Evans appeared in her Outlook in-box, and a second later, the notice and Evans’s original e-mail were gone. Christine blinked at the screen in stunned silence, until two things became clear.

The first was that whoever had killed Evans had his BlackBerry.

The second was that there was something very important about his CD.

Christine picked up the phone and dialed the familiar number to the office in Langley. A few rings later, the call was answered.

“Director Ronan, this is Christine. I have a favor to ask of you.”

5

Greg Vandiver’s eyes cracked open against their will, fluttering shut again in response to the bright shaft of sunlight streaming through the second-story bedroom window overlooking Rabin Square. Rolling to his side, Vandiver forced his eyelids back open again, the color of his bloodshot eyes matching the numbers on the digital clock next to his bed. A painful pounding reverberated through his head, and it took a moment for him to realize someone was banging on the bedroom door — Joyce, no doubt. Vandiver sat up quickly, immediately regretting it as his head began throbbing in sync with the vigorous knocks.

Suddenly remembering he was not in bed alone, Vandiver turned and studied the young woman sleeping peacefully next to him, a thin sheet covering her naked body. Her straight, glossy black hair was spread across the white pillow as if it had been neatly arranged for a photo shoot. Almond-shaped eyes and caramel-colored skin rounded out her sensual beauty, a sharp contrast to the man admiring her. At five foot six and 180 pounds, U.S. Ambassador Greg Vandiver was not a particularly attractive man. Constantly on a diet that included too much wine and dessert, he had steadily added weight to his frame. Yet, at fifty-five, his smile retained its youthful exuberance and his thick black hair had yet to be invaded by the first strand of gray. His wealth and political influence compensated for his bland physical features — it never failed to amaze him how young women found money and power almost impossible to resist.

The pounding on the door resumed, this time accompanied by a rattling of its hinges. Vandiver stooped down, pulling on a white cotton robe he had deposited on the floor the previous evening. “Enter!” he shouted, immediately regretting his loud response as his head pulsed. The woman next to him stirred in her sleep, licking her full, luscious lips.

The door swung open, and Vandiver’s executive assistant entered the bedroom. It took only a second for Joyce Eddings’s eyes to take in the all-too-familiar scene. “You need to get moving, Ambassador. You have an unscheduled meeting with the prime minister in an hour and a half at his office in Jerusalem.”

Vandiver studied Joyce’s face; as usual, she expressed neither approval nor disapproval. Glancing at the clock again, he verified he had thirty minutes before departing for his meeting. But first, he had to make arrangements for a token of appreciation for his female guest. “Can you send—”

“Roses or carnations?” Joyce asked, pad and pen already in her hands.

Vandiver pondered for a moment, recalling his late-night escapade. “Roses. And get her phone number.”

“Her name?” Joyce asked, the corners of her mouth turning slightly upward as she prepared to wait patiently while the ambassador struggled to answer the simple, yet always difficult, question.

Vandiver’s eyes fell to the young woman still asleep in bed, trying to pull her name from last evening’s fog. While he never forgot a face or a body, names were another matter altogether. Finally, he located the first memory of last night’s encounter — her warm, firm handshake, the movement of her eyes as she quickly surveyed his body, her glistening lips parting as she introduced herself. Aah, yes.

“Alyssah.” A beautiful name for an even more beautiful girl.

Ambassador Vandiver lifted up the bedsheet, admiring Alyssah’s exquisite body one last time before beginning his day. Letting out a heavy sigh, he let the sheet fall.

An hour later, the harsh morning sun reflected off the flat desert landscape as a black Mercedes-Benz sped southeast along Highway 1, following the path of the ancient Roman highway connecting the coastal plains of the Mediterranean and the sandstone buildings of Jerusalem. Vandiver relaxed in the backseat of the armored S600 as Joyce, seated beside him, shuffled through several folders on her lap, searching for the answer to his last question. Vandiver knew it was unlikely the issue of foreign military financing would come up at this morning’s meeting. However, he preferred to be prepared. While showering and shaving, he had narrowed the list of potential topics, with this being the seventh and least probable on his list.

Joyce succeeded in locating the desired brief, pulling it from the folder with an exaggerated gesture. As she traced her finger down the sheet looking for the amount of economic and military aid provided by the United States to Israel and its neighbors each year, Vandiver reflected on how the U.S. government, not unlike himself, routinely used its wealth and influence to seduce or, to more accurately describe the process, procure reluctant friends.

The 1979 Israel-Egypt peace treaty was hailed by many as a historic turning point, bringing the long-awaited peace desired by both Arabs and Israelis. But most people didn’t know this international agreement had been, in part, procured by the United States. Each year the treaty remains in effect, Egypt receives two billion dollars in aid and Israel four billion, the bulk of which is foreign military financing — a grant that must be spent on U.S. military equipment. A clever way, Vandiver had to admit, to buy friends and influence their behavior while simultaneously feeding the American defense industry.

As Vandiver reflected on the tactics employed by the powerful United States against its weaker enemies and friends alike, he found it ironic they were passing the Route 38 interchange, taking travelers south to the Valley of Elah, the site of David’s epic biblical battle against Goliath. Only fourteen miles from Jerusalem and flanked by rolling Judean hills, the verdant valley slopes gently downward to a carpet of red anemones and multicolored lupines, through which wanders the seasonal brook where David gathered the stone used to slay Goliath.

Israel, despite its size, was no David, easily fielding the most capable military in the Middle East and the only country in the region with nuclear weapons. The outcome of a conflict with any of its neighbors, or even a multinational coalition, was not in doubt. However, Vandiver had learned from his lead Diplomatic Security Service agent that Israel’s National Security Council had met unexpectedly late last night. The prime minister’s request they meet so quickly after the Security Council meeting worried him. It was likely America’s assistance would be requested. What could possibly be beyond Israel’s capability?

Twenty minutes later, Vandiver’s car rolled to a halt outside a building that looked more like a run-down factory on the side of a highway than the headquarters of Israel’s executive government. Vandiver knew that aside from the luxurious Aquarium, the accommodations in the prime minister’s headquarters matched the building’s outward appearance. Climbing out of the sedan, Vandiver was greeted by Hirshel Mekel, the prime minister’s executive assistant, and another man, Mekel’s aide. After the requisite introductions, the young aide guided Joyce toward the Media Situation Room as Mekel escorted Vandiver into the Aquarium.

Entering Levi Rosenfeld’s office, Vandiver crossed the room, extending his hand. “Good morning, Prime Minister.”

Rosenfeld rose, stepping out from behind his desk to greet his American friend. “I’m glad you could meet this morning on such short notice.”

Vandiver shook Rosenfeld’s hand vigorously. “No problem at all.” Glancing to his left, Vandiver noticed a man sitting in a chair against the wall.

“Barak Kogen,” Rosenfeld said, “my intelligence minister.”

Vandiver eyed the head of Israel’s Mossad warily for a second before returning his attention to Rosenfeld. “What can I do for you today, Prime Minister?”

“We have a serious situation,” Rosenfeld said, “and we need the United States’ assistance.”

“How can we help?”

“Please, sit.” Rosenfeld returned to his seat and Vandiver sat in a chair across from Rosenfeld’s desk. A steward knocked, then entered with a tray of coffee and pastries, which he deposited on the end table next to Vandiver’s chair. After pouring the ambassador a cup of coffee, the steward retreated, and Rosenfeld waited patiently while Vandiver’s hand hovered over the pastries, finally selecting the most appealing one. Now that Ambassador Vandiver had a cup of coffee in one hand and a pastry in the other, he devoted his full attention to Israel’s prime minister as he spoke.

“We have been concerned, Ambassador, that Iran will develop nuclear weapons, fearful they will be used against Israel. We have discovered that Iran is less than ten days away from completing the assembly of its first nuclear bomb.”

