The Trident Deception

10

The afternoon rain had moved on, leaving behind broken clouds through which the sun gave notification of its slow descent. As Mike Patton stood outside the South Entrance to the Pentagon, he considered delaying his arrival for an hour; the 9/11 Memorial park was just around the corner, offering a clear view of what he hoped was a spectacular end to the last day of his life. But while there was something fitting about watching the sun slip below the horizon just before he completed his final task, he realized a late relief would catch his supervisor’s attention, and that was the last thing he wanted tonight.

Following the meeting at Carlyle’s this afternoon, Mike had returned home, shed his wet clothes, and dressed for work, leaving the darkened brownstone and his dreams behind. He left the door unlocked, because he no longer needed the worldly possessions within. All that mattered were the contents of the briefcase he carried in his right hand. Gripping the satchel even tighter, he let his thoughts of the sunset pass and turned toward the Pentagon’s entrance.

At that precise moment, Christine O’Connor was busy at her desk in the White House, anxiously awaiting the end of another contentious day. As expected, her meeting with Hardison this morning had not gone well, especially after the chief of staff had insisted on discussing the intelligence reorganization, even though she had made her position perfectly clear. The meeting had not ended until Christine, frustrated beyond belief, had asked Hardison which part of her answer he didn’t understand, the N or the O.

Notwithstanding her meeting with Hardison, Christine’s thoughts never strayed far from Evans’s murder and the disk she had found in his computer. An hour after her phone call to Director Ken Ronan yesterday, a CIA courier had stopped by to pick up the disk, which Christine had discreetly handed over; Ronan had agreed to place priority on the analysis. As she was winding things up for the day, Christine was interrupted by the beep of her intercom, followed by her secretary’s voice.

“Miss O’Connor, an Agent Kenney is here to see you.”

“Send him in.”

A man in a dark gray suit entered her office. “Good afternoon, Miss O’Connor. I’m Agent John Kenney. Director Ronan sent me over.” He opened his wallet, flashing his CIA badge.

Christine reached over her desk to shake his hand. “Please, have a seat.”

Kenney unbuttoned his jacket as he took the chair in front of her desk. “We’ve examined the CD you gave us, but it’s left us with more questions than answers.”

“What was on the CD?”

“There was one encrypted file, with the rest of the files being merely time stamps. However, the time stamps correspond to the dates and times the Defense Department databases were probed for information by an external source. We’ve correlated the object of these probes, and it’s become clear that someone was searching for specific information.”

“What information?”

“Do you know what the code word digashi stands for?”

Christine stopped breathing, just for a second. She reached for her coffee cup, hoping Kenney hadn’t noticed her reaction. “I’m sorry, Agent Kenney, but I can’t help you.”

Kenney smiled. “Your word choice is subtle, Miss O’Connor. Most people would have said they had no idea what this word meant. You said you can’t help me, which implies something completely different.”

Christine smiled back. “I’m afraid the security clearance required for this topic is well beyond the issues you normally deal with.”

Kenney reached into his wallet again and retrieved his ID badge, tossing it onto Christine’s desk. “I have a top secret clearance, authorized access to Special Compartmented Information. I’m pretty sure I’m briefed into whatever program you need. Go ahead, check.”

Christine swiveled her chair toward the computer monitor on the corner of her desk, flipped through a couple of windows on the display, and typed the CIA agent’s social security number on her keyboard. A few seconds later, she turned back to John Henry Kenney.

“Okay, you’re cleared.”

“And…?”

Christine leaned back in her chair. “Digashi is the code word for a nuclear first strike.”

“A nuclear first strike?” Kenney echoed her words. “By who?”

Christine folded her arms across her chest. “By us.”

In the Pentagon basement at the end of Corridor 9, Mike Patton swiped his badge and punched in his pass code. He opened the door to the Operations Center of the National Military Command Center, then paused for a second before stepping into the room he would not exit alive. He could not predict how many of the other men and women in the room, some of them close friends, would share the same fate.

Mike stopped at the top of the new Operations Center. The Pentagon had completed its seemingly never-ending renovation, and the Ops Center had moved to its new, multitiered space in the basement level, patterned after the stepped NASA control rooms. The center dropped down in three increments, with each of the first two tiers holding ten workstations, five on either side of a center aisle, with the Watch Captain’s workstation located on the bottom tier. An eight-by-ten-foot electronic display of the world hung on the front wall, annotated with the status of the nation’s nuclear assets. Four Trident submarines were at sea in the Pacific Ocean: two on Alert patrol, a third on the way home, and a fourth, the one Mike was interested in, outbound from the Hawaiian operating areas.

Most of the watchstanders were still turning over, including the Watch Captain, a Navy rear admiral in the process of being relieved by an Air Force brigadier general. After surveying the men and women at their workstations, Mike made his way left along the top of the center to the third workstation in the first tier. Placing his briefcase gently on the floor, he pulled up a chair. “Evening, Isaiah. What have you got?”

Isaiah Jones looked up from his monitor. “No change in DEFCON, the Tennessee has relieved the West Virginia in LANT, and we’ve got one down silo in North Dakota. Pretty quiet all around.” After a few more minutes discussing the more mundane details of the last six hours, Isaiah signed out of the watch log on his computer, then packed up his bag, along with an empty package of Doritos and a crumpled-up Coke can. “See you tomorrow, Mike.”

“Take care, Isaiah.”

Mike kept himself busy, waiting until the last member of the previous watch section departed, leaving him alone with the other nineteen watchstanders and the Watch Captain. Retrieving the black nylon case from his satchel, he opened it, exposing what looked like a small plastic insurance card and three nasal inhalers. He pulled out the card and slid it into his pocket. Leaning back in his chair, he clasped his hands behind his back, pretending to stretch out his shoulders, then stood and sauntered toward the entrance at the back of the room.

Stopping with his back next to the security door, Mike removed the thin card from his pocket and held it next to the electronic lock mechanism. Ten seconds was all it would take to destroy the electronic circuitry, he’d been told, but he held it there an extra five seconds for good measure. Sliding the card back into his pocket, he returned to his seat, then removed the smallest nasal inhaler from the case. After looking around to ensure no one was watching, he pressed the tip of the inhaler against his neck. The warmth spread quickly throughout his body. Retrieving the largest inhaler, Mike stood again, slowly walking behind the two rows of watchstanders as he pressed the inhaler plunger, releasing the odorless gas into the room.

Agent Kenney’s face displayed no hint of emotion at Christine’s explanation of digashi. “I wasn’t aware we had nuclear first-strike options.”

“Technically, there’s no difference,” Christine replied. “It’s a matter of timing. The launch orders are the same. Whether it’s a first strike or a retaliatory depends on who launches first.”

Kenney nodded, absorbing the perspective. He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and pulled out an envelope, retrieving a single piece of paper and handing it to Christine.

“This is the content of the encrypted file. We’re running background checks on these individuals, but are any of these names familiar?”

Christine studied the list of ten men and women. “I’m afraid not.”

“What about the letters ‘I S’?”

Looking at the list again, Christine noticed each name was preceded by the letters I S. The letters could represent any number of things, and without additional clues she drew a blank.

“Let me see what I can find out.” She placed the paper near her keyboard, selected the appropriate window on her monitor, then typed in the first name on the list. The defense personnel database responded immediately.

Ronald Cobb — NMCC

She typed in the second name.

Andrew Bloom — NMCC

After she’d typed in the third name, her stomach tightened.

Bradley Green — NMCC

She stopped after the fourth entry.

Kathy Leenstra — NMCC

Kenney watched as Christine sat there, no longer typing. “What is it, Miss O’Connor?”

Christine turned in her chair, facing Kenney again. “These individuals are employees at the National Military Command Center in the Pentagon, responsible for generating nuclear strike messages to our intercontinental ballistic missile silos, B-2 bombers, and Trident submarines.” She stared at the list again, trying to figure out the meaning of “I S” in front of each name. Her eyes widened as it dawned on her.

