The Trident Deception

19

Twelve hundred miles west of the Hawaiian Islands and just north of the Tropic of Cancer, the USS San Francisco surged eastward at ahead full, four hundred feet beneath the ocean’s surface, returning home after her six-month WESTPAC deployment. Inside the submarine’s sonar shack, Petty Officer 1st Class Tom Bradner studied the sonar screens in front of him. Resting his chin on his hand, Bradner tried to concentrate on the random static from the spherical array in the ship’s bow and the towed array streaming a half mile behind the submarine. They were far from the shipping lanes and hadn’t held a contact for the better part of a day.

Bradner ran his finger along the thin scar running down his left cheek to the base of his jaw, drawing his thoughts back to the day, in this very sonar shack, when warm flesh had been sliced open by cold metal. They had been on a routine transit to Australia, at ahead flank a hundred feet deeper than they were now, catching up with the middle of their moving haven after falling behind during drills. There had been no warning. Only his body suddenly flying through the air, slamming into the console in the forward part of the shack as the seven-thousand-ton submarine slowed from ahead flank to dead stop in a mere three seconds.

Pacific Ocean charts were notoriously inaccurate, and they had run into an uncharted mountain, even though the water depth was listed as six thousand feet. The watchstanders in Control picked themselves up and recovered quickly, initiating an Emergency Blow. As blood ran down Bradner’s face, pain was overshadowed by fear as the submarine began to tilt, the stern lifting upward, the bow remaining on the ocean floor. The forward main ballast tanks had been damaged in the collision, and precious Emergency Blow air was escaping from the ruptured tanks instead of pushing the water out, trapping the San Francisco on the ocean bottom. Luckily, the bow broke free from the ocean floor, and the San Francisco rose slowly upward.

Of the 137 men aboard, 98 were injured to some extent, with 23 injured seriously enough they were unable to stand watch during the submarine’s return to Guam. There was one fatality: Bradner’s best friend, Joe Ashley, a machinist mate who was thrown twenty feet into the eight-foot-tall drain pump, fracturing his skull. It was a miracle the San Francisco itself wasn’t destroyed. The submarine’s pressure hull survived intact, buffered by the ship’s forward main ballast tanks as they crumpled into the mountain peak.

After the submarine limped back to port, the engineers determined the San Francisco’s bow was a complete loss. There was no way to fix the hull and have any confidence in the durability and life span of the repaired ship. If the San Francisco hadn’t completed a reactor refueling a few months earlier, together with a complete modernization of her tactical systems, Bradner was sure the ship would have been scrapped. But the Navy had invested too much money to throw the ship away. So they cut off the bow of the USS Honolulu on its way through decommissioning, welding it onto the front of the San Francisco in place of its mangled counterpart. The San Franlulu, as the ship was now nicknamed, was back in business, the most modern and capable, if a bit schizophrenic, Los Angeles—class submarine in the fleet.

The Officer of the Deck’s voice booming across the 27-MC brought Bradner’s thoughts back to the present, the OOD’s announcement sending him back to the past just as quickly. The submarine was coming right, increasing speed to ahead flank, changing depth to five hundred feet, the same depth and speed they had been operating at when they ran into the submerged mountain. Bradner acknowledged, wondering what was going on.

“Helm, steady course one-one-zero.”

The San Francisco’s Officer of the Deck turned to the ship’s Captain, Commander Ken Tyler. “How long on this course and speed, sir?”

Leaning over the navigation display in Control, Tyler did the mental calculations. “Fourteen hours. Do not slow for soundings. We don’t have time.”

The Officer of the Deck raised his eyebrows, keenly aware of the peril of traveling at ahead flank without soundings. But what concerned him even more was the Captain’s next order.

“Load all torpedo tubes.”

20

It was two hours before midnight when Murray Wilson reached the deserted waterfront, headed toward the Operations Center in the N7 building. He had never seen the naval base so empty, devoid of its surface and subsurface warships, the lonely shore power cables swaying gently back and forth in the trade wind. Across the channel, pierside lamps pushed weak yellow light across the black water, the surface of Southeast Loch shimmering in the night as the water lapped against the concrete pilings. As Wilson walked along the quiet submarine wharves, he passed a darkened Lockwood Hall on his right, where seventy years earlier, festive bands had played, celebrating the return of submarine crews from successful war patrols. Wives and children had waited on the pier, leis in their hands, welcoming their loved ones home.