Vandiver interrupted the prime minister, waving the pastry in his hand in the process. “Iran wouldn’t dare use nuclear weapons against you. They know the United States wouldn’t stand by — that we’d retaliate.” Vandiver paused, realizing how his last statement, meant to reassure their ally, might have sounded to the Israelis. After Iran wipes out part, if not your entire country, we’ll teach them a lesson.

Thinly veiled disgust spread across Rosenfeld’s face. “We cannot let Iran obtain nuclear weapons. Unfortunately, the Iranian weapon complex is deep underground, protected by hardened bunkers. The conventional weapons in Israel’s arsenal aren’t powerful enough to destroy this facility, so we need your assistance. We need four of your newest bunker-busting bombs…” Rosenfeld glanced down at a sheet of paper on his desk, “the Massive Ordnance Penetrator, by the end of this week.”

Vandiver placed the half-eaten pastry back onto the tray, his friendly demeanor transitioning to a cool façade. “I’m afraid I already know the answer to your request, Prime Minister. I’ve discussed this topic extensively with Washington, and the answer is no. Our administration is committed to peaceful negotiations with Iran, and will not authorize the transfer of any weapons to Israel that could disrupt that process.”

“I see,” Rosenfeld said tersely.

Kogen joined the conversation. “Ambassador Vandiver, I noticed your choice of words. You said the United States would not authorize the transfer of the weapons we seek. What is the United States willing to transfer to Israel without official authorization?”

Vandiver straightened his back. “It appears I’ve chosen my words poorly. Let me rephrase, to be perfectly clear. The United States will not provide Israel with additional offensive weapons, either officially or unofficially. Am I speaking clearly enough now?”

Kogen leaned back in his chair, the friendly expression on his face fading to an impassive mask. “Clear as crystal, I believe the saying goes in your country.”

Vandiver turned back to Rosenfeld, whose face was slowly reddening as he absorbed the ambassador’s response. More than thirty years earlier, President Reagan’s use of the term “evil empire” in characterizing the Soviet Union, and later, George W. Bush’s coinage of “axis of evil” had been ridiculed by many, their overly simplistic view of the world failing to reflect the complexity of modern politics. But Vandiver knew Rosenfeld shared that view, that he believed the two American presidents had assessed the situation with remarkable clarity — right versus wrong, good versus evil. And Israel’s war against Islamic fanaticism was a quintessential example of the struggle between good and evil. A struggle the United States was now refusing to support.

“You claim to be Israel’s closest ally,” Rosenfeld fumed, his frustration bleeding through as he spoke, “yet you abandon us in our hour of need. Let me make something perfectly clear to you, Ambassador. Israel has the means to defend herself, and the fallout”—Rosenfeld hesitated for a moment as if reconsidering his choice of words—“the blood we shed will be on your hands if you do not provide us with the conventional weapons we need.”

There was an uneasy silence as Vandiver assimilated the prime minister’s last statement. Rosenfeld’s choice of words did not go unnoticed, but they couldn’t possibly mean what Vandiver thought they did. “Are you saying Israel will use nuclear weapons to destroy the Iranian facility?”

Rosenfeld greeted the ambassador’s question with an icy stare.

The hair stood up on the back of Vandiver’s neck. This was not just another diplomatic drill, putting a face on the administration’s policies. Israel was actually contemplating the use of nuclear weapons in a proactive attack to defend itself. The Arab and world response would be unpredictable; a half dozen scenarios played out quickly in Vandiver’s mind, all of them bad. Very bad. But one thing was clear — no matter what followed Israel’s use of nuclear weapons, the outcome would be catastrophic for Middle East peace and stability. Israel could not be allowed to conduct a nuclear first strike.

Vandiver’s eyes narrowed. “The support you have within the United States, both from its people and government, not to mention the four billion dollars in defense aid you receive each year, will evaporate if you attack Iran with nuclear weapons.”

Rosenfeld stood suddenly. “Thank you for coming, Ambassador. I presume you know the way out?” His hands remained at his sides. No warm handshake and friendly smile would follow this morning’s meeting.

U.S. Ambassador Greg Vandiver stood, glaring at Rosenfeld, then turned abruptly and left.

Barak Kogen rose and closed the door to Rosenfeld’s office, locking it. Turning back toward the older man, he waited as the prime minister collapsed into his chair. The meeting had gone exactly as he had expected. The Americans could no longer be counted on to defend Israel, and now his foresight would prove valuable. The Mossad’s operation had been tabletopped a hundred times, and after the addition of a few contingency plans, the outcome was always the same. All that stood in the way was the prime minister’s approval.

Assessing the older man’s crestfallen appearance, Kogen decided to press Rosenfeld again for approval. “It appears the only way to defend Israel is through the use of nuclear weapons,” he began. “And who do you want the world to blame for this attack? We have the opportunity to defend ourselves and pin the blame on our so-called ally, who abandons us when we need their assistance the most.”

After a moment, Rosenfeld replied, “We cannot defend our people by unleashing a nuclear holocaust, Barak. You seem unable to recognize that moral restriction.”

“No, Levi, I disagree. You seem unable to recognize the choice you face. You must choose either Israel’s survival or destruction.”

After a moment’s thought, Rosenfeld shook his head slowly. “I disagree, Barak. I’m prepared to authorize conventional strikes to protect our people, but not a nuclear attack. We will monitor Natanz closely, and if they move their weapon from the facility, we will strike quickly.”

Kogen’s eyes glowered, his frustration increasing as the hope Rosenfeld would authorize the Mossad operation faded. “We may not be able to detect the weapon’s movement and strike before it is used against us. We have the opportunity to destroy this bomb and eliminate the risk to our people, but you must authorize the operation soon. Think this through carefully, Levi, before you let this opportunity pass.”

6

It was just before noon as a black BMW 7 Series sedan navigated the busy Jerusalem streets, fighting its way toward the original walled city in the heart of the Israeli capital. The previous week’s storm had left behind a plain blue sky from which hung a solitary yellow disk, spreading welcome warmth across the city. Tables from roadside cafés spilled out onto the sidewalks, nearly every chair occupied as the city’s population celebrated the sun’s reemergence after a weeklong hiatus. The crowded sidewalks had dried for the most part, and pedestrians skirted the few shallow puddles that remained as Rosenfeld’s sedan passed by unnoticed.

In the backseat of the armored car, Rosenfeld tried unsuccessfully to relax. He had slept fitfully, his dreams filled with images of Hannah, and had awoken tired and irritable. If that weren’t enough, his meeting with Ehud Rabin this morning had been contentious, their conversation focused on military options available to destroy the Iranian nuclear facilities. His defense minister and old friend continued to insist the only way to destroy the facility at Natanz was with a nuclear strike.

As the BMW turned left onto Agron Street, Rosenfeld checked his watch. He was looking forward to a temporary distraction from his duties as prime minister, having decided to join his children for lunch at Sandrino’s, just inside the ramparts of the Old City. As his face brightened with the thought of seeing his twin daughters, he couldn’t help but think how much they resembled Hannah and how much she would have enjoyed watching them grow up.

It had been three years since Hannah died, killed indiscriminately by a rocket launched from Gaza. He should have spent more time with Sarah and Rachel after Hannah’s death, but his duties as prime minister consumed him. He poured his efforts into retaliation against the Palestinians who murdered his children’s mother, hoping the justice he wrought would lessen the sorrow of their loss. But he realized too late that what his daughters needed most wasn’t revenge, but simply him. Now he scheduled time in his busy week for his children, attending their school activities and dropping in on them when he could. He looked forward to enjoying the simple and satisfying role of father this afternoon, temporarily setting aside the complicated and frustrating role of prime minister.

Just inside the Jaffa Gate of the original walled city of Jerusalem, sixteen-year-old Khalid Abdulla stepped off a Number 20 bus onto the busy sidewalk, his six-year journey almost complete. As he walked east along David Street, pedestrians passing by failed to register the rage smoldering inside the young man, noticing instead his polite smile. Nor did they note his lean build as they hurried by, because today he carried thirty extra pounds of weight under his loose-fitting jacket.