Inner safe.

Nuclear launch orders would not be considered valid unless the code at the bottom of the message matched the codes contained in double-walled safes in the missile silos, bombers, and submarines, with no one person having both combinations. The only way to write a valid order was to open both safe doors in NMCC, allowing access to the sealed codes inside. These ten men and women apparently had the combination to the safe’s inner door.

Swiveling back to her computer, Christine pulled a number from her contact list. Picking up the phone, she dialed the Watch Captain at the National Military Command Center. The phone rang, but there was no answer. Christine hung up and dialed again. After ten rings, still no answer. She slammed the phone down. “We need to get to the Command Center.”

While the other members of his watch section sat slumped in their chairs or over their consoles, Mike worked at his desk, ignoring the phone that rang at the Watch Captain’s desk. He finished the message except for the last part and closed the codebook. Approaching the safe at the front of the room, he entered the combination and unlocked the safe. Inside was another door, with another combination dial. Reaching into his shirt pocket, he pulled out the envelope Hoover had given him and retrieved the single sheet of paper. He ran his finger down the list of ten names before returning to the first. His finger lingered at the top of the page for a moment before he pulled the first inhaler from the kit, the one he’d injected into his neck, plus the third vial, this one with a sharp tip at the end.

Searching the room, he spotted his best friend, Ron Cobb, the first name on the list. He walked over to Ron, who was slumped over his workstation, and injected the inhaler into his neck. Thirty seconds later, Ron’s eyes fluttered open. Grabbing Ron roughly, Mike pulled him upright in his chair; Ron’s head was bent back, his eyes looking at the ceiling. Mike held the vial with the sharp tip against Ron’s neck. “Ron, can you hear me?”

Ron’s eyes gradually moved down toward Mike’s face. He brought his head forward, stopping as he met the pressure of Mike’s hand against his neck. Ron looked slowly around the Operations Center at the unconscious men and women at their workstations, his drowsy appearance transforming into a bewildered expression.

“What the hell—”

“I need the combination to the inner safe, Ron. What is it?”

Ron stiffened as his gaze shifted back to Mike. “I can’t tell you,” he sputtered. “You have the combination to the outer safe. No one person can have both combinations.” Ron’s eyes roamed around the Operations Center, spotting the safe and its open outer door. “What are you doing?”

Mike pressed the applicator against Ron’s neck. “This injector contains a poison that will kill you in seconds. Give me the combination.”

“I can’t, Mike! Then you’d have access to the nuclear authorization codes!”

“Yes you can. And you’ve got ten seconds to give me the combination.”

“We’ve worked together for fifteen years,” Ron replied, the panic rising in his voice. “Our wives were best friends. I’ve got four kids at home!”

“You’re right, Ron. And it would be a shame for Arlene to have to bury you, with your children standing beside her as they lower your coffin into your grave.”

“I can’t, Mike! Please!”

11

A black Suburban, its blue lights flashing, crossed the 14th Street Bridge at the end of rush hour. Forcing its way across three lanes of heavy traffic, an identical Suburban followed closely behind. Christine, sitting in the passenger seat of the lead vehicle next to Agent Kenney, ended her phone call without a word, her eyes fixed on the rapidly nearing Pentagon.

En route, Christine had contacted the deputy director of the National Military Command Center, who, while perplexed by the Watch Captain’s failure to answer Christine’s phone calls, was convinced it was nothing more than a simple connectivity problem. The deputy director was in a meeting a few blocks away in Crystal City but had agreed to meet Christine at the Operations Center. He had called back just before Kenney’s SUV peeled off I-395 toward the Pentagon. Personnel inside the Command Center were also failing to answer the classified lines, and the deputy director’s concern had skyrocketed. Kenney had picked up Christine’s rising tension and was pushing his vehicle as fast as traffic moved out of his way.

A few moments later, the Suburban squealed to a halt at the Pentagon’s River Entrance just as the second SUV, containing two men, ground to a halt behind them. One of the men joined Christine and Kenney as they ascended the River Terrace three steps at a time, while the second remained with the vehicles. Christine and the two agents sped through the Pentagon entrance as they flashed their badges to security personnel, then, after dropping down three levels via the A Ring escalators, headed out along Corridor 9 toward the outermost ring. They eventually reached the end of a long hallway, where two Marines stood in front of a large security door.

“Open the door,” Christine ordered.

“We can’t,” the Marine on the left answered. “The door won’t unlock, and there’s no response from inside.”

“Are you sure you have the correct code?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“What’s standard protocol if you can’t gain access?”

The Marine looked at Christine uncomfortably. “The deputy director will be here any minute. It’ll be his call on what to do next.”

As the Marine finished speaking, a man approached, running down the corridor, stopping next to Christine. He was out of breath as he spoke. “I got here as soon as I could, Chris.”

Dave Hendricks, the deputy director of the National Military Command Center, was a relatively handsome man in his forties, about six feet tall, of medium build, wearing a blue sport coat and a coordinating tie. After a curt introduction to Agent Kenney and learning the door refused to respond to the Marines’ security code, he attempted to open the door using his code, with the same result.

“Any ideas?” Christine asked.

“Blow the door,” Hendricks replied, looking in Agent Kenney’s direction.

Kenney motioned to the agent beside him, who spoke into his suit jacket sleeve.

Inside the Operations Center, Mike placed the list of names next to the safe, flattening the creases in the paper. He glanced at the safe, the inner door still shut, then at Ron and Andy Bloom, their stiff bodies on the floor. Psychological profiles had been run on all ten men and women who knew the combination to the inner safe, and the names on the list were arranged in order of who was most likely to crack and trade the combination for his or her life. The profiles of Ron and Andy were obviously incorrect. But Hoover had assured him the odds of all ten men and women sacrificing their lives to protect the combination were minuscule, with a 99.7 percent probability one of them would acquiesce. Mike would obtain the combination; it was only a matter of time.

Mike ran his finger down the list of names to the next one.

Third time’s the charm.

Outside NMCC, a third CIA agent had arrived with the requested materials, and after placing the small block of C-4 explosive onto the door lock mechanism and inserting the detonator, Agent Kenney headed down the corridor and around the corner into F Ring, where Hendricks and Christine waited with the Marines and the two other agents. The Marines and agents drew their firearms, then Kenney pressed the trigger, its thin wire trailing to the C-4, detonating it in a rumbling explosion. A cloud of smoke engulfed the corridor, debris ricocheting off the walls. The smoke slowly cleared, and a partially open door materialized out of the haze.

The two Marines surged forward, one stopping on each side of the door. The one on the left peered into the Operations Center, then shoved the door open and moved inside, his weapon pointed across the room.

“Freeze!”

The second Marine joined the first, pointing his pistol at a man at the far end of the room. There were about twenty other men and women in the Operations Center, all of them slumped in their chairs or sprawled on the floor. The lone man suddenly pressed something against his neck, then fell to his knees, collapsing against the wall.

As Michael Patton’s vision began to cloud, a warm satisfaction spread through his body. He would have revenge against the country that encouraged the murderers who had extinguished Theresa’s life, the country that supplied the Palestinian groups with the weapons and money that made their terror possible. His rage was intense at first, but he had learned to look at the issue dispassionately, convinced that the laws governing people’s behavior were no different from the laws of physics.

For every action, there is a reaction.

Israel had reacted thousands of times to the senseless slaughter of its people, their response diffuse and ineffective by the time it reached the savages who manipulated the strings of hatred. But the savages had crossed the line when their vitriolic hatred took Theresa’s life, and they would soon pay dearly. Hoover had requested a launch order be sent to the Kentucky, and Mike had complied. But he had made one small, yet significant, change to the message.

As the darkness closed in, Patton was convinced this reaction would make a difference.

Those responsible would finally suffer the repercussions of their actions.

It didn’t matter that millions would die in the process.

Mike had done the right thing.

He was certain.