Wilson had headed home only an hour ago, finding a welcome plate of food waiting on the dining room table. Claire sat across from him while he ate in silence. Rumors had been flying since the early morning recall of every warship crew in Pearl Harbor, until a press release was issued explaining it was nothing more than a surprise training exercise, testing the fleet’s ability to surge in response to an unexpected wartime threat. Wilson could tell Claire was waiting for him to explain what was really going on, but he simply said he’d be heading back to the sub base and wouldn’t return until morning. He could see the concern in her eyes as he kissed her good-bye. He desperately hoped she hadn’t seen right through him, hadn’t sensed he’d been asked to kill their only son. He told himself for the thousandth time he had no choice. The life of his son could not outweigh the lives of millions.

Reaching the N7 building, Wilson climbed the staircase on the south side to the second level and entered the cold air-conditioned hallway. Halfway down the corridor, he entered his code into the cipher lock, took a deep breath to steady himself, then stepped inside the Operations Center, domain of the Watch Officers responsible for Water Space Management, a fancy term for underwater traffic cops. Inside the Operations Center, two lieutenants and a lieutenant commander stood watch, monitoring the movement of the submarines under way, their positions displayed on an eight-by-ten-foot monitor on the front wall.

Every fast-attack submarine in the United States Pacific Fleet was at sea tonight, except for three submarines in dry dock undergoing deep maintenance. Even the submarines whose availability was advertised as “one week after notification” had loaded the necessary supplies and cast off their lines. A total of twenty-nine fast attacks were under way, twenty-one headed west from their home ports or local waters, plus five deployed submarines and three more from Guam screaming east, the San Francisco in the lead, already halfway home. As the San Francisco and the two leading fast attacks from Pearl Harbor approached the Kentucky’s position, not even the Watch Officers in the Operations Center knew what was about to occur.

Upon entering the Submarine Service, Wilson had been surprised at how tightly underwater movements were controlled. On the surface, submarines were allowed the freedom to determine what route to take to get from point A to point B. Once submerged, however, they were told where to go, and no two submarines were allowed to operate in the same area, except during carefully controlled training engagements or transits. In those cases, one submarine would be restricted shallow and the other deep, one submarine passing above the other on its transit or as it attempted to detect and engage its simulated adversary below.

The reason for this was the complexity of tracking contacts while submerged. On the surface, radar and the human eye easily conveyed the information required to avoid another ship, but not so underwater. Unlike radar, passive sonar could determine only the direction of the contact, not how far away it was. With only the bearing to the contact, determining its course, speed, and range took time; time during which a contact could approach dangerously close. It was not uncommon for submarines, particularly during the cold war, to collide as one trailed the other in a high-tech game of cat and mouse, guessing wrong at what new speed and course the lead submarine had maneuvered to before the crew sorted it out.

As a result, submarine underwater movements were carefully managed from the COMSUBPAC Operations Center and its sister facility at SUBLANT. Submarines in transit to their patrol or deployment areas were allowed to submerge only within a rectangular box called a moving haven, which moved forward on a particular course and speed. Inside the moving haven, the submarine was free to go in any direction and speed, running to the front of the box and then slowing down for drills or for a trip to periscope depth.

Even ballistic missile submarines were assigned moving havens as they traveled to and from their patrol areas. Most patrol areas, assigned the names of precious jewels such as Emerald, Sapphire, Ruby, and Diamond, covered over a million square miles. Finding a submarine inside its moving haven was child’s play compared to searching out a patrol area.

Wilson looked up at the display, examining the three 688-class submarines moving into attack position. The rectangular box representing the Kentucky’s moving haven was advancing steadily to the west, with the San Francisco heading east on her way home, about to pass north of the Kentucky. Meanwhile, two 688s to the south, one behind the other, were rapidly catching up to the ballistic missile submarine’s moving haven. In an effort to conceal what the three submarines had been tasked with, Wilson had drafted their MOVEORDs himself, restricting access to his eyes only. Up to now, it would appear they were following normal transit orders. Wilson checked his watch. It was almost time.

“Everyone out!” he announced.

The three Watch Officers looked up in surprise. “Sir?” one of them asked.

“Go home, and inform the midwatch they have the night off. I’ve got the watch until six A.M.”

The Watch Officers exchanged confused glances until Wilson made it perfectly clear. “Now!”

The Watch Officers logged off their computers and left, leaving Wilson alone in the Operations Center, staring at the monitor. A few minutes later, exactly on time, the San Francisco veered to the south while the two 688s below turned north. The San Francisco would cut through the center of the Kentucky’s moving haven, while the other 688s sliced through the leading and trailing thirds.