After a short walk down David Street, Abdulla stopped just inside one of the street-side cafés, his attention drawn toward two girls sitting at a table near the front of the restaurant, each girl wearing her long black hair draped over the front of her left shoulder. One of the girls looked at him and smiled, the radiant stare of her large brown eyes soon joined by her twin sister’s. For just a moment, Abdulla forgot why he’d come, mesmerized by the girls’ beauty. But then his hatred broke the spell, pulling his thoughts six years into the past.

Abdulla was only ten when he heard the gut-wrenching scream from the adjoining room, a mother’s unmistakable wail of grief and unspeakable loss. Moments later, his mother swept him into her arms, her damp face pressed against his, whispering the words that ignited his hatred. His only brother was dead, killed by Israeli soldiers forcing their way into Gaza, their tanks crushing everything in their path. As she pulled away, she appeared older; frail and broken. Abdulla wiped his mother’s tears from his cheek, and with them, his childhood. His purpose in life, and death, for that matter, had crystallized that instant.

Sitting at a table near the front of the café, Sarah followed her sister’s eyes across the crowded restaurant. She knew before she turned her head what had caught her sibling’s attention. Rachel’s widening eyes, the faint blushing of her cheeks, her lips parting into an inviting smile — she’d spotted an attractive boy. It had never seemed unusual to Sarah that they could read the subtle changes in each other’s facial expressions and mannerisms, communicating without uttering a word.

One glance at her sister at the end of the school day could tell Sarah many things; that Rachel had done well on her math test, that she’d spoken with Amir after English class, and that he had finally asked her out. Yet they talked incessantly, rattling on about how their day had gone, filling in the missing details. From the moment Sarah woke until her thoughts faded to dreams, she was never far from Rachel. God had designed them that way, she had concluded, connected to each other by an invisible, inseparable bond.

Off from school for the Lag Ba’Omer holiday, Sarah and Rachel had ventured into the Old City, shopping in the upscale stores along David Street, eventually arriving at Sandrino’s. Unlike most adolescents, who shied away from being seen with their parents in public, Sarah and Rachel looked forward to the occasional lunchtime rendezvous with their father. To others, he was the prime minister, but to them, he was simply abi, the Hebrew word for father. When translated to English, Sarah knew it meant “the one who gives strength to the family.” Now that the dark days following their mother’s death had passed, he was there for them, giving them strength when they missed their mother the most.

Tonight would be one of those times, as they gathered with their aunts, uncles, and cousins to celebrate the end of the plague that had killed Rabbi Akiva and twenty-four thousand of his students. Aaron would be there, an attractive boy not unlike the teenager standing just inside the café entrance. There was something about the strange boy who stared at them, a dark brooding in his eyes that captured Sarah’s attention. He had suffered a terrible loss, she could tell, the type of loss shared by many in Israel, for who had not lost a friend or a loved one in the bitter and pointless conflict between Jews and Arabs?

The boy’s eyes left the two girls, scanning the restaurant, evidently searching for a table. Sarah considered asking him to join them. After all, there were two empty chairs at their table and he was rather attractive. But she thought better of it. Rachel didn’t need any encouragement; she went through boyfriends like fashion accessories, and it seemed the boy across the café had suffered enough heartache. She noticed Rachel was about to rise and ask him over. A hand on her forearm and a quick look convinced her otherwise.

Abdulla turned away from the two girls; they were Jews, after all, and therefore their beauty should hold no appeal. Besides, his attraction to the twins would be irrelevant in a few minutes. Abdulla made his way to the back of the café, where, standing against the wall, the effect would be magnified. He stopped, turned around, then reached into his jacket pocket, his fingers sliding through the slit in the pocket lining.

Sitting at a table near the back of the café, Katherine Jankowski fed her six-month-old son as she waited for her antipasto to arrive. Matthew, strapped into a high chair, was waving his hands in the jerky and uncoordinated way infants do when they’re excited, his eyes locked onto the spoonful of pureed carrots his mother was pushing toward his open mouth. Katherine would normally have been accompanied by her friend Alanah, but as Shabbat gave way to Lag Ba’Omer, Alanah had joined the half million Jews who make the pilgrimage each year to Mount Meron in northern Israel. Katherine’s husband, Jonathan, had graciously volunteered to fill in during Alanah’s absence, but he was running late, which was not an unusual occurrence.

As the waitress dropped off the antipasto, a teenager passed by Katherine’s table. She watched him stop at the back wall and turn around and reach into his jacket pocket, searching for something. He surveyed the café in an odd way, and his thin face was somehow incommensurate with his girth. Her subconscious hammered at her, warning her that she was missing something important. As she studied the young man, searching for a clue to the uneasy feeling, he looked up toward the restaurant ceiling, his face radiating utter joy and contentment. His hand stopped fidgeting, evidently finding what he searched for. Katherine’s eyes widened as the pieces fell into place.

She reached for her son.

But it was already too late.

A bright orange flash illuminated the windows of Rosenfeld’s BMW. A second later, he lurched forward against his seat belt as the sedan screeched to a halt. Rosenfeld peered through the side window in an attempt to obtain a clear view of what had happened. Pedestrians were running toward and past his car, away from a mass of black smoke that spiraled upward less than a block away. Climbing out of the sedan, Rosenfeld strained his eyes to identify the location of the blast. He spotted the sign marking the restaurant Bellaroma. And there was the Essex. But he was looking for Sandrino’s, which was between the two.

Rosenfeld pushed past his security detail, jogging toward the source of the chaos, dodging the men and women fleeing in the opposite direction. An explosion had destroyed one of the cafés. Rosenfeld’s pace increased as his desperation mounted, and he soon found himself in a full sprint toward the carnage a hundred feet ahead, his security detail matching his pace. A moment later, he spotted the shattered red-and-green Sandrino’s sign on the ground.

The sidewalk and street were littered with broken glass, splintered wood, and the twisted metal remnants of tables and chairs; fires burned inside the destroyed café. The shrieks of terrified onlookers gave way to the cries of the wounded — screams of agony mingled with low, muffled moans. Somewhere among the carnage—God, please spare their lives—were his two daughters. Rosenfeld reached the first woman lying unconscious on the pavement. His pulse pounded as he turned over the teenage girl, relief coursing through his body as he stared at a stranger’s face. He hurried to the next body a few feet away, then the next.

Then up ahead, there was someone who could be his daughter; long, straight black hair, the lavender sweater he’d bought each of them for their last birthday. As Rosenfeld turned over the fourth body, his blood chilled in his veins. A young girl looked up at him, recognition in her eyes as she stared at her father. She was still alive, but …

Rosenfeld fell to his knees, drawing his daughter onto his lap, resting her shoulders on his thighs and her head in the crook of his arm. He knew she was his daughter by the sweater she wore, the topaz ring on her finger. But her face was too mangled for him to determine which of his daughters he held. She lifted her hand, her blood-smeared fingers caressing the side of his face as if to comfort him, to help assuage the grief that would soon overwhelm him. Her mouth moved, but no words came out. Only the horrid gurgling of air pushing past fluid, until she finally closed her mouth, forcing the blood out and down the side of her face. She kept her eyes focused on his, and Rosenfeld watched as the illumination within her beautiful brown eyes faded, until the light was extinguished altogether and her hand fell to the ground.

A strange hush fell on the scene of devastation. It took a moment for Rosenfeld to realize his mind was selectively filtering the sounds, letting through only those that seemed to matter. A man sobbed as he knelt in the middle of the street, stroking the cheek of a woman who lay beside him, her eyes open and unblinking, staring at the cloudless sky. Nearby, a woman on her hands and knees retched noisily, her vomit splattering against the curb. Slowly, the low moans of the injured could be heard all around him, and then, faintly in the background, the high-pitched sirens of approaching ambulances grew gradually louder until the full terror registered in his ears.