One Marine rushed to the front of the room, carefully checking the man for weapons and signs of life, while the other Marine and the three CIA agents checked the other personnel. Christine scanned the facility, assessing the situation, trying to determine the man’s intent and the extent of the damage inflicted. Aside from him, three other men appeared dead, a strange blue tint to their skin. The other men and women were unconscious but appeared alive as far as she could tell.

Near the man at the front of the Operations Center was a small circular trash can with a charred black residue inside, and a sheet of paper with random letters and numbers lay next to the radio communication panel at the front of the room. Christine’s eyes shot toward the adjacent safe, spotting the two open doors, the inside barren. She immediately looked back at the communication panel, where a small green light blinked, indicating a successful transmission.

It took barely a second for her to realize what the man had done.

“Shut down all transmitters! Do not relay that message!”

Hendricks reached for the phone, but Christine knew it was already too late.

12

It was midnight aboard the Kentucky. Tom slept in his stateroom under two blankets; it was always cold in the Operations Compartment, the space kept cool to keep the electronic consoles from overheating. The stateroom was small — calling officer’s berthing aboard a submarine a stateroom was misleading. The eight-by-eight-foot room was cramped, housing three beds stacked on top of each other against one wall, two desks with ledges that folded up out of the way when not in use, and a pull-down sink. The three men couldn’t stand at the same time without bumping into each other. Still, it was far better than enlisted berthing, where each man claimed a six-foot bunk, a five-inch-deep compartment under the mattress for storing clothes and personal articles, and a three-foot-tall locker for hanging dress uniforms.

As the senior officer in the stateroom, Tom claimed the middle bunk and Lieutenant (JG) Herb Carvahlo took the bottom, leaving newly reported Ensign Lopez to climb into and out of the top rack. Each bunk was a seventy-eight-by-thirty-inch aluminum coffin with one open side, adorned with a sliding curtain drawn shut when it was time to sleep. A bunk light, for reading in bed, was mounted on the bottom of Ensign Lopez’s rack, a scant twelve inches above Tom’s face.

Tom slept lightly, turning onto his side. He and the rest of the crew were still adjusting to Greenwich mean time, but they would never fully acclimate. Aside from the senior officers and chiefs, the crew lived an eighteen-hour day, divided into three sections: six hours on watch and twelve off. But even if Tom had been sleeping soundly, the announcement blaring across the 1-MC would have jolted him awake.

Alert One! Alert One! reverberated throughout the ship.

Tom bolted out of bed as Ensign Lopez landed on the deck beside him. Carvahlo rolled out from his rack at their feet, the three of them throwing on their blue coveralls hanging behind their stateroom door. The three men hurried to Control, arriving just as Malone and the XO entered, followed quickly by the rest of the officers not on watch.

Based on the 1-MC announcement, Tom knew they had just received an Emergency Action Message, but the Kentucky would remain in its normal watch section rather than manning Battle Stations Missile while the message was decoded. Most EAMs were informational in nature, keeping the crew abreast of political and military strife anywhere in the world with the potential to escalate to nuclear war. They would man Battle Stations Missile only upon receipt of a strike order. The watchstanders in Control waited for the submarine’s officers, operating in pairs, to decode the EAM, most likely just another routine informational message.

Tom paired up with Carvahlo, forming the first decryption team, stopping at the forward section of Control outside the Op Center, a small room adjacent to Radio. Chief Davidson, the Radio Division Chief, eyed Tom through the peephole and opened the door, allowing Tom and Carvahlo entrance to the cramped space, capable of holding only the three of them. Tom went to the safe containing the codebooks, entered the combination, and yanked open the door. Pulling three codebooks from the safe, he handed two to the decryption teams outside the Op Center and the third to Carvahlo. He and Carvahlo would break the message, while the other two teams stood by in case additional transmissions were received.

Chief Davidson exited the Op Center from the back door that opened into Radio, returning a moment later with the EAM, ripped off one of the Radio Room printers. Tom and Carvahlo sat at a table in the Op Center and began decrypting the random letters and numbers, character by character, translating them into English. Carvahlo wrote the decrypted message in the codebook, occasionally glancing up as Tom confirmed the proper translation of each section. Carvahlo’s pen slowed and his hand began trembling as he translated the last portion of the message. He looked up at Tom, doubt and fear in his eyes. Tom put his hand around Carvahlo’s, steadying his roommate’s hand.

Although Tom remained outwardly calm, he struggled to keep his breathing steady. This wasn’t supposed to happen. They all knew what the submarine carried; what they were trained to do. They would launch if ordered. But did anyone really believe they would receive that order? It wasn’t supposed to happen this way, either. There was supposed to be ample warning: political unrest or conventional armed conflict that spiraled out of control. Informational messages would stream across the broadcast, keeping the ballistic missile submarines at sea informed. DEFCON would be gradually increased, the Mod-Alert submarines shifting to Alert status and the remaining ballistic missile submarines sortied to sea. They would have time to prepare mentally, ready when the order finally arrived. Not like this …

The message had decoded properly. But it still had to be authenticated, the codes in the EAM compared to sealed codes stored in the doubled-walled safe aboard the Kentucky. Tom stood and spun the tumbler on the double safe, ensuring Carvahlo couldn’t observe the combination, and opened the outer door. He looked away as Carvahlo spun the tumbler to the inner door and opened the safe. Reaching in, Tom retrieved a thin two-inch-square packet, looking remarkably like a wet-nap, with the appropriate markings identified in the EAM. Taking the EAM and the codebook, both Tom and Carvahlo held on to the small authenticator and exited the Op Center, turning over custody of the open safe to the next pair of officers.

As they approached Malone and the XO on the Conn, the watchstanders in Control eyed them carefully, aware from Carvahlo’s pale face that something was wrong. Tom stopped at the edge of the Conn and handed the message and the codebook to the Captain.

Tom’s mouth was dry, his tongue thick. He spoke slowly, trying not to let his voice quaver. “We’ve received a combined Informational and Strike message. The message is a properly formatted, valid EAM.”

Malone’s face betrayed no hint of emotion. He stood rigidly, staring at the decryption team in front of him. The XO stood next to Malone, his eyes wide, staring first at Tom, then at Malone. The Captain lowered his eyes to the codebook, which he placed between himself and the XO, waiting for the XO’s acknowledgment.

After a long moment, the XO spoke. “Ready,” he said, his voice cracking. He cleared his throat. “Ready, sir.”

The submarine’s Commanding and Executive Officers reviewed the decoded message together in silence, verifying each section had been properly decrypted.

“The message is a properly formatted, valid EAM,” the XO announced.

“I concur,” Malone said.

Tom’s eyes had drifted to the deck as the Captain and the XO verified the message was valid. But now he looked up at Malone and the XO again. It all came down to the next step. A valid EAM was only half of the requirement. For the crew to launch, it also had to be authentic — the codes at the bottom of the message had to match the codes inside the sealed authenticator. Tom prayed they didn’t.

“Request permission to authenticate.”

“Authenticate,” Malone replied.

Tom peeled open the wafer he had retrieved from the safe, revealing the authentication codes. He called them out, one by one, comparing them to the codes contained in the EAM.

The codes matched.

“The message is authentic.” Tom forced the words out of his mouth.

“I concur,” the XO said, followed by Malone.

Malone stared at the decrypted EAM, digesting the message’s contents. Every pair of eyes in Control, even those of the two planesmen, rested on the ship’s Captain, awaiting his response. The submarine’s ventilation and cooling fans whirred softly in the background, and the sonar screens flickered silently behind him. Malone finally looked up and asked the decryption team to formally inform him and the XO of their orders.

“What are the launch instructions?”

Inside the National Military Command Center, less than a minute had passed since Hendricks began breaking the coded message, yet it already seemed like hours. Christine paced nervously behind him, pausing to glance over his shoulder with each pass. The deputy director’s pen moved quickly as he broke the encryption, character by character, writing the message in English into the codebook. But even the English on the paper told Christine nothing; the strategic and nuclear terms were foreign to her. “What does it say?”

