The Trident Deception (38 page)

Tonight, Landau would guide the men who formed the kernel of his next operation. As he peered over the veranda’s railing, scrutinizing the parking lot fifty feet below for the arrival of his guests, his cell phone vibrated in the breast pocket of his jacket. The familiar voice on the other end was unusually agitated. “Where have you been, Hoover? I’ve been trying to reach you for hours.”

Landau checked the signal strength of the call, flicking back and forth between zero and one bar, apparently the reason for the missed calls. “Cell phone service is intermittent at my current location. What can I do for you?”

“Your work here isn’t finished. Your incompetent driver missed.”

Landau frowned. The driver was a professional. He would not have missed unless the location was too far down the street, providing sufficient warning for the target to avoid the oncoming car. The man on the other end of the phone had obviously chosen an inappropriate spot for the hit. However, there was no point in casting blame on his acquaintance. “Good help is hard to come by these days. I’ll attend to the matter personally when I return to the East Coast.” Landau glanced over the railing at the parking lot. The two men had arrived and were stepping out of their car. “I’m busy at the moment. Is there anything else I can help you with today?”

“I want Christine O’Connor taken care of, and taken care of immediately.”

The man’s demands were beginning to irritate Landau. But a man in his position was used to giving orders and having them obeyed without question. “Are you sure?” Landau asked, trying again to dissuade the man from another murder. “She knows nothing.”

“You don’t know what type of woman she is. She’ll keep digging until she discovers everything. I’ve spent my entire life gaining the position I’m in, and I’m not going to have my hard work destroyed by that
bitch
. You either take care of her, or I’ll do it myself.”

Landau’s grip on his cell phone tightened. The man was an amateur in this type of endeavor. He was the one person who could implicate Israel, and it simply would not be acceptable for him to come under suspicion. Landau would have preferred to have eliminated this man along with the sonar algorithm developer, but unfortunately the position he held was too valuable. That not being an option, he had to be placated.

“I’ll return to Washington tomorrow, and
I
will attend to O’Connor. Is that clear?” Landau had never used this tone of authority with his American contact, but it was vital he be persuaded from further involvement.

“Fine,” the man replied curtly. “But if I don’t hear from you by noon tomorrow, I’m taking the matter into my own hands.”

62

PENTAGON

5 HOURS REMAINING

Sitting in one of four chairs scattered around a table in Hendricks’s office, Christine peered through the window toward the front of the Current Action Center, scanning the monitor for a hint of the
Kentucky
’s fate. Both hands were wrapped around her coffee mug; the cool air and long hours waiting with no hint of what was occurring in Emerald had produced a chill she found difficult to shake. While the hot coffee warmed her insides, her hands felt like icicles. Seated next to her, Hendricks looked like he had fared only slightly better, the exhaustion evident in a shade of black forming under his eyes. Brackman, meanwhile, paced back and forth outside Hendricks’s office, wearing a path at the top of the CAC, stopping occasionally to converse with the Watch Captain.

It had been a long night. The
Collins
had entered the
Kentucky
’s AOU just after midnight and hadn’t been heard from since. That was expected, Brackman told Christine, as the
Collins
could not search effectively at periscope depth and would come shallow to transmit only after she had completed her mission and the
Kentucky
was sunk. Or, if the ballistic missile submarine prevailed, the
Collins
would never be heard from again. It was 9
A.M.
now and still no sign the
Collins
had found her. But there had also been no indication the
Kentucky
had launched her missiles either. Christine couldn’t decide if no news was good news or bad news.

The door opened and Hardison briskly entered Hendricks’s office, an unpleasant expression on his face. Christine and Hendricks rose from their chairs as he approached Christine. Hardison stopped less than a foot away. His voice was low and threatening.

“Don’t
ever
go to the president behind my back again.”

Christine stood her ground. “Excuse me for not getting your approval, but you were tied up in a meeting.”