Rocking his daughter in his arms, Rosenfeld searched for her sister, finally locating her ten feet away. Rachel lay on her stomach with her head turned to the side, her eyes frozen open in death’s stare, her face surrounded by a crimson pool spreading slowly across the gray pavement. Dragging Sarah over to her sister, Rosenfeld clutched both daughters tightly against his chest, attempting to squeeze the pain from his body. His breathing came in short, ragged gasps; there was no air. The curb and stores along the road began to tilt, slowly at first, then at an increasing rate as the world, it seemed, spun out of control.

Worst of all was the guilt. It swirled around him, threatening to consume him in a maelstrom. The small, seemingly inconsequential failings first — if only he hadn’t arranged to meet his children for lunch today — then the larger, more complex issues: if only he had dealt with the Arabs more effectively, more harshly. But in the end, all that mattered was that it was his fault. He had failed, both as a father and as prime minister. He had failed Hannah three years ago, and now his children. Looking around at the dead and dying, he realized he had failed them all.

Kneeling in the middle of the street, his face turned up toward the godless sky, tears streaming down his face, he could not escape it. Like a black plague devouring everything in its path, his guilt consumed him.

7

A morbid quiet had descended upon the PMO building. The staff spoke softly among themselves, their voices falling silent in the vicinity of the prime minister’s office. Standing alone in front of Rosenfeld’s door, Kogen knocked softly, waiting for a response that never came. Opening the door slightly, he peered into the dimly lit office, illuminated by a small lamp on the credenza behind the prime minister. Rosenfeld was sitting at his desk, his shirt collar unfastened, his tie on the floor beside him. Although his features were shrouded in shadow, Kogen could see the hatred burning in the older man’s eyes.

Two hours earlier, the scene at the PMO building had been frantic once staffers realized the bombing had occurred at the prime minister’s lunchtime destination. A few minutes later, Rosenfeld’s security detail had called in, relaying his safety. The relief was short-lived, however, when they remembered Rosenfeld’s daughters were meeting their father for lunch. Soon, their worst fears were confirmed.

Rosenfeld returned to the PMO building an hour later, trudging through the Aquarium toward his office. The front of his white shirt was stained dark red, the side of his face coated with a thin sheen of dried blood. Kogen had stood at the forefront of Rosenfeld’s staff. But like the rest, he could find no words to express his sorrow. Rosenfeld hadn’t given them the chance, his eyes avoiding theirs as he made his way past them. But now, as Kogen looked into the prime minister’s eyes, it was easy to see — as well as understand — that something had changed.

Kogen stepped inside Rosenfeld’s office, closing the door quietly behind him. The Mossad had done its work quickly and had determined who was responsible. Who would be held accountable, however, was the more important question.

“Prime Minister.”

Rosenfeld stared across the room, giving no indication he noticed his presence.

“Levi.”

The older man’s eyes drifted toward him.

“I offer my deepest sympathy for your loss. Both of your daughters…”

Rosenfeld’s eyes fell away.

“We know who is responsible.” Kogen paused, waiting for a response before continuing.

Rosenfeld’s gaze shot toward him, his eyes displaying a clarity they lacked just seconds before. “Who?”

“We were able to trace the path of the suicide bomber using the security cameras along David Street, tracking him back to a Number 20 bus, then farther back to the Central Bus Station, where a car dropped him off.”

“Who is responsible?” Rosenfeld repeated, his rising impatience evident in the tone of his voice.

“The driver of the vehicle is Issa Nidal, a high-ranking member of the Izz ad-Din al-Qassam Brigades.”

“Hamas?”

“Yes, Prime Minister.”

Rosenfeld jerked forward in his seat, startling Kogen. The prime minister spoke in a low voice, hatred dripping from his words. “I want this man and every Hamas leader eliminated by week’s end. Every one of them dead. Is that clear?”

Kogen nodded slowly. “Yes, Prime Minister. We’re already coordinating with Defense.”

Rosenfeld slumped into his chair, the fire extinguished from his eyes as quickly as it ignited. “Anything else?”

Kogen hesitated. He had no doubt Israel would track down and eliminate Nidal and his leaders, perhaps not by the end of the week, but eventually. But attacking Hamas was like scraping away the pus from a gangrenous limb. Iran was the sickness, and Hamas and its attacks on Israel only the putrid symptoms. Kogen knew, just as Rosenfeld did, that Hamas’s campaign of terror was financed by Iran, and the Izz ad-Din al-Qassam Brigades received their training and weapons directly from Iran’s Revolutionary Guards. Iran was intent on destroying Israel, and there was no doubt their nuclear weapon, if assembled, would somehow be used against Israel. The Iranian weapon assembly complex must be destroyed — that much was clear — and the Mossad had carefully crafted an opportunity.

However, the operation they had nurtured for years was on the verge of discovery. Kogen’s contacts in the United States had determined a White House intern had sent a cryptic e-mail to the president’s national security adviser. If she were to obtain and decrypt the information the intern had collected, the operation would be exposed and their opportunity lost. The plan could still succeed, but only if they acted quickly. And now, with the blood of his children staining the prime minister’s clothes, there would be no better opportunity to obtain his permission.

With only a twinge of guilt, Kogen pressed forward. “We must discuss what I proposed last night. There’s a possibility the operation has been compromised.”

“It’s no longer an option?”

“It is still viable, but we must initiate the plan now, before it is exposed. There’s increased risk with executing early, but we’ve incorporated safeguards that will counter that risk. The operation will succeed. But you must decide.”

“How long do I have?”

“You must decide today, Prime Minister. You must decide now.”

“What are the details of this operation?”

“With all due respect, I think it’s best you not know the specifics. But I can assure you it will be impossible to trace the genesis of America’s attack back to Israel.” Kogen approached Rosenfeld, stopping at the edge of his desk. “But I must make one thing clear, Levi. Once we execute, there is nothing we, or the Americans, can do to stop it.”

After a moment, Rosenfeld leaned forward, hatred smoldering in his eyes again. “They have taken everything from me, Barak. I will not let another suffer as I do at the hands of this evil. I will no longer do nothing as our people bury their husbands, wives, and children.” Rosenfeld continued, his voice flat, surprising Kogen with its sudden lack of emotion. “I will approve the operation.”

Kogen pulled the authorization letter from the inside breast pocket of his suit, unfolded the sheet of paper, and slid it toward Rosenfeld. Reaching across the prime minister’s desk, Kogen retrieved a pen from its engraved stand. Fittingly, it was a goodwill gift from the American ambassador to Israel. He laid it on the paper, next to the signature block, and watched as Rosenfeld quickly signed the memorandum.

8

As the Kentucky cruised westward five hundred feet beneath the ocean’s surface, Lieutenant Tom Wilson sat in one of the two chairs on the ship’s Conn in Control, one chair designated for the Officer of the Deck, the other reserved for the Captain. Sitting on the port side of the Conn, Tom supervised his watch section, eventually turning his attention to the Helm, stationed in front of the Diving Officer of the Watch. The Helm — usually one of the most junior enlisted men aboard — was responsible for maintaining the ship’s course and relaying propulsion orders to the Throttleman in the Engine Room, who would open the main engine throttles accordingly.

Tom had to admit the ship’s propulsion orders had been confusing at first, with the intuitive interpretation usually incorrect. The Kentucky was transiting west at ahead two-thirds, which wasn’t two-thirds of the ship’s maximum speed but two-thirds of standard speed. Ahead standard was fifteen knots, and ahead full, well, that wasn’t the ship’s full speed at all but the speed that could be attained with the reactor coolant pumps in slow speed. The ship’s maximum speed, ahead flank, could be achieved only after the reactor had been brought up to 100 percent power, generating heat as fast as its coolant pumps, operating in fast speed, could safely remove.

The time of day was also something that took awhile getting used to. Now that the Kentucky was no longer operating in the local waters around Hawaii and was headed out to her patrol area, the clocks had been shifted to Greenwich mean time, to which all other time zones are referenced. The Navy’s radio broadcast and operational orders were tied to GMT, so that every navy ship around the world knew when to execute its orders, regardless of the local time. Although the clock said it was an hour after lunch, Tom’s body told him it was already 3 A.M. It would take a few days for his biological clock to adapt.