In the effort to ensure all three submarines arrived at the same time, Wilson had routed the San Francisco at ahead flank, slowing her only a few miles before engaging. Under normal circumstances, this would have been a critical flaw in Wilson’s plan, as the Kentucky might detect the San Francisco before she slowed. But Murray was confident the crew of the Kentucky played no part in the plot to launch their missiles at Iran; they were merely pawns.

Besides, if the Kentucky detected the San Francisco and sped up or slowed down to evade the approaching fast attack, she would be snared by one of the quiet 688s on either side.

That’s when the most critical part of his plan would occur. One of the 688s would communicate with the Kentucky using underwater comms, telling the crew they had a Launch Termination order on the broadcast and that COMSUBPAC had ordered them to return to port. The Kentucky’s reaction would determine the 688s’ response. If the Kentucky did not comply, the 688s would execute their orders.

They would sink her.

Wilson studied the monitor as the three fast attacks converged on the Kentucky’s moving haven.

There was nothing for Wilson to do now except wait.

21

“Sir, the ship is at Battle Stations.”

Listening to the report from the Chief of the Watch, Commander Ken Tyler stood on the Conn as his ship slowed to ahead two-thirds. The watchstanders in Control were tense, manning Battle Stations and preparing to engage while at ahead flank. They knew how vulnerable their submarine was at maximum speed, the turbulent flow across the ship blinding her sensors. Tyler hadn’t wanted to come in at ahead flank but had been given no choice.

The Officer of the Deck approached. “Sir, Torpedo Tubes One through Four are loaded, flooded down, and muzzle doors are open.”

“Very well,” Tyler acknowledged, concentrating on the combat control screen in front of him, which displayed the Kentucky’s moving haven, a rectangular box advancing to the west at eight knots. The San Francisco was one of three 688s on a trajectory to slice through the operating area. The Houston and Jacksonville were to the south, curling northward as they prepared to pass through the front and back thirds of the moving haven, while the San Francisco had the privilege of cutting through the middle.

The San Francisco’s Officer of the Deck looked up from the geographic display, then turned to Commander Tyler. “Sir, entering the moving haven now.”

Tyler picked up the 27-MC. “Sonar, Conn. Report all contacts.”

The San Francisco’s arrival at ahead flank had not gone unnoticed.

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

On watch as the Officer of the Deck, Tom picked up the 1-MC. “Rig ship for Ultra-Quiet.” Returning the microphone to its bracket, he leaned against the Conn railing. “Helm, ahead one-third.”

Tom listened as the ship’s ventilation systems and other nonessential equipment were secured, with the remaining equipment shifted into its quietest lineup. Meanwhile, the submarine slowed to five knots, reducing the sound of its propeller churning the water. Throughout the ship, the crew terminated all training and maintenance, and placed the watertight doors on the latch so the noise from their opening and closing wouldn’t transmit through the hull into the water.

Malone entered Control. “What have you got?”

Tom twisted the sonar display knob, rotating through the various screens, stopping on the broadband display for the towed array, which had been deployed shortly after receipt of the Strike order. A faint white trace appeared on the monitor, bearing three-five-seven now. “Submerged contact, classification unknown,” Tom answered.

As Malone reviewed the sonar display, the trace faded, its disappearance announced a second later. “Conn, Sonar. Contact has slowed. Loss of Sierra five-seven.”

A submarine’s ability to detect targets was dependent on speed; the faster it traveled, the harder it was to detect contacts due to the water streaming past its sonar. As a submarine prepared to engage in combat, it slowed to increase the range of its sensors and to decrease the amount of sound it transmitted into the water from its propeller.

Tom and Malone knew there were no friendly submarines in the area. The waterspace advisories listed only the San Francisco, returning from deployment. But she would pass by several hours from now, far to the north. If this was a submerged contact, it wasn’t Friendly, and an enemy submarine approaching at high speed and then slowing could mean only one thing.

Malone turned to Tom. “Man Battle Stations Torpedo.”

The conversations in the Control Room were quiet and disciplined, the watchstanders talking into their headsets, passing information between them. Unlike normal underway operations with only one-third of the crew on watch, the attack submarine was now at Battle Stations, every crew member reporting to his assigned position. There was barely enough room in Control to turn around; every console was manned, with supervisors standing behind them, evaluating the displays.