Irritation momentarily flashed across Hendricks’s face. “I’m working as fast as I can, Chris. Just give me a minute.”

Christine resumed her pacing. The two of them were alone in NMCC, aside from the seventeen unconscious and four dead men and women. Medical help had been summoned, which would arrive momentarily, greeted by the pair of Marines and the three CIA agents waiting outside. Christine didn’t want anyone listening to her conversation with Hendricks; until the message was decoded and they knew what they were dealing with, she wanted to be sure no one else became aware of the contents of the transmission.

Hendricks’s pen stopped moving. “Dear God,” he said quietly.

Christine peered over his shoulder. “What does the message say?”

The phone beside Hendricks rang. “Yes?” Hendricks was silent for a few seconds. “I see.” He hung up and looked up at Christine. “We were too late. The message went out.”

“What does it say?”

“The Kentucky has been directed to launch.”

Christine couldn’t believe what she was hearing. One of their submarines had been ordered to launch its missiles? Her knees turned weak and panic stabbed at her. Visions of a hasty, but well-deserved, retaliation, followed by an all-out nuclear war, flashed though her mind. Steadying herself, she gripped Hendricks’s shoulder, then sank into the chair next to him, her thoughts blank for a few seconds. But then her mind snapped into action.

“How many missiles were released?”

“All twenty-four.”

“Against who?”

Hendricks checked the message again. “She’s been assigned an Iranian target package. Her missiles will destroy the entire country.”

Christine blinked several times, trying to comprehend what one of their Trident submarines had been directed to do. Annihilate an entire country. But relief washed over her at the same time. Iran could not retaliate, and the United States was safe. That selfish thought was accompanied by guilt; while America would emerge unscathed, Iran would be reduced to an uninhabitable wasteland. They had to stop the launch, somehow countermand the order before the Kentucky acted. “How long before they launch?”

“If the Kentucky is within range, she’ll begin launching within minutes.”

“We have to stop it. Can you send a cancellation message?”

Hendricks’s eyes went to the empty safe, then to the charred residue in the trash can. “That man knew what he was doing. He destroyed all the authentication codes. If we send a message without the correct codes, the Kentucky will ignore it.”

Christine began pacing again. “Is there a backup set of codes somewhere?”

“There is, but it’ll take two hours to get them here. I’ll have the message ready to go with the exception of entering the authentication codes. But if the Kentucky is within range, there’s nothing we can do to stop her from launching.”

Christine realized their only hope was that the Kentucky was not within launch range and would not get there within the next two hours. She looked up at the electronic display at the front of the Operations Center. Four Trident submarines were at sea in the Pacific and another four in the Atlantic. In each ocean, two submarines were in their patrol areas while two were either en route or returning. But instead of their name or hull number, each submarine symbol was labeled with a set of random characters and numbers. Which one was the Kentucky?

“What fleet is the Kentucky assigned to?” Christine asked.

“Pacific.”

“Get me the SUBPAC Strategic Watch Officer.”

A moment later, Hendricks handed the secure handset to Christine, and a man’s voice warbled over the long-distance encrypted line. “Lieutenant Commander Coleman, SUBPAC Strategic Watch Officer.”

“This is Christine O’Connor, National Security Adviser. I need to know if the Kentucky is in her patrol area.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am. But I can’t provide that information over the phone.”

Christine lost control, yelling into the receiver, “This is a secure phone, and if you don’t want to end up at admiral’s mast by the end of the day, you damn well better answer my question! Is the Kentucky inside her patrol area!” Her face had turned red and her fingers white as she gripped the phone.

There was silence on the line for a few seconds before the Watch Officer answered. “No.”

“Will she reach her patrol area in the next two hours?”

Silence on the line again.

“Answer my question! I don’t want to know where the submarine is, just if she’ll reach her patrol area in the next two hours! Yes or no!”

“No, ma’am.”

Christine exhaled, then hung up the phone.

“The replacement codes will be here soon,” Hendricks said, “and then we’ll send the cancellation message.”

Christine glanced at the man who had killed himself, who was still slumped against the wall. “Why would he send a launch message to a submarine that wasn’t in launch range, knowing that we’d send a cancellation message within the next few hours?”

Hendricks shrugged. “That’s for your CIA friends to figure out, once they track down who’s behind this. In the meantime, you had better inform the president.”

Christine nodded slowly, then picked up the secure phone, dialing the familiar number.

The conversation was brief and terse, with Hardison interjecting at the end; the president had placed her on speakerphone in the Oval Office so his chief of staff could overhear. Christine’s instinct had been correct, sending the Marines and CIA agents outside NMCC. They would send a cancellation message, and no one would be the wiser. An extensive cleanup, as Hardison had put it, would be required to sweep this incident under the rug. Christine had almost corrected the chief of staff, replacing his choice of words with the proper term, cover-up, but she bit her tongue. There would be a time to debate the administration’s response to this incident, and now was not that time.

As Christine hung up the phone, one of the Marines knocked, then entered the Operations Center. “Medical personnel have arrived. May we enter?”

“Come in,” Christine answered. She closed the codebook, the message stuck between the pages. As the Marines and CIA agents reentered with emergency medical personnel, Christine called out to Agent Kenney, motioning for him to join her and Hendricks at the front of the room.

“I need to keep what happened here quiet for the time being,” Christine said softly as Kenney joined them, “until we figure out how to break this issue to the public. To start with, we need a plausible explanation for this.” Christine gestured to the dead and unconscious men and women around them. “Can you help?”

Kenney glanced around the room, then up at the air-conditioning vents in the ceiling. “I’ll need Director Ronan’s permission…, but it appears we’ve had a Freon leak from one of the air-conditioning plants. It’s fortunate we arrived when we did, or everyone would have suffocated. I’ll have one of my men…, identify the source of the leak.”

“Thank you, Agent Kenney.”

A minute later, Kenney put away his cell phone and began talking privately with the other two agents. As Christine watched medical personnel attend to the incapacitated men and women, her thoughts returned to the launch order just transmitted. In two hours, they’d send a cancellation message and this nightmare would be over. But her intuition told her things wouldn’t be quite so simple. If they were, then whoever orchestrated this had gone through a great deal of trouble to achieve nothing.

And that didn’t make sense.

No sense at all.

13

As Malone leaned over the chart table in Nav Center, he realized his senses had become heightened. The temperature gradient in the room was particularly noticeable, the cold air from the ventilation ducts chilling his body while the heat from the electronic chart table warmed his hands. Against the far bulkhead, the ship’s two inertial navigators, which kept track of the submarine’s position at all times, blinked their agreement, their green lights reflecting off the wall behind them. All around him, the submarine was unusually quiet, the machinery mimicking the subdued demeanor of its crew.

Malone had retreated to Nav Center to collect his thoughts and measure the distance to the Emerald operating area, and launch range. The Kentucky would be in her assigned moving haven for four more days, followed by another four-day transit through Sapphire before she reached Emerald, where the crew would execute its mission. Someone had to do it, but why the Kentucky? True, she was configured differently from other Tridents, and that was a reasonable enough explanation. But it seemed surprising the new president would want to wait eight days before retaliating when other Tridents were closer. After reading the informational section of the EAM, he could only imagine what it was like back home — the disarray and chaos. And it was his job to break the news to the crew, tell them what had been done to their country and what they would do in response.

Malone sucked in a deep breath as he prepared to inform the rest of the crew what the men in Control already knew. The entire crew was awake by now, he was sure, word of their launch order traveling like wildfire throughout the ship. But Malone wanted to ensure everyone clearly understood what had happened and when and how the United States would respond.

He entered Control, stepping onto the Conn. Unholstering the 1-MC microphone, he held it in his hand for a moment, then brought it to his lips.

“This is the Captain.”

Throughout the ship, the crew halted their conversations as they listened to their Commanding Officer.