As the young officer returned his attention to the rest of his watch section, a report blared over the 4-MC emergency circuit.

“Fire in the Engine Room! Fire in Propulsion Lube Oil Bay!”

The Kentucky’s general alarm sounded, alerting the crew and initiating emergency responses from the personnel on watch. Tom reacted instantly, shouting out his orders, bringing the submarine shallow so they could ventilate the ship, if required.

“Helm, ahead standard! Dive, make your depth two hundred feet!”

The Helm rang up ahead standard on the Engine Order Telegraph as the Diving Officer directed his planesmen, “Ten up. Full rise, fairwater planes.” The Helm pulled the yoke back to the full rise position while the Outboard watchstander adjusted the stern planes, and the submarine tilted upward, rapidly increasing its angle until the deck was pitched at ten degrees up.

As Tom leaned forward ten degrees to counteract the ship’s up angle, he spoke into the microphone lodged in the overhead. “Sonar, Conn. Make preparations to come to periscope depth.”

Sonar acknowledged and a moment later reported two contacts. But the ship’s spherical array sonar, mounted in the bow, was completely blind in the aft sector, or baffles, blocked by the submarine’s metal structure. With the Kentucky’s towed array stowed for the transit to her patrol area, Tom had no idea if there were any close contacts aft of the submarine that might run over them on their way up to periscope depth, and he had to find out.

“Helm, left full rudder, steady course one-seven-zero. Sonar, Conn. Commencing baffle clear to port.”

Malone arrived in Control and joined Tom on the Conn, activating a small speaker to monitor the communications between Damage Control Central and the Engine Room. Turning the volume down low so Tom wouldn’t be distracted from his approach to periscope depth, he listened intently to the reports from Damage Control Central:

“The ship is rigged for Fire and General Emergency. All compartments sealed.”

The Diving Officer reported passing through three hundred feet, then announced, “Two hundred feet, sir.”

“Steady course one-seven-zero,” the Helm reported.

“The fire main is pressurized. Hose teams One through Four entering the Engine Room.”

As Tom waited while Sonar searched for contacts in the previously baffled area, his thoughts drifted to the Engine Room. Of the different types of fire, an oil fire was the absolute worst. The flames would spread quickly, following the oil as it coated the Engine Room surfaces. Heavy black smoke would roil upward, collecting in the top of the Engine Room, gradually descending until the entire compartment was choked in dense black smog. The four hose teams would be approaching the fire by now, the narrow white beams of their battle lanterns cutting through the thick black smoke. Two hose teams would attack the fire from Engine Room Lower Level, one from the port side and the other from starboard, while the other two hose teams did the same in Engine Room Middle Level, hoping to contain the fire before it spread into Engine Room Upper Level.

Their approach would be slow, hampered by low visibility from the dense smoke. It would be especially treacherous in middle and upper level if the fire spread, as the men advanced along narrow walkways suspended in the air between the hull and the Engine Room machinery. Their advance would be further complicated by the bulky air cylinders on their backs and the stiff, heavy hoses they dragged slowly aft as they negotiated the myriad turns and changes in elevation.

“Heavy black smoke in the Engine Room. Visibility limited to five feet.”

If the crew failed to contain the fire and it spread out of control, the temperature in the Engine Room would reach 1,000 degrees, four times what it took to melt a person’s skin. They would be forced to abandon the compartment, letting the fire ravage the Engine Room until it consumed the oxygen it needed to survive, eventually extinguishing itself. The evacuation would be frantic, the crew desperately attempting to account for the original personnel on watch and every man who entered the compartment to combat the fire. The Engine Room’s watertight door would glow red-hot as the fire destroyed the submarine’s essential equipment — the main engines, electrical generators, and water desalinizers. The Kentucky would be forced to blow to the surface, the once powerful warship a drifting hulk, waiting to be towed back to port, its missiles offloaded, and the submarine most likely scrapped.

“The fire has spread to Engine Room Middle Level.”

Scanning the sonar display on the Conn, Tom noted two traces on the monitor, then called out, “Sonar, Conn. Report all contacts.”

“Conn, Sonar. Hold two sonar contacts: Sierra four-one, bearing one-one-zero, classified merchant, and Sierra four-two, bearing two-five-zero, also classified merchant. Both contacts are classified as far range contacts.”

Tom acknowledged Sonar’s report, then reached up and twisted the port periscope locking ring clockwise, waiting while the scope slid silently up through the ship’s sail, folding the periscope handles down as the scope emerged from its well.

“Hose Three has ruptured. Securing Hose Three.”

“Helm, ahead one-third. Dive, make your depth eight-zero feet. All stations, Conn. Proceeding to periscope depth.”

Silence descended on Control as the deck tilted upward. The submarine was vulnerable during its slow ascent to periscope depth, unable to rapidly move out of the way if a surface ship was nearby on a collision course. There would be no conversation in Control, except for the occasional depth report, from the time the Officer of the Deck ordered the submarine’s ascent to periscope depth until, peering through the scope as it broke the surface of the water, he announced there were no close contacts. Even though Sonar had reported no close contacts, the algorithms were sometimes wrong and the submarine’s sonar was not foolproof; occasionally very quiet targets, particularly warships, went undetected.

“The fire has spread to Engine Room Upper Level. Opening the Engine Room watertight door. Sending in Missile Compartment Hose teams Five and Six.”

Years ago, Tom would have rotated on the periscope during the ascent. But protocols had changed. Peering into the eyepiece, Tom looked straight ahead, adjusting the scope optics to maximum elevation. He looked up into the dark water, scanning for evidence of ships as the Kentucky rose toward the surface.

“Smoke has spread to Missile Compartment. All personnel in Missile Compartment don emergency air breathing protection.”

“Passing one-five-zero feet,” the Diving Officer announced.

A small disk of light became visible, the moon’s blue-white reflection wavering on the surface of the water, slowly growing larger as the Kentucky rose from the ocean depths.

“One hundred feet.”

Tom twisted the left periscope handle, adjusting the optics downward so he’d be looking at the horizon when the submarine reached periscope depth.

“Eight-zero feet.”

“The fire is contained.”

As the periscope broke the surface of the water, Tom began rotating the periscope, completing a revolution every eight seconds, scanning the dark horizon and sky above for ships or aircraft.

“No close contacts!”

Conversation resumed in Control, now that the submarine was safely at periscope depth, and Tom slowed his rotation, periodically shifting the scope to high power for long-range scans.

“The fire is out. Hose Team One is stationed as the reflash watch.”

That was the report Tom had been waiting for, as they needed to ventilate the submarine to clear the heavy black smoke, but they couldn’t afford to bring in fresh air and oxygen that would feed the fire while it burned.

“Dive, prepare to emergency ventilate the Engine Room with the diesel. Prepare to Snorkel.”

The Diving Officer acknowledged, passing the order to the Chief of the Watch beside him, and the order reverberated throughout the ship over the 1-MC a second later. Reports flowed into Control as the crew prepared to purge the heavy smoke from the submarine and bring in fresh air. A few minutes later, the Diving Officer announced, “Sir, the ship is ready to ventilate with the exception of raising the Snorkel Mast.”

Malone clicked the stopwatch in his hand.

As he examined how long it had taken to put out the simulated fire and prepare to ventilate the submarine, his displeasure was evident on his face.

“Not fast enough,” he said. “Take her back down to five hundred feet and run the drill again.”

Tom acknowledged the Captain’s order, then swung the periscope around until it was facing forward. He folded up the handles, reached up, and rotated the locking ring counterclockwise. As the periscope descended into its well, he called out to the microphone in the overhead, “All stations, Conn. Going deep.”

Before issuing orders to the Diving Officer and the Helm, he glanced at Malone, seated in the Captain’s chair on the Conn. He still wore the frown on his face.

It was going to be one of those days.