In Sonar, the entire division of eleven men was crammed into a space not much bigger than two telephone booths stacked on their sides, making the Control Room outside seem spacious in comparison. Tom Bradner manned one of the four consoles, his face illuminated in the darkness as his eyes probed the random static. Slowly, a thin white trace appeared, barely discernible from the background noise. The Sonar Chief worked his way behind Bradner as he attempted to assign an automatic tracker to the trace. But the contact was too weak for the tracker to hold.

“Send bearings to fire control manually,” the chief ordered.

Bradner maneuvered the cursor over the faint white trace, hitting Enter every fifteen seconds, sending the bearings to the Combat Control System and the Fire Control Tracking Party in the Control Room. Meanwhile, the chief turned to his Narrowband Operators, who were pulling the frequencies from the broadband noise, attempting to classify their new submerged contact. As Bradner glanced over at the narrowband display, there was something familiar about the frequencies.

“Conn, Sonar. Have a new narrowband contact, designated Sierra five-eight, bearing three-five-nine.”

Tom acknowledged, switching the Conn sonar screen to the narrowband display. Malone looked over Tom’s shoulder, studying the tonals on the monitor.

A moment later, with the signal strength of the frequencies growing stronger, Sonar followed up. “Conn, Sonar. Sierra five-eight is classified Los Angeles—class submarine.”

Malone looked up in surprise. “Sonar, Conn. Are you sure?”

“Conn, Sonar. We’re positive. Her tonals correlate to a first-flight 688.”

Irritation flashed across Malone’s face, replaced an instant later with relief. A friendly submarine meant they had nothing to worry about, aside from the embarrassment of a ballistic missile submarine being detected, which seemed a distinct possibility based on the growing signal strength of the contact. But then the irritation returned. Someone had screwed up. Either the Kentucky wasn’t in its assigned moving haven, the other submarine wasn’t, or the Watch Officers had routed a fast attack directly through the Kentucky’s water. “Nav, get over here!”

The Navigator maneuvered his way across the crowded Control Room, speaking as he reached the Captain, already knowing the question he’d be asked. “I double-checked, sir. We’re definitely in our assigned moving haven. Someone else screwed up.”

“Have we received any waterspace advisories, rerouting a 688 nearby?”

“No, sir. Only standard message traffic since the strategic strike message.”

Malone looked back at the sonar display, then at the combat control screens as the crew’s three fire control technicians worked potential solutions for the contact. The FTs studied the dual flat-panel displays in front of them, each hand on a track ball, quickly selecting and adjusting parameters faster than the untrained eye could follow. Hovering behind the three FTs, the XO examined their solutions, then tapped one of the fire control techs on the shoulder.

“Promote to Master solution.”

The fire control tech acknowledged, and the contact displays updated with a new solution for contact Sierra five-eight. The XO and Malone studied the screen. “Contact is on an intercept course,” the XO said, “projected to pass within one thousand yards.”

“She’ll detect us for sure,” Malone replied. “Damn glad she’s one of ours.”

22

Sitting squarely in the center of Pearl Harbor, with Battleship Row along its southeastern shore and aircraft carrier moorings to the west, Ford Island was the focal point of the surprise Japanese attack on December 7, 1941. Two hours after the first torpedo bombers descended for their runs down Southeast Loch, the U.S. Pacific Fleet lay in ruins, all eight battleships and ten other warships sunk or heavily damaged. Today, a memorial sits atop the USS Arizona to honor the 1,102 men who rest in a watery grave in the shallows off Ford Island.

Twenty-four years before the attack, Battery Adair was constructed on the northeastern corner of the island, its twin six-inch Armstrong guns firing north. After the battery was decommissioned and its guns removed in 1925, officer housing was constructed at the scenic location overlooking Waimalu and Aiea, with one residence sitting directly atop Battery Adair’s emplacement. Inside the home, a narrow stairway leads to the main corridor of what was once Battery Adair, the passageway’s two ninety-degree turns leading to twin casemated bunkers that still guard the northern overland approach to the harbor.

With dawn breaking to the east and the trade winds just beginning to stir, a blue ’72 Mustang rolled to a stop in front of this house. After a short walk up a winding path lined with white and pink impatiens, Murray Wilson knocked on the door of COMSUBPAC’s home. A moment later, Admiral Stanbury’s wife answered. It seemed she had been up for some time, as her gray hair was neatly arranged and her makeup applied. Then Wilson wondered if she just hadn’t yet gone to bed; her eyes conveyed a fatigue that contradicted the early morning hour.