“I thought I made my position clear. We needed to keep things under wraps. Now that Iran has ordered a countrywide evacuation, you’ve created a public affairs nightmare.”

“Is that all you care about? The administration’s public image? Not about seventy million people?”

“It’s damn near impossible to save them, Christine. You’re talking about the evacuation of an entire country in less than a day. Where are they going to go? Imagine the death and destruction from the evacuation order alone.”

“Many will be saved, and that’s what’s important.”

“What’s important is stopping the
Kentucky
. That’s the only thing that will save them.” The muscles in his jaw flexed, then the tone of his voice softened. “How are we doing?”

Christine glanced at the display at the front of the Current Action Center as she answered, “It’s been quiet. The
Kentucky
could be in launch range anytime now, or she could be as far away as eighteen hours.” She gestured toward the back edge of the
Kentucky
’s red circle, which would reach Emerald in eighteen hours. “The
Collins
is in Emerald searching for her now, but we’ve heard nothing.”

Her shoulders sagged as she suddenly realized she’d been up for more than twenty-four hours straight, and hadn’t eaten anything since lunch the previous day.

Hendricks turned toward her. “It’s been a long night. Why don’t you get some sleep and something to eat?”

“Go ahead, Christine,” Hardison said. “Hendricks and I need to talk privately.” His eyes moved over her body. “You look like you could use some rest.”

Christine wasn’t sure how to take Hardison’s comment. Was he being an ass, or had the long night taken that much of a toll on her?

“Go ahead, Chris,” Hendricks urged. “I’ll call if we hear anything.”

Hardison was probably just being blunt, Christine decided. If she looked half as bad as she felt, she probably did look like crap. “I suppose you’re right. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

*   *   *

As Christine stepped out of Hendricks’s office, she paused to examine the screen again. Two things were clear. The first was that the
Kentucky
had not yet reached Emerald. The second was that the
Collins
had better find her before she did.

63

USS
KENTUCKY

3 HOURS REMAINING

Although the world above was shrouded in darkness, it was 1600 aboard the
Kentucky
and time for dinner. Normally served at 1700, dinner was being served early today; they would enter Emerald in just over two hours, and Malone wanted the men fed and the Crew’s Mess cleared before setting Battle Stations. Gathered in the Officers’ Wardroom with him were eleven of his officers. Only the two men on watch and, of course, Ensign Lopez, who awaited second sitting, were absent. Halfway down the table, Lieutenant Tom Wilson ate in silence, as did the others; the clink of their silverware echoing in the somber Wardroom.

Only days ago they had gathered here for lunch and dinner, eagerly discussing the day’s events, the junior officers laughing and poking fun at each other. But the laughter had ceased when they’d received their launch order, and conversation at the table had steadily decreased, commensurate with the submarine’s distance to Emerald. With missile launch only a few hours away, no one spoke today, all eyes focused on the food in front of them.

Malone broke the uncomfortable silence. “So how are the oxygen generators doing, Eng? The offgoing watch reported Number One Generator went down this morning.”

The Engineer looked up from his soup. “Number One Generator has a bad electrolysis cell. It will be replaced after…” He looked away, then back down at his soup. “It will be replaced on the midwatch.”

“Thanks, Eng. Be sure to pass along a job well done to Auxiliary Division once Number One Generator is back up.”

“Yes, sir,” the Eng replied without looking up.

One of Tom’s eyebrows rose slightly. Malone undoubtedly knew the status of the oxygen generator and its repair plan, but he’d asked the question in an attempt to spark conversation. Even if it meant discussing work, normally reserved until dessert had been served.

“How about the flood and drain valve for Number Three Torpedo Tube, Weps? Did the valve rebuild stop the hydraulic fluid leak?”

The Weps looked at Malone a moment before answering, his stare almost passing through the Captain. “Yes, sir. We replaced the O-rings and the leak stopped. Number Three Torpedo Tube is fully operational.”

“Good job, Weps.”