Four hours later, Tom sat next to the Weps at the table in the Officers’ Wardroom. The day’s drills were over, and all but three of the submarine’s fifteen officers gathered for dinner. Two officers were on watch, one forward as the ship’s Officer of the Deck, the second aft as the Engineering Officer of the Watch, supervising the reactor plant and the propulsion spaces. The two officers on watch would arrive for dinner only after being relieved by the two oncoming officers currently seated at the table. There were only twelve chairs, and with two officers on watch, that left the fifteenth officer, Ensign Lopez, as the odd man out. As the most junior officer aboard, he would have to wait and eat dinner at the second sitting with the two offgoing watchstanders.

At the head of the table, the Captain was joined by the senior officers on his end with the junior officers at the other. Seated by seniority, the XO sat on the Captain’s right and the Engineer on his left, with the Weps and the Nav next in line. The junior officers at the far end of the table engaged in their own conversation, occasionally breaking into laughter, while the Captain discussed the performance of Tom’s watch section with the ship’s senior officers.

They’d run the fire drill three more times until the crew was exhausted, the hose teams drenched in sweat after hauling the heavy pressurized hoses while wearing their thick flame- and heat-resistant fire suits. They had managed to shave two minutes off their original pace, still not enough to please the ship’s Captain. He required nothing less than 100 percent effort on every occasion, and his expectations were almost impossible to meet. But as demanding as the SOB was, Tom found it hard not to like Commander Brad Malone. He judged and criticized everyone evenly and consistently, and when an officer or an enlisted struggled in the performance of his duties, he took the time to point out what improvements were required and how to make them. On the rare occasion the watchstander or watch section lived up to his unreasonable standards, he was quick to praise them for their superb performance.

As grueling as it was to run and rerun the endless drills, Tom knew and appreciated the reason why. The single most important rule for submariners was to make the number of Surfaces equal to the number of Dives. Everything they did throughout the days, weeks, and months underway was focused on ensuring they could accomplish their mission and still be alive to surface the submarine and return home.

Another day of drills was over. Tom had thought life would be dull on patrol, lurking in the ocean depths, hiding from everyone, waiting vigilantly for orders he prayed never came. But the opposite was true. Sleep was a precious commodity as the crew constantly trained: fire, flooding, reactor scram, steam-piping rupture drills. And when they weren’t running engineering or ship drills, the crew manned Battle Stations Missile and Battle Stations Torpedo, attempting to accomplish their mission and defend themselves in endless scenarios, combating a never-ending affliction of things that went wrong. Then there was the classroom training — tactics, reactor plant, and in-rate professional topics. Hours upon hours each week.

No, life on patrol wasn’t dull. But even though the hours were long, the sleep scarce, and the training constant, Tom enjoyed it. There was something exciting about being the Officer of the Deck in the middle of the night, a twenty-seven-year-old lieutenant in charge of a two-billion-dollar submarine, taking it to periscope depth, with his eye pressed to the periscope as it broke the surface of the water, the safety of the ship and crew in his hands. Or manning the Bridge on the surface at night, the stars shining brightly above, the phosphorescent trail in the water marking the submarine’s passage as it headed toward port after a long patrol, the distant lights on the shoreline growing steadily brighter as the crew returned home. It made the endless drills and the training worth every minute.

An hour after dinner, Tom wiped the sweat from his face with his shirtsleeve as he rounded the aft end of Missile Compartment Upper Level, starting his twentieth lap. There was enough space in the compartment, and the length was long enough, for a decent run. One mile was seventeen laps around, and Tom had decided to take advantage of the submarine’s non-Alert status to get in five miles.

Although the ship had two treadmills, Tom enjoyed running the old-fashioned way. Once the submarine commenced her strategic deterrent patrol, the treadmills would have to suffice, since running in the Missile Compartment would be forbidden. The sound of Tom’s feet pounding onto the steel deck would be transmitted through the ship’s hull, and as faint as that sound was, it could give away the submarine’s presence. As he passed down the starboard side of the ship, he paid no attention to the missile tubes or their contents. His thoughts were two thousand miles away, with his family, and how he would break the news to his father.

Tom was third-generation Navy. His grandfather had graduated from Annapolis and retired as an admiral. Tom’s father had also attended the Naval Academy, and while Captain Murray Wilson wanted his son to follow in his footsteps, he hadn’t cared which community — air, surface, or submarine — as long as Tom carried on the family tradition. Unwilling to disappoint his father, Tom had also attended the Naval Academy, graduating at the top of his class, eventually reporting to the USS Kentucky, BLUE Crew.

Trident submarines had two crews, BLUE and GOLD, to maximize the time the submarine, with its nuclear-tipped missiles, spent at sea. While one crew was out on patrol, the other received replacements for the personnel who transferred or left the Navy, then began the training cycle that melded the new crew into a team. The Off-Crew spent its time in various trainers, including weeklong navigation, tactics, and strategic launch sessions, and were formally recertified just before the other crew returned to port.

Tom would return to port soon, but not soon enough. The patrols were long, the time away from his family difficult to reconcile with his obligations as a husband and especially a father. Tom and Nancy had married a week after he graduated from Annapolis, in one of the June weddings that followed the graduation ceremony each year. Nancy took an immediate dislike to Navy life, from the long hours Tom spent studying at Nuclear Power School to the shift work at the Moored Training Ship that followed. But her distaste for Navy life intensified once the long patrols began, and her attitude had soured even more during the last patrol. Nancy had given birth to twin girls while Tom was underway, and she hadn’t yet forgiven him for not being there during her difficult pregnancy. Nancy had made her position clear: It was either her and their two children or the Navy. Both were not an option.

The revelation Tom was getting out of the Navy would stun and devastate his father, and the last thing Tom wanted was to disappoint him. But given the alternatives, there was only one choice. He didn’t relish the conversation he would have with his father upon his return to port, but there would be time enough to find the right words.

Tom wiped the sweat from his face as he rounded the aft end of Missile Compartment Upper Level again, passing the twelve missile tubes on the starboard side of the submarine before returning past the other twelve tubes on the port side.

Fifty laps to go.

While Tom paced the decks in Missile Compartment Upper Level, the ship’s Captain sat with the XO in the Wardroom discussing Malone’s retirement plans over a friendly game of cribbage. This was Malone’s sixth and last patrol aboard the Kentucky. He had his twenty years in and would retire after his change of command upon return to port, going home to Iowa to take over his father’s farm. His parents were getting on in years, and Malone’s two sisters had no interest in continuing the family farming heritage. Working the earth and growing crops were a far cry from Malone’s last twenty years, yet he and his wife, Karen, also from the Midwest, looked forward to leaving the metropolitan area with its fast-paced life and returning to the countryside, where people had time to chat. He would miss the Navy, and especially the dedicated men he worked with. At the same time, he looked forward to the next phase of his life.

Malone picked up his next set of cribbage cards, pausing for a moment to savor the unmistakable omen of good luck. He had just been dealt a twenty-nine-point hand, his first ever in twenty years of play. The odds of being dealt a twenty-eight-point hand were fifteen thousand to one, and the even rarer twenty-nine-point hand, considered a good luck omen among submariners, one in a quarter million. As Malone looked down on his twenty-nine points, he could not but reflect on the hot summer day in Mare Island Naval Shipyard years earlier, his submarine one of the last to complete overhaul before the historic shipyard closed down, the victim of a shrinking submarine fleet and associated industrial infrastructure.

He had watched his Captain escort an elderly woman off the boat following lunch, returning moments later to the Wardroom, where Malone waited. As the Captain eagerly unwrapped a thin package left on the Wardroom table, the brown wrapping paper pulled back to reveal an eighteen-by-twenty-four-inch nautical chart covered in glass and surrounded by a plain, worn wooden frame. Annotated on the chart were two merchant ship sinkings in the Yellow Sea between China and Korea, and the yellowed edges of the chart combined with the lack of a separate North and South Korea told Malone the nautical chart was a very old one. Dates were inscribed on the map beneath each sinking: 19 and 21 March 1943, and the dates and locations tugged at his memory until he finally recalled their significance.