“He couldn’t sleep,” she said as she opened the door wider. “I’ve never seen him like this.”

“Good morning, Mrs. Stanbury.” Wilson entered the foyer, removing his khaki dress uniform hat, nodding his respect.

“I’m sorry, Murray.” Betty hugged him and kissed his cheek. “I seem to have forgotten my manners this morning.”

There was an awkward silence as Wilson fidgeted with the hat in his hands. He had brought news. News he didn’t want to deliver. He wondered if Betty could see the pain in his eyes, if she could discern the torment he was desperately trying to hide. If he couldn’t hide it from Betty, there was no way he could conceal it from Claire.

Betty placed her hand on his arm. “It looks like you’ve been up all night as well. Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

After an all-nighter in the Operations Center drinking weak yet somehow burned coffee, Betty’s offer sounded wonderful. “That’d be great.”

“John is in the study. I’ll bring it to you there.”

Already dressed in his khakis, Rear Admiral (Upper Half) John Stanbury sat behind the desk in his study, staring out the window at the Admiral Clarey Bridge leading to the main island. The whole thing seemed surreal. Hunt down one of his own submarines. It had eaten away at him throughout the long night, and as the three 688s closed in on the Kentucky’s moving haven, the room had closed in on him.

Betty had awoken as he rose from bed and kept him company in the kitchen, sharing coffee throughout the night, keeping his mind occupied to the best of her ability. She had offered him leftover crumb cake, but he couldn’t eat. Even though he was hungry, the thought of food made him nauseated.

Stanbury was still stunned by the order to sink the Kentucky. Somewhere, somehow, someone had gotten it all wrong. But he had followed his orders and set his best man to the task. He hoped Wilson’s fast-attack scenario had achieved the desired effect without the loss of a submarine and its crew.

There was a knock on the door, which Stanbury acknowledged without turning. Wilson entered, followed a moment later by Betty carrying a silver tray with two cups of coffee, cream, and sugar. Placing the tray on the desk without a word, she eyed both men before withdrawing.

Wilson waited for permission to speak, but Stanbury ignored him. He didn’t want to hear the news. If the fast attacks had been successful in their attempt to communicate with the Kentucky, he should have received a report from the Operations Center that the Kentucky was returning to port. But no report had been received. After another minute of waiting, he could put it off no longer. He looked up at Wilson.

Wilson cleared his throat. “We didn’t find her, sir. She’s not in her moving haven. The San Francisco picked up a contact, but it turned out to be one of the other 688s.”

The words sank in slowly. Stanbury grappled with the unexpected news. And the implication. No submarine would leave its assigned moving haven — the rule was inviolate. The Kentucky had left her moving haven and was now working her way west, toward Emerald and launch range.

Stanbury gestured to the chair across his desk and poured cream into his coffee, then pushed the tray toward Wilson, assessing the demeanor of his most capable captain. Until this moment, the only logical explanation for the Kentucky’s failure to respond to the launch termination order was a Radio Room casualty. The idea that her crew might be in on the plot had never held credence. Until now. Why had the Kentucky left her moving haven? This was unexpected. He could tell Wilson was having trouble dealing with the new information. The cup shook in his hand as he took a sip of coffee.

“What are you thinking, Murray?”

“Still trying to wrap my head around things, Admiral. Did the Kentucky really leave her moving haven, or did we just miss her?”

“I don’t know. But I don’t think it matters. What does is they’ve received a nuclear launch order and they’re going to launch. And we have to stop them.” Stanbury paused for a moment, then continued, “Are you still on board?”

Wilson gently swirled the coffee in his cup as he contemplated the admiral’s question. It’d been a long day and an even longer night. His irritation at not being called immediately had been replaced by a conflicting array of emotions, pitting his parental responsibility to protect his family against his moral responsibility to protect millions of others. In the end, he had been requested to make a simple decision. One that he now wondered whether he could follow through on.

One hundred and sixty verses millions.

Was the decision as simple as he pretended, his son on the wrong end of a math inequality? Perhaps the real question, he wondered, was which side of the inequality became stronger with his participation? The situation was too complex to answer at the moment, and Admiral Stanbury needed an answer. Morally, at least, the answer was clear.

“I’m on board, Admiral.”

There was an almost imperceptible nod from the older man, acknowledging Wilson’s difficult decision. “What do we do now?”