“We received an Emergency Action Message today, and no doubt many of you are aware of the content and our instructions.” Malone paused. It was difficult to speak. After a moment, he continued. “A nuclear bomb was detonated in Washington, D.C., yesterday. The White House and the majority of the city were destroyed. Over one hundred thousand men, women, and children are dead, including the president and most of his cabinet. Vice President Tompkins has been sworn in as president, and he has authorized the release of nuclear weapons in response. The source of the nuclear bomb has been traced to Iran, and the Kentucky has been directed to strike back. In eight days, we will reach our patrol area and our missiles will be in range. In eight days, the United States will make an example of those who murdered our families and friends and threatened the survival of our country. In eight days, be ready.”

Malone met the eyes of each man in Control, then eased the microphone into its clip before leaving the Control Room without another word.

On watch in Radio, sitting next to the Radio Division Chief, Petty Officer 3rd Class Pete Greene could not contain his anxiety, his knee jittering up and down.

“Jesus, Chief. We actually got launch orders.” Greene’s fingers tapped the console in front of him, matching the rhythm of his knee. “We train for this all the time, but I never thought we’d actually have to go through with it.” He studied the radio console display, watching for another message. “Damn, I can’t concentrate, Chief. My stomach is tied in knots.”

“I’m with you, Greene.” Davidson turned away from his screen. “Why don’t you go to Crew’s Mess and get some coffee for both of us?”

“Can’t, Chief, I’m on watch. There’s supposed to be two of us in here at all times.”

“Don’t worry, Greene. It’s the midwatch. We do this all the time on patrol. Get some coffee, and I’ll cover for you.” Greene looked skeptically at his chief, but Davidson nodded toward the Radio Room door. “A dash of cream and a pack of sugar in mine.”

After scanning his display again, Petty Officer Greene stood, rubbing his sweaty palms on the legs of his jumpsuit. “Yeah, I need some coffee. I’ll be right back.”

When the door closed, Davidson popped up out of his chair and stepped over to the Antenna Patch Panel, which connected the ship’s antennas to the Radio Room equipment. He unscrewed the knurl knobs, pulled opened the front panel, and examined the maze of circuit boards and wires inside the cabinet. Retrieving a small Phillips-head screwdriver from his pocket, he reached inside the cabinet and loosened two of the terminal connections, rerouting the end of a yellow wire from one terminal to the other.

Working quickly inside the cramped electronics cabinet, Chief Electronics Technician Alan Davidson found it hard to believe he had slipped through the cracks. Radio Division personnel required a top secret clearance, as did everyone dealing with the receipt and decryption of EAMs. In addition, ballistic missile submarine sailors and officers were screened through the Personnel Reliability Program, their backgrounds scrutinized to ensure each member was trustworthy and dependable. He had been processed through the system with flying colors.

Born to Jewish immigrants from Austria, Davison had attended Hebrew day school in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, through the eighth grade. His daily curriculum, which began with the singing of the Israeli national anthem, included not only math and English but also Hebrew, Israeli history, and Zionist literature. At home, his parents followed Israeli news with religiouslike zeal, passing the love for their kin and the Jewish homeland to their son. By the time Davidson attended public high school, the country to which he owed his allegiance was clear. And during the exhaustive security interviews and background checks conducted after he joined the Navy, no one had even asked him that basic question.

It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate the United States. His family had prospered, and he believed America truly was the land of opportunity. But he had been given a unique opportunity to help defend the Jewish people in Israel. Shortly after his assignment to the USS Kentucky, his sister had introduced him to a friend of hers, Bill Hoover. It wasn’t long before it became clear that he was more than just a guy next door. Davidson’s role in the plan had been proposed, and he had accepted; there was little risk to him.

Davidson reached behind one of the circuit cards, swiveling into view a circuit board he had installed during the submarine’s last refit. After flipping a small toggle lever on the back of the circuit card, he turned to observe the two Radio Room consoles. The displays scrambled, then resynced a second later, diagnostics scrolling down the screens.

He was about to close the cabinet cover when the Radio Room cipher lock clicked and the door opened. Petty Officer Greene entered, one cup of steaming coffee tucked under his left arm and another in his left hand. Greene stopped at the entrance with a puzzled look on his face, as the two Radio Room consoles continued their start-up. Chief Davidson finished securing the Antenna Patch Panel cover.

“There you are, Greene. What took you so long?”

“Whatcha doing, Chief?”

“Just running some diagnostics. Want to make sure everything’s working properly. Especially now that we’re receiving EAMs.” Davidson walked over to Greene, reaching for the mug in his left hand. “This one mine?”

Greene nodded.

“Thanks.” Davidson glanced over his shoulder as both consoles completed their reboot. “Back to business.” Davidson slid into his chair at his workstation, nonchalantly sipping his coffee. A few seconds later, Greene did the same, and both men were soon busy with their normal watch routine.

The Kentucky’s communication equipment was severed from its antennas, routed instead to a circuit card preloaded with two weeks’ worth of naval messages, which the Kentucky would download periodically when she went to periscope depth to copy the broadcast. And if the crew tried to transmit, the circuit card would generate a curt response from COMSUBPAC an hour later, telling the submarine to execute its assigned mission and not transmit again.

The Kentucky was cut off from the outside world and wouldn’t even notice.

14

“Sir, the Kentucky’s not responding.”

Christine stood next to Hendricks in the Operations Center, filled again with men and women from the next watch section, listening to the communication specialist’s report.

“We’ve sent the Termination message several times now, with instructions to acknowledge receipt, and we’ve received no response.”

“Are you sure our equipment and transmitters are functioning properly?” Christine asked.

“Yes, ma’am. We’ve verified the message is being transmitted. Other units have received it. Just not the Kentucky, apparently.”

“Maybe she has but is unable to respond?” Hendricks asked.

“Could be,” the comm specialist replied. “But there’s no way to tell.”

Christine had waited anxiously for the replacement codes to arrive, the minutes slowly ticking by. The agonizing wait had finally ended, the codes delivered by a two-man courier team. But now the Kentucky had failed to acknowledge the Termination message, and the anticipated end to this nightmare scenario had failed to materialize.

Christine turned to Hendricks. “What do we do if the Kentucky doesn’t acknowledge?”

“Without a reply, there’s no way to know if she’s received the Termination message and has canceled her strike order.”

“So what do we do now?”

“We keep transmitting. But if she doesn’t acknowledge, we have to assume she hasn’t received the cancellation message. And if she doesn’t receive it…” Hendricks looked over at the digital clock at the front of the Operations Center, set to the estimated time before the Kentucky reached launch range. The red numbers ticked steadily down.

“The Kentucky will execute the last valid set of orders she’s received.”

15

As a light morning rain fell over the Har HaMenuchot cemetery, Barak Kogen stood next to his friend and prime minister, holding a large black umbrella over the two of them, the water running off the edges in small rivulets. Kogen listened as the rabbi finished reciting the Eyl Malei Rahamim, watching as the caskets containing Rosenfeld’s two daughters were lowered into their graves. Kogen had been by Rosenfeld’s side three years ago, the older man’s arms around his daughters as they buried their mother. But unlike then, when he pulled his children close and offered soft words of encouragement, today he stood alone. There was nothing left of Rosenfeld’s family, and the condolences of friends and relatives could not assuage his grief. Still, Kogen hoped the news he was about to share would somehow lessen his sorrow.

The operation had been initiated. As feared, the information discovered by the young intern had fallen into capable hands, and the Americans had discerned enough to threaten the plan’s success. But they had arrived too late, and now there was nothing they could do. With the additional precautions the Mossad had taken, the Americans would not find the Kentucky. Now, all that was left to do was wait for the submarine to reach launch range and execute her order. Kogen leaned closer to his friend, hoping his words would help console him. “I have news, Levi.”

