The Trident Deception (16 page)

“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.”

8 DAYS REMAINING

19

USS
SAN FRANCISCO

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

PEARL HARBOR, HAWAII

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

USS
SAN FRANCISCO
USS
KENTUCKY

USS
SAN FRANCISCO

“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.