The Trident Deception (10 page)

Mike groaned, unable to find the words to express his despair, or his feelings for the only woman he had ever loved. Or ever would.

But Theresa’s luminous green eyes simply stared at him. “You will know what to do,” she said. “It will soon become clear.”

Mike struggled with the meaning of her words.
What would soon become clear?
He prepared to ask her to explain, but never got the chance.

A whistling sound filled Mike’s ears. It took him a moment to recognize its significance, to realize it was the swift movement of the executioner’s sword through the air. He never saw the blade moving, never saw the bright glint of the sword as it sped downward. Instead, he saw his wife’s wedding ring sparkle from the corner of his eye as her hand twitched.

They knew—

Theresa’s face suddenly became heavy in his hands, and Mike noticed the sword was no longer held high, its tip now buried in the dirt floor, a six-inch-wide swath of crimson coating the blade. His wife’s lips parted, as if to speak, but no words came, and he could no longer feel her warm breath on his skin. The color drained from her face, the animation fading from her eyes until she stared at him with dull, lifeless orbs.

As he held his wife’s head in his hands, horrified yet incapable of releasing it, her face began to blur as tears collected in his eyes, then streamed down his cheeks. His body shook, his breath coming in short, shallow spurts. Rocking back and forth on his knees, he was unwilling to believe Theresa had been taken from him; that he would never hear her laughter, never hold her in his arms again. The pain of his loss was unbearable, and he couldn’t imagine living without her. As his mind swam with ideas on how to end his anguish, Theresa’s words came back to him.

You will know what to do.

It seemed there remained a single purpose in his life; some act he must accomplish before he could join his wife.
But what?
It was too hard to think. Perhaps Theresa was right, and it would soon become clear. Slowly, Mike’s resolve solidified and his breathing steadied, determination replacing despair. Whatever he was supposed to do, he would figure it out.

*   *   *

Later that night, Mike was pushed from a van on the outskirts of Sderot. Dazed, he stumbled to the nearest police station, incoherently recounting the ordeal. But enough of what had happened eventually became clear. As Mike sat alone in a hotel on Yoseftal Street, authorities found Theresa’s severed head rotting on a deserted street corner in Gaza, and it wasn’t long before an Iranian-sponsored terrorist group proudly claimed responsibility. There wasn’t much to go on, as Mike and Theresa’s abductors had kept their faces covered, and Mike had no idea where they had been held. There were far too many crimes committed and loved ones lost to expend effort chasing a murder with no leads, and the case was soon abandoned.

Six months after his wife’s murder, after the bruises had healed and he had passed a battery of psychological tests, Mike returned to work at the National Military Command Center in the Pentagon. But he had lied to everyone; the dream had never stopped. Each night, he relived that day in excruciating clarity, the nightmare torturing him with the terrifying last moments of Theresa’s life.

*   *   *

Each night when Mike awoke from his nightmare, the ceiling fan greeted him, spinning slowly in circles that never ended. Then one night, a turbulent nor’easter tore through the city. As the rain drove against the windowpanes and the ghostly shadows of trees bent in submission to the howling winds, his town house lost power, and the fan drifted to a stop. It was at that instant that everything suddenly became clear, just as Theresa had promised. A stranger stepped from the shadows the next day, as if he’d been waiting patiently for Mike’s epiphany.

The man was no longer a stranger, and his call earlier today requesting they meet had given Mike hope that the next time his mind drifted into darkness, there would be no dreams. For this afternoon’s meeting, Mike had picked the restaurant where he had proposed to Theresa and where they had eaten dinner the night before their fateful trip. As he started across the street, still lost in thought, the blaring horn of an approaching car startled him out of his reverie. He stood there for a split second, part of him wanting it all to end now, splattered over the front of the vehicle. But he stepped back just as a dark green Volvo sped by. There was one task he had yet to complete; not until then could he join his wife.

Mike requested a table in the far corner of the restaurant that offered a clear view of the entrance, something he knew his companion would insist upon. The few patrons were scattered widely throughout, none within earshot. Mike ordered a glass of red wine and had taken his first sip when he saw his friend, if one could call him that, pausing near the hostess to scan his surroundings.

William Hoover—Mike doubted that was his real name—was the type of man you could pass on the street and never remember having seen. Caucasian, of medium height and build, with brown hair and eyes, he could blend in almost anywhere. He interacted with Mike cordially, but in the loving way one deals with a family pet, caring for its every need, yet willing to put the animal to sleep when the time came. Mike didn’t care. He figured he was using Hoover even more than the younger man was using him.

Hoover sat without greeting, placing a brown satchel on the floor next to his chair. He appeared uncharacteristically tense.

“Is the
Kentucky
in range?” the man asked.

Mike shook his head. “Not yet. It’ll be another nine days.”

Hoover sat in his chair reflectively, as if making a mental calculation. “You will send orders to the
Kentucky
as planned,” he said finally. “However,” he added, “you must execute today.”

Mike shook his head. “We must wait until the
Kentucky
is in range before we send the order.”

Hoover replied firmly, “You must execute now.”

Mike paused, preparing to describe the situation like an elementary school teacher explaining a basic mathematical concept to her students for the first time. “The
Kentucky
just began her transit to her patrol areas, and the United States will have nine days to respond if we send the order now.”

“You must execute now,” the man repeated.

Exhaling slowly, Mike tried to control his frustration. Sending the launch order now would jeopardize everything. “You guys don’t know what you’re doing.”

“We know
exactly
what we’re doing.” The man almost hissed the word. But then his voice calmed. “There are elements to this plan you are not privy to. I assure you the
Kentucky
will reach launch range. There is nothing the United States can do once you transmit the launch order.”

The conviction in his voice convinced Mike to acquiesce. After all, it was their plan.

Mike’s lack of response conveyed his agreement, and Hoover opened the brown satchel, retrieving a small black nylon case and a white envelope. “Here is what you need. Do you have any questions?”

Mike shook his head, his mouth dry.

The man returned the contents to the bag, then stood and left, leaving the brown leather case next to his chair. Mike sat at the table a few minutes longer before asking for the check.

A moment later, Mike stepped outside Carlyle’s, the satchel gripped tightly in his hand. He paused on the sidewalk along the busy street, looking up into the overcast sky, blinking as the cold rain hit his face and eyes, until a gust of wind knocked him off balance. He pulled his coat tight around his neck, tucked his head down, and set off toward the Colonial parking garage—and his last remaining task.

9 DAYS REMAINING

10

ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA
WASHINGTON, D.C.

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.”