The older man gave no indication he’d heard Kogen, staring directly ahead as the rabbi began another prayer. The rain splattered against Kogen’s umbrella in a soft, steady tempo as the man’s voice droned on. Located on the western edge of Jerusalem, Har HaMenuchot offered commanding views of Mevaseret Zion to the north, Motza to the west, and Har Nof to the south. But Rosenfeld stared blankly ahead. Surrounded by relatives from both sides of what used to be his family, Rosenfeld stood alone and isolated; the gray, bleak sky overhead reflecting his grief.

As the rabbi finished his prayer, Rosenfeld nodded for Kogen to continue.

“The Mossad operation was a success, Levi. Our people will soon be protected from these animals.”

16

An early morning stillness clung to the White House as Christine strode down the West Wing corridor, her footsteps muffled by the plush blue carpet. As she headed toward the stairway leading to the basement, her thoughts never strayed from her all-night vigil in NMCC. She’d finally departed only a few minutes ago to return to the White House and the awaiting president. During the night, her extensive weapon background had proved useful in assessing the threat the Kentucky posed, but her knowledge of ballistic missile submarines and the weapons they carried was still somewhat limited. Thankfully, the man walking on her right had filled in the missing details.

Navy Captain Steve Brackman was the president’s senior military aide, a post filled by each branch of the armed services on a rotating basis. Fortunately, the president’s current aide was a naval officer, and even more fortunate, he was a former commanding officer of a ballistic missile submarine. After Christine informed the president of the Kentucky’s launch order, Brackman had been sent to NMCC. Arriving there late last night, Captain Brackman was a sight for sore eyes, in more ways than one.

Tall and handsome, with dark, penetrating eyes, Brackman had a chiseled body that would make a Calvin Klein model envious. Put his image on a Navy recruiting poster, Christine thought, and the percentage of female enlistments would skyrocket. He wasn’t just good-looking either — as commanding officer, he had received the coveted Admiral Stockdale Award for Inspirational Leadership. Assigned to the administration eighteen months ago, Brackman was approaching the end of his two-year tour. He had never shared the details, but soon after he arrived, Christine had learned he was a recent widower, his wife and son killed in a horrific accident of some type. This morning, however, he would aid Christine in preventing a horrific accident of an undoubtedly different type.

In the basement of the West Wing, Christine followed Brackman into the Situation Room; the air was cold and the tension thick as she closed the door, alone with Brackman and two other men. The president sat at the head of the rectangular conference table, a grave expression on his face, while Hardison, seated on the president’s right, appeared hostile. Hardison had arrived early, no doubt whispering in the president’s ear as they waited. Even though there were more important things to discuss this morning, Christine was ready to defend herself. She would not go down without a fight.

This mess was going to be her fault, if Hardison had his way. In their conversations throughout the night, she could tell he was jockeying for position, probing her about the CD she’d found and her role in the debacle. He would take advantage of her involvement — her decision to withhold knowledge of the CD, and her arrival in NMCC after the message was transmitted — somehow twisting things around to pin the blame on her. Hell, she had almost stopped it. Yet Christine knew that somehow, it was all going to be her fault.

Hardison’s eyes bored a hole through her body as she approached the conference table, and she returned his stare as she and Brackman sat opposite him, her eyes locked with Hardison’s until the president cleared his throat. Turning her attention to the commander in chief, Christine thought he had aged overnight. Although he had entered office with salt-and-pepper sideburns, the gray was now throughout his full head of brown hair and the lines in his face were more deeply creased. The decision the president would make this morning would no doubt add more years to his appearance.

As the president began to speak, Christine’s eyes flicked back to Hardison. His malevolent gaze was still fixed on her, and she steeled herself for the worst. She would restrain herself in conversation with the president, but if Hardison opened his mouth, she was coming out swinging.

“Considering your role in this mess…,” the president began.

Here it comes.

“… you handled the situation extremely well.”

Christine was caught off guard. Had Hardison actually complimented her, praising her actions? Or had he criticized her as usual, with the president giving him the Heisman this time, stiff-arming his attempt to demonize her, deciding instead to give her the credit she deserved? Her eyes went to Hardison again. His expression hadn’t changed — still the same disapproving frown. Figures. The president had overridden him.

“So where do we stand on terminating this launch?” the president added.

Christine shrugged off her surprise at the unexpected compliment and answered the president’s question. “We’ve been transmitting the cancellation message for the last nine hours, but so far the Kentucky hasn’t responded. We have to assume she’s had a Radio Room casualty, or worse, sabotage, and that either way, she hasn’t received the cancellation message. That means she’ll execute the strike order, launching her missiles eight days from now.”

“Do we know who’s behind this yet?”

“We have our suspicions, given the launch is directed at Iran, and that the perpetrator’s wife was an Israeli national, killed by Palestinian terrorists while visiting Israel a few years ago. Everything points to Israel, but we have nothing concrete so far.”

The president’s face hardened. “I want this nailed down, Christine. Pull out all the stops.” The president paused for a moment before continuing, “What kind of destruction are we talking about if the Kentucky launches?”

“The Kentucky carries twenty-four missiles. Each missile can be configured with up to eight warheads, but they’re usually configured with four under the New START treaty with Russia.” Christine paused, glancing at Hardison.

The chief of staff flashed her a dark look.

“What?” the president asked.

Christine’s eyes returned to the president. “The Kentucky is unique in that her missiles are configured with a payload of eight warheads. There are several target packages that require more than four warheads per missile, so—”

“We’re in violation of START?” the president asked.

Hardison had been uncharacteristically quiet so far, and Christine wondered if he had expended himself arguing with the president over her culpability, and was now sitting there, sulking. Or was it something else? But then he joined the conversation.

“Not exactly,” Hardison replied. “Under New START, we can deviate from four warheads per missile, as long as we have proper authorization.”

“Who authorized this deviation?”

“You did, Mr. President,” Hardison replied. “You signed the authorization a year ago.”

“I don’t recall approving this.”

“I have your signature, sir. But in your defense, it was a thick document, and I may not have pointed out that clause.” Hardison shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

The president glared at his chief of staff, his jaw muscles flexing. “We’ll discuss this later.” He turned to Captain Brackman. “Put this in terms I can understand. Relative to Hiroshima, how much destruction can the Kentucky’s warheads deliver?”

Brackman answered, “The bomb we dropped on Hiroshima was a twenty-kiloton weapon. Each of the warheads carried by the Kentucky is a four-hundred-seventy-five-kiloton bomb, so each of the Kentucky’s warheads is roughly twenty-five times more powerful than what we used to destroy Hiroshima. Multiply that by twenty-four missiles, then again by eight warheads per missile, and that’d be around … five thousand Hiroshimas.”

The president’s face paled. “My God. We have to inform Iran.”

“I don’t recommend it,” Hardison said. “The chaos we’d cause would be almost unimaginable. As long as we have the potential to stop the launch, we don’t want this issue going public. Plus, if the country finds out we issued a valid launch order to one of our submarines, it could topple your presidency.”

“I don’t give a damn about my administration right now,” the president snapped. “The only thing that matters is turning off this launch.”

“I understand, sir,” Hardison replied in a conciliatory tone. “But if we can do it while keeping the issue under wraps, it’s important we do so.”

There was a long silence as the president considered Hardison’s recommendation. Christine knew they could keep this issue quiet for a short period of time, claiming operational necessity. But a long-term effort to conceal what had occurred, if discovered, would carry severe political and even criminal repercussions.

After what seemed like several minutes, the president spoke. “Who else knows about this?”

“Right now there are only five persons who know everything,” Hardison answered. “The four of us, plus Dave Hendricks, the deputy director of the National Military Command Center. The Command Center director, Admiral Tracey McFarland, is on travel the next two weeks, and as acting director, Hendricks has agreed to cover for us until the issue is either resolved or we provide other direction. The rest of the NMCC staff has no idea of the content of the message that was transmitted. Christine was wise enough to see to that.”

The president fixed Hardison with a serious look. “And what makes you think this Dave Hendricks will comply with our desire to keep this matter confidential?”