Placing his cup on the desk, Wilson answered, “We stick to the plan. We’re currently setting up a three-layer picket-line defense across the entrance to Emerald. Submarines in the front line, P-3Cs in the middle, then surface ships with their helicopters and dipping sonars. The surface ship assets are on their way — the Nimitz and Reagan Strike Groups are heading out from San Diego, joining the Stennis from Washington. The George Washington is surging from Japan, and the Lincoln Strike Group is being routed back from the Indian Ocean. As far as fixed-wing assets go, we’re pulling in every P-3C squadron worldwide to create a sonobuoy barrier of sufficient density and length.”

“Will everyone be on station in time?”

“Yes, sir, assuming the Kentucky proceeds at twelve knots or less. But it’s unlikely the Kentucky is traveling that fast. She doesn’t need to reach Emerald in a hurry, she just needs to get there. So my bet is she’s taking her time, nice and quiet, making our job that much harder.”

“What are our odds, Murray?”

Wilson contemplated the admiral’s question, stacking up the capabilities of the entire Pacific Fleet against the lone Kentucky. But then Wilson replayed Stanbury’s question in his mind, replacing one of the words.

What are their odds?

Wilson shrugged. “It’s probably going to come down to luck.”

23

“What the hell was all that about?”

Malone asked the rhetorical question aloud as he was joined by the XO, the Nav, and Tom at the Quartermaster’s stand in Control, reviewing the solutions on the chart for the 688s that had crossed their path multiple times. Three 688s had cut back and forth across the Kentucky’s moving haven, the middle 688 almost ramming the Kentucky on her first pass. Malone, having spent his first three tours on 688s, understood fast-attack tactics well. These 688s were prosecuting, looking to engage. But whom?

The XO shrugged his shoulders. “We’ve been ordered to launch, so maybe SUBPAC vectored in a few 688s to ensure no one was in our area who could pick us up, or even worse, was already trailing us.”

“But who would be interested in tracking us?” the Nav asked. “We’ve been assigned a target package against Iran, not Russia or China. They’re the only two countries with the ability to find us in the open ocean.”

“They don’t know what our target package is,” Malone replied. “I’m sure both Russia and China intercepted our strike message. They can’t break it, but they know someone has been ordered to launch. And I bet that’s making them pretty nervous. With the president dead and Washington destroyed, I bet everyone’s on pins and needles, hoping we got it right and are retaliating against the right country.”

Malone fell silent for a moment before continuing. “Take her up to periscope depth, Tom. I want to download the fast-attack broadcast. Find out what the hell is going on up there.”

“No close contacts!”

Twenty minutes later, the Kentucky was at periscope depth, and Tom slowed his revolutions on the scope, shifting between high and low power as he searched the early morning horizon and sky for surface ships and aircraft. Malone sat in his chair on the Conn, monitoring the ascent to PD.

“Conn, Nav. Satellite fix received.”

Tom acknowledged Nav Center as he waited for Radio to download the broadcast, continuing his alternating high and low power sweeps of the horizon. A few minutes later, the expected report came over the 27-MC.

“Conn, Radio. Download complete.”

Tom replied immediately, “All stations, Conn. Going deep.” After flipping up the periscope handles, he lowered the scope into its well. “Helm, ahead two-thirds. Dive, make your depth three hundred feet.”

The Kentucky’s deck pitched downward as the submarine began its descent. A few minutes later, as the Kentucky settled out at three hundred feet, one of the radiomen approached Malone with the message board. The Captain flipped through the messages quickly, stopping on the last one. After what seemed like forever, Malone rose and handed the clipboard to Tom, then left Control without a word. Tom flipped to the last message. It was only the weekly news summary. But after reading the first few paragraphs, he realized it was unlike any news summary he’d ever read.

It would normally have contained snippets of significant events, entertainment news, and sports scores. But there was none of that this week. The message provided information on the detonation of the nuclear bomb in Washington, D.C., and the gruesome aftermath. The damage and death toll were staggering; the entire city had been either destroyed or rendered uninhabitable, and the death count was now over three hundred thousand. Deadly radiation levels extended into both Virginia and Maryland, and the D.C. suburbs had been evacuated. Article after article detailed the destruction wreaked by the nuclear explosion, and the evidence linking the attack to Iran.

Tom closed the message board and handed it back to the radioman, who would route the board through the Wardroom and Chief’s Quarters and post a copy of the weekly news summary outside Crew’s Mess. The Kentucky’s crew would soon fully grasp what had been done to their country, and appreciate the role they would play in America’s retaliation.