In 1943, while the U.S. Surface Fleet slugged its way westward across the Pacific, Executive Officer Dick O’Kane and his Captain, Mush Morton, led the submarine Wahoo on her fourth war patrol deep into Japanese-controlled waters in search of enemy ships. In particular, they were looking for the prized merchant ships, the lifeblood of the island nation of Japan. By mid-March, transiting into the Yellow Sea, the crew had nothing to show for the long weeks at sea, morale deteriorating as each day passed. Their spirits lifted on March 18, when Dick O’Kane, playing cribbage with his Captain, was dealt a rare twenty-nine-point hand. Lady Luck made good on her promise — the Wahoo sank her first merchant ship of the patrol the following day. A scant two days later, O’Kane was dealt a twenty-eight-point hand, the Wahoo sinking a second merchant ship within the hour.

The two cribbage hands had indeed been omens of good luck for Dick O’Kane and the crew of the Wahoo, and as Malone studied the framed document in the Captain’s hands, he noticed two sets of playing cards affixed to the chart, five cards in the top right corner and a complementing set in the bottom left. Only then did he realize what the Captain held in his hands. The elderly woman was Dick O’Kane’s widow, and she had left the Captain with her husband’s twenty-eight- and twenty-nine-point cribbage hands, dealt to him aboard the Wahoo on March 18 and 21, 1943.

Malone played out his twenty-nine-point hand, pegging from behind and winning the game. As he leaned back in his chair, the cloud of uncertainty that accompanied the beginning of each patrol, as the ship and its new crew members settled into their routine, finally lifted. He slowly pushed the cards across the table toward the XO. As for Dick O’Kane and the Wahoo, this would indeed be a lucky patrol for the USS Kentucky, BLUE Crew.

9

Mike Patton stood in the rain on the curb along South Quincy Street, hands in his coat pockets, wet hair plastered to his forehead as water trickled down his face. He made no attempt to shelter himself from the weather, because he was in an altogether different place. Or to more accurately describe it — the same place, but a different and better time. As he stared across the busy street at the empty restaurant patio, he could still see her sitting across from him that night, see the sparkle in her eyes as she smiled, hear her laughter spilling into the street. Two weeks after their dinner at Carlyle’s, Mike had returned to Washington alone, wearily ascended the steps to his dark and morbidly quiet brownstone off Dupont Circle, and entered the nightmare that never ended. Now, three years later, he had received the phone call he’d been waiting for. He would soon complete his task and finally sleep in peace.

It should have been perfect. For their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, Mike booked a nine-day Mediterranean cruise, sailing from Athens and visiting the Italian cities of Messina, Naples, and Rome before continuing westward for port calls in Monaco and Barcelona. But first, they had flown to Israel to visit Theresa’s aging parents. That detour had ruined everything.

Thirty years earlier, Theresa had left her homeland to attend Cornell University, and it was Mike’s good fortune, he always said, to have sat next to her that first day in freshman English. It was easy to strike up a conversation with the vivacious young woman who seemed at ease in the foreign country she had arrived in only four days earlier. By the end of the week, the two had established a friendship that blossomed into romance. They married following graduation, after Theresa made the difficult choice between the man she loved and the country she loved. Theresa’s thoughts were never far from her family and homeland, and as they booked their anniversary cruise, she had requested they add a leg to their trip and visit her parents in Jerusalem.

Less than three hours after arriving in Theresa’s homeland, their lives were forever changed. After getting settled in the guest bedroom of her parents’ apartment and spending a few hours catching up on family news, Theresa had insisted on rushing out to find the perfect gift for her niece’s bat mitzvah. It was this search that led them to the less frequented stores on the outskirts of Jerusalem’s shopping district. Theresa’s memory of the city was no longer accurate, and they found themselves on an unfamiliar street. But she was certain the desired store was only one block over, and they would arrive there after a quick shortcut through the narrow alley connecting the two streets. As they turned into the cool, dark alley, it was the last time Mike held his wife’s hand in his.

Mike heard it, but never saw it coming. His only warning was his wife’s startled scream, and as Mike turned in her direction, his head jolted forward from a blow that could have easily fractured his skull. He awakened an unknown number of hours later, lying on his side on a dirt floor in a small room, his hands tied behind his back, duct tape covering his mouth. The back of his head throbbed with every heartbeat, and as he tried to make sense of the sideways world that swam in his eyes, the image of his wife eventually steadied.

She was kneeling on her hands and knees only a few feet away, sitting back on her ankles as she looked up at two men circling her, their faces concealed behind black keffiyehs. They probed her with questions, eventually making the only inquiry that seemed to matter. It was easy to see that Mike, with his ruddy Irish complexion, was no Jew. But Theresa’s dark hair and eyes combined with her slender build begged the question. As Mike struggled to scream through the tape covering his mouth, warning her to not answer, Theresa, proud of her heritage, confirmed their suspicion. That had been enough to seal her fate.

Black hoods were shoved over Theresa’s head and then Mike’s. He struggled in vain while his wife’s screams became fainter and fainter as they dragged her to another part of the building. Now, three years later, all that remained were the memories, memories that haunted him each night, memories that always began as Mike was woken from a restless slumber and dragged down a long hallway.

Bright, sterile lights blinded Mike as he was pulled to his feet and the dark hood was removed from his head. His eyes slowly adjusted, and the first images of what would become forever seared into his mind materialized out of the white haze. He stood at the back of a small, dilapidated room, its walls coated with a thin layer of cracked brown cement, a rack of spotlights supported by a metal stand glaring down on its occupants. In the middle of the room, Theresa sat on the only piece of furniture, her waist tightly bound to a chair, her hands tied behind her back. A streak of dried blood ran down her chin from cracked and swollen lips, evidence of her less than cordial treatment. But it was the fear in her eyes that worried Mike the most as they flitted between her husband and the other men in the room.

In addition to the two men holding Mike’s arms, still bound behind his back, there were three other men in the room. Two stood motionless on either side of Theresa’s chair, their hands clasped behind their backs, and a third stood in front, a video camera held down by his thigh. All three men were dressed in the traditional garb of Muslim extremists that had become so familiar on television: black long-sleeved salwar kameez shirts tucked into baggy white sirwal pants. Black keffiyehs covered their faces, exposing only their eyes. A sword, still in its sheath, leaned against the wall in the far corner of the room. As Theresa looked up at her captors through puffy, cried-out eyes, she examined first one, then another man, searching for a clue to her abductors’ plans.

A door in the back of the room opened and another man, dressed like the others except entirely in black, emerged from the dark recess. Stopping by the corner of the room, he retrieved the sword. The man in front raised the camera to his right eye, and the red recording indicator illuminated. Twisting to the side in her chair, Theresa attempted to determine who had entered the room and what his purpose might be. Locating the man as he walked toward her, Theresa’s eyes followed him until he stopped on her left side. Her eyes widened when she spotted the object in his hands, her panic cresting as the sword slid from its sheath with a tinny metallic scrape.

A low moan escaped her lips, cut short as she began struggling violently, almost convulsively, to escape from her bonds. The man tilted the sword in his hands, adjusting it until the harsh spotlights reflected off the metal into his victim’s eyes. Theresa intensified her efforts to escape, her chair rocking on its legs as she struggled in vain, calling for her husband to come to her aid, to somehow make everything turn out all right. Mike tried to leap to his wife’s defense, but his hands were still tied behind his back and the two men restrained him, strong hands gripping his arms.

The man with the sword nodded, and the two men began to untie Theresa’s hands. Her resistance eased, unsure of her captors’ intentions.

Hope shined in her eyes.

Mike brightened with the thought that their captors had only meant to frighten Theresa and record her reaction. Perhaps they would take her back to the dark room where she’d been beaten, where she would wait until a ransom was obtained or a political prisoner freed.

Or perhaps not.

