The Trident Deception (37 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, COB,” each of the men replied.

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

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

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

“Do you have a few minutes, Weps?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mutiny.

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

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

A mutiny?

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

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

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

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

*   *   *

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

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

*   *   *

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

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

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

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

“Thank you,” Malone said.

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

“Yes, I know. The COB stopped by.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

61

BIG SUR, CALIFORNIA

16 HOURS REMAINING

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

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