Hardison turned to Christine.

“I requested his confidentiality as a personal favor,” Christine answered.

The president raised an eyebrow. “And he would do this because…?”

Christine smoothed a wrinkle in her skirt, then locked her fingers together around her knee. “Dave is my ex-husband.”

The president leaned back in his chair. “And I assume you divorced on amicable terms?”

“As amicable as any divorce can be, I suppose. We’re still good friends and he’s agreed to honor our request to keep the content of the message confidential as long as possible.”

“Why don’t we have Hendricks sign a nondisclosure agreement?” Brackman interjected.

“I don’t recommend it,” Hardison answered. “It’s not a good idea to have hard-copy evidence of our direction to keep this issue quiet.”

The president nodded his agreement as Christine picked up where Hardison left off. “Even with a nondisclosure agreement, once we give the order, there’s a high probability this will go public.”

The president leaned forward. “What order?”

“Mr. President. The three of us see only one solution, given the Kentucky’s failure to acknowledge the cancellation message. We’re here to ask you for that authorization.”

“Authorization for what?”

“To sink the Kentucky.”

The president’s face went blank. “There must be some other option. You’re talking about sinking one of our own submarines. With our own people aboard.”

Hardison replied, “She has to be stopped from launching. She hasn’t acknowledged the cancellation message, so we have no choice.”

“Wait a minute,” the president replied. “The Kentucky is eight days away from launch range. Why do we have to sink her now? Why can’t we keep sending her the cancellation message? Maybe she’ll fix her radio gear and she’ll receive the message.”

“There’s another issue,” Brackman answered. “The CIP key.”

“What’s that?” the president asked.

“It’s a key on board the submarine the crew needs to launch the missiles. It’s kept in a safe that no one on board knows the combination to. Not until they receive a Launch order. Now that the crew has received the Launch order, they have the CIP key and can launch. The question no one can answer is, Is the crew part of this plot and that’s why they’re not responding to the Termination order, or are they not responding to the Termination order because of a Radio Room casualty?”

There was silence around the table as the president digested Brackman’s words.

Brackman continued, “Unfortunately, there’s no way for us to figure this out, and the longer we wait, the harder it gets for us to find and stop the Kentucky. So you have to make a decision, Mr. President, and you have to make it today.”

The president stood and turned, facing the dark monitor on the Situation Room wall. The silence was unbearable as the president sorted through the options and their outcomes. Finally, he turned back to his advisers; his dark brown eyes had grown darker still.

“Here’s what we’re going to do. First, continue to limit those who know about the launch order. As this evolves, we’ll evaluate to who and when to divulge information. Inform Williams, as we’ll have to go through the secretary of defense to give orders to the Unified Commanders. Second, keep the vice president in the dark. I want him insulated in case I’m forced to resign over this issue. Finally, it seems we have no other option.” The president’s shoulders slumped, his confident façade crumbling under the weight of his decision.

“Sink the Kentucky.”

17

With the sun only a few degrees above the horizon, the waterfront along Pearl Harbor was already a frenzy of activity, every submarine making preparations to get under way. Heavy cranes lifted green warshot torpedoes across the wharves onto loading skids on top of the submarines, while smaller cranes swung pallets of supplies to sailors waiting topside. As Captain Murray Wilson hurried toward Admiral Stanbury’s office, he was joined by the admiral’s aide, Lieutenant David Mortimore, saluting as he approached.

“What’s going on, Lieutenant?”

Lieutenant Mortimore hustled to keep up with Wilson as they weaved their way across the busy waterfront. “The orders went out at zero four hundred this morning, sir. Every fast attack in Pearl has been ordered to sortie immediately. Same thing with the submarine squadrons in San Diego and Guam. Everyone’s getting under way. Even the Seawolfs at Indian Island in Washington.”

“Where are they headed?” Wilson asked, dodging a forklift passing through the legs of the crane they were walking under.

“Don’t know, sir. No one’s received their OPORD yet. The Watch Officers are busy generating movement orders, but all they’ve been told so far is to route everyone west at flank speed. We’ve got eight fast attacks—”

“Yes, I know,” Wilson interrupted. “Eight fast attacks at sea, and I know where they are.” He was unable to conceal his irritation. Admiral Stanbury had begun issuing orders in the middle of the night, yet he’d called Wilson only a half hour ago. “What’s the status of under way preps?” he asked, returning his attention to the fifteen submarines still in Pearl Harbor.

“Start-up preps are under way on all boats, but most of the reactor plants are at cold iron. The Houston and Jacksonville are hot, and should be ready by zero nine hundred.”

Wilson’s eyes skimmed across the waterfront, identifying the Jacksonville two piers down, several sailors removing shore power. Beyond the Jacksonville, across the channel, were two of the surface ship wharves, a dozen destroyers and cruisers likewise preparing to get under way.

“Looks like the entire PAC Fleet is surging.”

“Yes, sir,” Lieutenant Mortimore replied. “It does look that way.”

Turning the corner at pier Sierra One-Bravo, Mortimore left Wilson’s side to assist the Watch Officers while Wilson hurried past the mothballed Dive Tower, the metal staircase winding up the outside of the two-hundred-foot-tall cylindrical structure. He was headed toward an unpretentious two-story cinder-block building built into the side of a small hill. As Wilson passed between a pair of three-foot-tall brass submarine dolphins and climbed the cracked concrete steps, one would not have guessed he was about to enter the headquarters of the most powerful submarine fleet on earth.

Sixty percent of the U.S. Submarine Force was home-ported in the Pacific, amounting to thirty-two nuclear-powered fast attacks and eleven Tridents, nine of which were ballistic missile submarines while the other two pulled double duty as Tomahawk-guided missile shooters and special warfare platforms for their embarked SEALs. By itself, a single Trident submarine was the sixth most heavily armed country from a nuclear warhead perspective, and all told, COMSUBPAC was the third most powerful entity in the world, surpassed only by Russia and the United States itself.

Reaching the top of the steps, Wilson punched in his pass code and entered COMSUBPAC headquarters, greeted immediately by the admiral’s chief of staff, Captain Errol Holcomb, whose eyes reflected the same irritation as Wilson’s.

“What’s going on?” Wilson asked, hoping Holcomb could shed more light on the situation than the admiral’s aide.

“Wish I knew. The admiral’s been holed up in his office since I got here, refusing to tell anyone what the hell is going on. But now that you’re here, maybe we’ll get some answers.”

Holcomb knocked on COMSUBPAC’s door. “Admiral, Captain Wilson is here to see you. May we come in?”

“Wilson only,” the voice from inside replied.

Holcomb raised an eyebrow as he opened the door for Wilson.

Murray Wilson entered Admiral John Stanbury’s office, and after a single glance at the older man sitting behind his desk, his ire melted away. With hunched shoulders and dark circles painted under hollow eyes, the admiral had clearly been up most of, if not the entire, night. Wilson’s conclusion was reinforced by four empty Styrofoam coffee cups resting on the edge of a nautical chart spread across the admiral’s desk. Wondering where the admiral’s favorite coffee mug, the one he had used since his commanding officer tour on the Memphis, had disappeared to, Wilson spotted the shattered remnants of a ceramic cup lying against the far wall, and above them, a four-inch gouge in the wall.

“What’s going on, sir?”

“Close the door.”

As Wilson entered his office, Admiral Stanbury saw the irritation in the younger man’s eyes. He hadn’t been called right away, but in a few minutes, he would understand why. Stanbury admitted it was unfair to place this burden on Wilson’s shoulders, and in the dark morning hours after he’d received the president’s directive, he’d hesitated, going down the list of officers who could coordinate the effort. But the list was short, and none had Wilson’s experience. Finally, he realized he had no choice. Wilson was the right man, regardless of the circumstances.

Wilson closed the door behind him, but not before he noticed the cipher card inserted into the admiral’s secure STE phone and a bright-orange folder on his desk. Stanbury picked up the top secret folder, motioning Wilson toward the conference table. The admiral handed the folder to Wilson, who pulled out a single sheet of paper, a directive signed by the president. After reading it, Wilson sagged into one of the chairs.