Lieutenant Manning’s stare lingered on the Captain before he returned his attention to the soup in front of him. Silence descended on the Wardroom again. Malone’s attempt to generate conversation had failed miserably. Nothing could distract the men at the table from what they would do this evening.

Suddenly realizing he wasn’t hungry after all, Tom decided to skip the rest of dinner. He looked up at his Captain. “Excuse me, sir.”

Malone nodded.

As Tom left the Wardroom, he couldn’t wait for it all to end. Another few hours, and it would finally be over. But he suspected it would be just the beginning and not the end; what they were about to do would be something he, and the rest of the crew, would have to deal with for the rest of their lives.

*   *   *

As the last of his officers filed out of the Wardroom, Malone pushed back from the table. The mess specialist moved in, clearing the dishes from what would become the Corpsman’s operating table during Battle Stations; that necessity would arise only if they were detected during launch and subsequently attacked.

Leaving the Wardroom, Malone headed to Control, stopping in Sonar. After verifying the ship held no contacts, he dropped down the ladder en route to his stateroom, landing on the second level just as the Weps stepped out of the XO’s stateroom. The Weps avoided the Captain’s eyes as he hurried aft toward the Missile Compartment. With Tom’s revelation about the Weps’s reservations still fresh in his mind, Malone stopped by the XO’s stateroom and queried his Executive Officer. “What did you and the Weps talk about?”

The XO looked up from his computer. “Nothing important, sir. Just a few things we needed to discuss.” He turned away from Malone with the same urgency the Weps had displayed, concentrating again on his computer monitor.

Malone knew his XO was lying. Whatever the two men had talked about was clearly important. The list of things that could be on the Weps’s mind a few hours before they launched their missiles was pretty damn short, and he wondered for the first time about his XO’s position on completing the ship’s mission. As Malone returned to his stateroom, he realized he did not really know where his officers stood on the issue. That was because, to some extent, he was an outsider on his own ship.

Every officer aboard the
Kentucky,
except Malone, was a Naval Academy grad. The academy was the major source of submarine officers, supplying two-thirds of nuclear-trained officers each year, and every once in a while, the entire Wardroom was populated by Annapolis grads. The officers from the school on the bank of the Severn River shared a bond even stronger than the Submarine Force and spoke a language even more foreign, rooted in a common experience that began on a hot July day each year outside Bancroft Hall. During lunch or dinner, or while the officers were gathered for training, one of the JOs would quip a remark, and the entire Wardroom would erupt in laughter, except Malone, who hadn’t understood the reference and related humor.

As a symbol of their loyalty to each other and the institution they graduated from, they wore their rings with the academy crest facing inward, toward their heart. Up to now, Malone had no reason to believe their loyalty to each other should be considered a threat to the submarine’s mission. But now that at least one of them was questioning his orders, Malone wondered whether their bond could lead to a wholesale refusal to obey their Captain’s directive—and that of the president of the United States.

It became clear to Malone that additional measures might be required to ensure the
Kentucky
launched her missiles. If things did not go as planned and his orders were not followed, he would have to strike fast and cut off the head of the snake before any rebellion slithered out of control. Mere words were insufficient weapons to accomplish that task. Picking up the MJ handset, he dialed the Chief’s Quarters.

A minute later, Master Chief Machinist Mate Stephen Prashaw knocked on the Captain’s open stateroom door. Malone waved him in, motioning to shut the door behind him. Prashaw, the Chief of the Boat, was the senior enlisted man aboard, a man Malone relied on to oversee the smooth operation of the submarine. While the XO dictated the ship’s schedule and evolutions to be conducted, it was the COB who executed them. This was his fifth patrol as COB aboard the
Kentucky,
having reported aboard the run after Malone arrived, and the two men had formed a close working and personal relationship.

As Prashaw joined him at his small table, Malone asked his question point-blank. “Do you have any concerns the crew will not execute the launch order?”

The COB replied quickly, as if he had given this question much thought. “Do I have any concerns? Yes. But will they execute? I am reasonably confident they will.”