After the men untied her hands, they pulled her arms out until they were extended. Placing their hands on the back of her shoulders, they forced her to bend at the waist until her upper body and neck were parallel to the floor. Turning her head to the side, Theresa looked up at her executioner, desperation on her face. As tears streamed down her cheeks, she begged for her life. The man responded by gripping the sword firmly in both hands, lifting it upward. Theresa’s eyes filled with the kind of terror that comes with the certainty of death, and she lost whatever self-control she had left. Screams mingled with cries for mercy, and her feet slid frantically in the sand that coated the hard dirt floor as she attempted to push herself back and away from her fate. But the two men held her firmly in place.

The sword’s upward movement halted, high above the executioner’s head, and he waited. Theresa’s fear suddenly turned to rage, and her head turned toward the man, cursing him, spittle flying from her mouth as she condemned her captors to the fiery pits of hell. The executioner stood there, sword held high, waiting for Theresa’s rage to run its course, to transition into despair. Mike could tell he had done this many times, and relished every moment. Theresa eventually spent her curses, sobs occasionally escaping as she turned her face down toward the ground, her head sagging as she prepared to die.

A blow to Mike’s stomach forced him to his knees, where, as he kneeled across from his wife, the worst part of it all began. Rough hands worked behind him, and then his arms were suddenly free and the tape ripped from his mouth.

They had untied his hands because they knew—

As if the horror of what was about to happen wasn’t enough, they knew that once his hands were free, Mike would instinctively reach for his wife, caress her flushed cheeks as she kissed his palms, that he would hold his wife’s tear-streaked face in his hands.

Theresa looked up at him, her eyes suddenly radiating a serene calm. “Don’t be afraid,” she said, as if Mike’s blood, rather than hers, would soon be soaking into the parched earth. “This is supposed to happen. It is God’s will.”

Mike groaned, unable to find the words to express his despair, or his feelings for the only woman he had ever loved. Or ever would.

But Theresa’s luminous green eyes simply stared at him. “You will know what to do,” she said. “It will soon become clear.”

Mike struggled with the meaning of her words. What would soon become clear? He prepared to ask her to explain, but never got the chance.

A whistling sound filled Mike’s ears. It took him a moment to recognize its significance, to realize it was the swift movement of the executioner’s sword through the air. He never saw the blade moving, never saw the bright glint of the sword as it sped downward. Instead, he saw his wife’s wedding ring sparkle from the corner of his eye as her hand twitched.

They knew—

Theresa’s face suddenly became heavy in his hands, and Mike noticed the sword was no longer held high, its tip now buried in the dirt floor, a six-inch-wide swath of crimson coating the blade. His wife’s lips parted, as if to speak, but no words came, and he could no longer feel her warm breath on his skin. The color drained from her face, the animation fading from her eyes until she stared at him with dull, lifeless orbs.

As he held his wife’s head in his hands, horrified yet incapable of releasing it, her face began to blur as tears collected in his eyes, then streamed down his cheeks. His body shook, his breath coming in short, shallow spurts. Rocking back and forth on his knees, he was unwilling to believe Theresa had been taken from him; that he would never hear her laughter, never hold her in his arms again. The pain of his loss was unbearable, and he couldn’t imagine living without her. As his mind swam with ideas on how to end his anguish, Theresa’s words came back to him.

You will know what to do.

It seemed there remained a single purpose in his life; some act he must accomplish before he could join his wife. But what? It was too hard to think. Perhaps Theresa was right, and it would soon become clear. Slowly, Mike’s resolve solidified and his breathing steadied, determination replacing despair. Whatever he was supposed to do, he would figure it out.

Later that night, Mike was pushed from a van on the outskirts of Sderot. Dazed, he stumbled to the nearest police station, incoherently recounting the ordeal. But enough of what had happened eventually became clear. As Mike sat alone in a hotel on Yoseftal Street, authorities found Theresa’s severed head rotting on a deserted street corner in Gaza, and it wasn’t long before an Iranian-sponsored terrorist group proudly claimed responsibility. There wasn’t much to go on, as Mike and Theresa’s abductors had kept their faces covered, and Mike had no idea where they had been held. There were far too many crimes committed and loved ones lost to expend effort chasing a murder with no leads, and the case was soon abandoned.

Six months after his wife’s murder, after the bruises had healed and he had passed a battery of psychological tests, Mike returned to work at the National Military Command Center in the Pentagon. But he had lied to everyone; the dream had never stopped. Each night, he relived that day in excruciating clarity, the nightmare torturing him with the terrifying last moments of Theresa’s life.

Each night when Mike awoke from his nightmare, the ceiling fan greeted him, spinning slowly in circles that never ended. Then one night, a turbulent nor’easter tore through the city. As the rain drove against the windowpanes and the ghostly shadows of trees bent in submission to the howling winds, his town house lost power, and the fan drifted to a stop. It was at that instant that everything suddenly became clear, just as Theresa had promised. A stranger stepped from the shadows the next day, as if he’d been waiting patiently for Mike’s epiphany.

The man was no longer a stranger, and his call earlier today requesting they meet had given Mike hope that the next time his mind drifted into darkness, there would be no dreams. For this afternoon’s meeting, Mike had picked the restaurant where he had proposed to Theresa and where they had eaten dinner the night before their fateful trip. As he started across the street, still lost in thought, the blaring horn of an approaching car startled him out of his reverie. He stood there for a split second, part of him wanting it all to end now, splattered over the front of the vehicle. But he stepped back just as a dark green Volvo sped by. There was one task he had yet to complete; not until then could he join his wife.

Mike requested a table in the far corner of the restaurant that offered a clear view of the entrance, something he knew his companion would insist upon. The few patrons were scattered widely throughout, none within earshot. Mike ordered a glass of red wine and had taken his first sip when he saw his friend, if one could call him that, pausing near the hostess to scan his surroundings.

William Hoover — Mike doubted that was his real name — was the type of man you could pass on the street and never remember having seen. Caucasian, of medium height and build, with brown hair and eyes, he could blend in almost anywhere. He interacted with Mike cordially, but in the loving way one deals with a family pet, caring for its every need, yet willing to put the animal to sleep when the time came. Mike didn’t care. He figured he was using Hoover even more than the younger man was using him.

Hoover sat without greeting, placing a brown satchel on the floor next to his chair. He appeared uncharacteristically tense.

“Is the Kentucky in range?” the man asked.

Mike shook his head. “Not yet. It’ll be another nine days.”

Hoover sat in his chair reflectively, as if making a mental calculation. “You will send orders to the Kentucky as planned,” he said finally. “However,” he added, “you must execute today.”

Mike shook his head. “We must wait until the Kentucky is in range before we send the order.”

Hoover replied firmly, “You must execute now.”

Mike paused, preparing to describe the situation like an elementary school teacher explaining a basic mathematical concept to her students for the first time. “The Kentucky just began her transit to her patrol areas, and the United States will have nine days to respond if we send the order now.”

“You must execute now,” the man repeated.

Exhaling slowly, Mike tried to control his frustration. Sending the launch order now would jeopardize everything. “You guys don’t know what you’re doing.”

“We know exactly what we’re doing.” The man almost hissed the word. But then his voice calmed. “There are elements to this plan you are not privy to. I assure you the Kentucky will reach launch range. There is nothing the United States can do once you transmit the launch order.”

The conviction in his voice convinced Mike to acquiesce. After all, it was their plan.

Mike’s lack of response conveyed his agreement, and Hoover opened the brown satchel, retrieving a small black nylon case and a white envelope. “Here is what you need. Do you have any questions?”

Mike shook his head, his mouth dry.

The man returned the contents to the bag, then stood and left, leaving the brown leather case next to his chair. Mike sat at the table a few minutes longer before asking for the check.

A moment later, Mike stepped outside Carlyle’s, the satchel gripped tightly in his hand. He paused on the sidewalk along the busy street, looking up into the overcast sky, blinking as the cold rain hit his face and eyes, until a gust of wind knocked him off balance. He pulled his coat tight around his neck, tucked his head down, and set off toward the Colonial parking garage — and his last remaining task.