“You’ve got to be kidding. Is this someone’s sadistic April Fool’s joke?”

“I’m afraid not,” Stanbury answered, pulling up a chair beside Wilson. “Our direction is clear. We’ve been ordered to stop the Kentucky using all means available. We’ve been sending her messages all morning over every communication circuit, ordering her to reply and return to port, but she’s failed to acknowledge.”

“We’ve been ordered to sink her because she won’t answer a message?”

“It’s not just any message, Murray.”

“It’s obvious, Admiral — she’s had a Radio Room casualty. She either hasn’t received the Termination message or can’t transmit her acknowledgment.”

“Washington isn’t so sure, and now that the crew has access to the CIP key, they’re weighing the likelihood the crew is in on this plot versus the probability of a coincidental Radio Room problem.”

Murray slammed his fist on the table. “The crew is not in on this plot! I guarantee it! I know this crew better than anyone else on the waterfront. I’ve known Brad Malone since he was a department head on my ship. There’s no one with more integrity than him. And…” A lump formed in Wilson’s throat, and he was unable to complete the sentence.

Stanbury said nothing for a long moment.

“I happen to agree with you,” Stanbury said eventually. “This situation is going to be difficult for all of us. I hesitated to call you because your son is aboard the Kentucky, but I need you on point, Murray. You’re the best I’ve got, plus you’ve trained all our commanding officers. No one knows better the tactics the Kentucky will use to evade detection, or strategy for employing our forces to find her. I need you to coordinate our submarine, surface, and aircraft in our effort to find the Kentucky. But if you’re unable to, I’ll understand.”

Stanbury paused, waiting for it all to sink in.

Reaching across the table, Wilson retrieved the letter and read it again, still finding it impossible to believe. They had been ordered to hunt down one of their own. One of his own, in a macabre scenario beyond comprehension. Disbelief, anger, and frustration swirled within as he struggled to come to terms with the president’s directive and Stanbury’s request. Professionally, he could follow through. But personally … The thought of the Kentucky engaged in a duel to the death with another U.S. submarine churned his stomach. Even if the Kentucky prevailed, they would just send in another fast attack, and another. The end result was not in doubt. He tried not to think about the men aboard the ballistic missile submarine as the cold water dragged the crew — including his son — down to their watery tomb.

Finally, Wilson spoke. “There has to be another way.”

Stanbury searched Wilson’s eyes for a moment before replying. “That’s one of the reasons you’re here. The last thing I want is to sink one of our own submarines. I need options. Anything that will allow me to carry out the intent of my orders”—Stanbury picked up the folder and waved it in the air—“without sinking the Kentucky. But we have to stop her from launching.”

Wilson let out a deep breath, realizing Stanbury had opened the door to alternatives. Now he needed to find one. His mind shifted into analytical mode, and it wasn’t long before he latched on to a solution.

“We’ll vector a couple of fast attacks into the Kentucky’s moving haven, and after they locate her, instead of attacking, they’ll communicate with her via underwater comms, telling her she’s had a Radio Room casualty and COMSUBPAC has ordered her to return to port.”

Wilson waited for Stanbury’s reaction. He knew it was a long shot. Trident crews were well trained. Once a launch order was received, nothing would stop them from launching except a Termination order. Not even underwater communications from a friendly fast attack. But it was worth a try.

“Good idea,” Stanbury said as he placed the folder back on the table. “However, the fast attacks need to be weapons-free, in case the Kentucky ignores them and tries to slip away. This may be our only opportunity.”

Wilson nodded somberly. “I’ll take care of it.”

“One more thing,” Stanbury added. “I need a plan for the rest of the fleet in case your fast-attack plan fails. I’ll be briefing Admiral Herrell at PAC Fleet later this morning. There’s one additional complication, however. Our orders are clear — we’re to minimize the number of personnel who know the ship we’ve been directed to sink is a U.S. submarine. By no means can we tell the entire fleet their target is the Kentucky. But if we don’t tell them the truth, and they classify the target as a Trident submarine, what then?”

“We don’t need to worry about the surface ships and aircraft,” Wilson answered. “Once they detect a submarine, they’ll attack immediately and not wait to determine what class it is. Our fast-attack submarines, on the other hand, could be a problem. It’s possible one of them will recognize the Kentucky’s frequency tonals as a Trident.”

Stanbury agreed. “The last thing we want is an attack aborted because there’s confusion over whether they’re prosecuting the desired contact. Do you have any suggestions?”

Wilson contemplated the quandary, searching for a solution. And then it dawned on him. “I think I have a plan, Admiral.”

18

As the early afternoon light filtered through the tall colonnade windows in the Oval Office, Kevin Hardison struggled to avoid staring at the woman in the chair next to him, across from the president’s desk. She was, without a doubt, the most attractive woman he had ever met. His eyes kept returning for brief glimpses, lingering only for an appropriate period of time, until he finally decided to take advantage of her conversation with the president, giving him the opportunity to thoroughly admire her body. She shifted in her chair, crossing her right leg over her left, revealing well-defined calves, her skirt inching up her thighs, exposing lean, muscular legs. Her hair fell across the front of her shoulders, drawing Hardison’s eyes toward the opening of her blouse, the rounded flesh hinting at full, and undoubtedly firm, breasts.

Even in a conservative business suit, she was undeniably beautiful, and when she arrived at the occasional White House state dinner wearing a formal evening dress that hugged the curves of her body, every head turned, men and women alike forgetting the position she held and the influence she wielded. She would normally wear her hair up, pulled back to reveal the sleek lines of her neck, drawing admiring stares up toward her high cheekbones and glittering blue eyes.

If that wasn’t enough, her incredible physique was easily matched by her intelligence. The woman spoke with the president as an equal, he respecting her opinion, she absorbing his. Confidence was reflected in the tone of her voice, competence in the words she employed and the information she conveyed. The president nodded as she expertly explained the situation at hand. Hardison caught a faint smile on her lips as the president agreed with her assessment; a smile she seemed to reserve for others and not him, a smile that brightened her face, enhancing her almost irresistible attractiveness. Without a doubt, Hardison mused as he examined her body again, she was easily the most intelligent and beautiful woman he had ever met. Unfortunately, there was the issue of the woman’s personality.

If only she weren’t such an obstinate bitch.

Christine turned her head toward Hardison, catching him staring at her breasts. She threw him a withering look as she tugged the lapels of her suit jacket together across her chest. Her icy stare, combined with the vague recollection of someone mentioning his name, brought Hardison’s thoughts back to their discussion. He’d been asked a question, and his mind dragged the words from his subconscious, piecing together the president’s query. “I agree,” Hardison finally answered. “A Chinese ballistic missile submarine is a reasonable proposition.”

“It’s a perfect cover story,” added Brackman, who was seated on the other side of Christine. “The idea is to create a fictional target that has the same sound characteristics as a Trident submarine, so if our fast attacks correlate the frequencies to a Trident, it won’t be a surprise to them.”

“Why Chinese?” the president asked.

“Because the Chinese are notorious for stealing our military secrets,” Brackman replied. “They’ve already stolen designs for some of our older nuclear warheads, and they’ve been seeking submarine construction details for years. Their new Yuan-class is a copy of the Russian Kilo, and it’s not a stretch to believe they’ve finally collected the necessary information to build an indigenous variant of our Trident submarine. Our first Trident entered service over thirty years ago, so that’s certainly enough time for them to conduct the necessary espionage.”

“Our fast-attack submarines will be informed the target is a replica of our Trident submarine,” Brackman added, “and they’ll be instructed to search for standard Trident tonals. It’s an ingenious solution.”

“Only for the time being,” the president clarified. “When the Kentucky doesn’t return from patrol, what then?”

There was a long silence before Hardison replied, “We haven’t thought that part through yet.”