The Trident Deception (11 page)

“Take care, Isaiah.”

Mike kept himself busy, waiting until the last member of the previous watch section departed, leaving him alone with the other nineteen watchstanders and the Watch Captain. Retrieving the black nylon case from his satchel, he opened it, exposing what looked like a small plastic insurance card and three nasal inhalers. He pulled out the card and slid it into his pocket. Leaning back in his chair, he clasped his hands behind his back, pretending to stretch out his shoulders, then stood and sauntered toward the entrance at the back of the room.

Stopping with his back next to the security door, Mike removed the thin card from his pocket and held it next to the electronic lock mechanism. Ten seconds was all it would take to destroy the electronic circuitry, he’d been told, but he held it there an extra five seconds for good measure. Sliding the card back into his pocket, he returned to his seat, then removed the smallest nasal inhaler from the case. After looking around to ensure no one was watching, he pressed the tip of the inhaler against his neck. The warmth spread quickly throughout his body. Retrieving the largest inhaler, Mike stood again, slowly walking behind the two rows of watchstanders as he pressed the inhaler plunger, releasing the odorless gas into the room.

*   *   *

Agent Kenney’s face displayed no hint of emotion at Christine’s explanation of
digashi
. “I wasn’t aware we had nuclear first-strike options.”

“Technically, there’s no difference,” Christine replied. “It’s a matter of timing. The launch orders are the same. Whether it’s a first strike or a retaliatory depends on who launches first.”

Kenney nodded, absorbing the perspective. He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and pulled out an envelope, retrieving a single piece of paper and handing it to Christine.

“This is the content of the encrypted file. We’re running background checks on these individuals, but are any of these names familiar?”

Christine studied the list of ten men and women. “I’m afraid not.”

“What about the letters ‘I S’?”

Looking at the list again, Christine noticed each name was preceded by the letters I S. The letters could represent any number of things, and without additional clues she drew a blank.

“Let me see what I can find out.” She placed the paper near her keyboard, selected the appropriate window on her monitor, then typed in the first name on the list. The defense personnel database responded immediately.

Ronald Cobb—NMCC

She typed in the second name.

Andrew Bloom—NMCC

After she’d typed in the third name, her stomach tightened.

Bradley Green—NMCC

She stopped after the fourth entry.

Kathy Leenstra—NMCC

Kenney watched as Christine sat there, no longer typing. “What is it, Miss O’Connor?”

Christine turned in her chair, facing Kenney again. “These individuals are employees at the National Military Command Center in the Pentagon, responsible for generating nuclear strike messages to our intercontinental ballistic missile silos, B-2 bombers, and Trident submarines.” She stared at the list again, trying to figure out the meaning of “I S” in front of each name. Her eyes widened as it dawned on her.

Inner safe.

Nuclear launch orders would not be considered valid unless the code at the bottom of the message matched the codes contained in double-walled safes in the missile silos, bombers, and submarines, with no one person having both combinations. The only way to write a valid order was to open both safe doors in NMCC, allowing access to the sealed codes inside. These ten men and women apparently had the combination to the safe’s inner door.

Swiveling back to her computer, Christine pulled a number from her contact list. Picking up the phone, she dialed the Watch Captain at the National Military Command Center. The phone rang, but there was no answer. Christine hung up and dialed again. After ten rings, still no answer. She slammed the phone down. “We need to get to the Command Center.”

*   *   *

While the other members of his watch section sat slumped in their chairs or over their consoles, Mike worked at his desk, ignoring the phone that rang at the Watch Captain’s desk. He finished the message except for the last part and closed the codebook. Approaching the safe at the front of the room, he entered the combination and unlocked the safe. Inside was another door, with another combination dial. Reaching into his shirt pocket, he pulled out the envelope Hoover had given him and retrieved the single sheet of paper. He ran his finger down the list of ten names before returning to the first. His finger lingered at the top of the page for a moment before he pulled the first inhaler from the kit, the one he’d injected into his neck, plus the third vial, this one with a sharp tip at the end.

Searching the room, he spotted his best friend, Ron Cobb, the first name on the list. He walked over to Ron, who was slumped over his workstation, and injected the inhaler into his neck. Thirty seconds later, Ron’s eyes fluttered open. Grabbing Ron roughly, Mike pulled him upright in his chair; Ron’s head was bent back, his eyes looking at the ceiling. Mike held the vial with the sharp tip against Ron’s neck. “Ron, can you hear me?”

Ron’s eyes gradually moved down toward Mike’s face. He brought his head forward, stopping as he met the pressure of Mike’s hand against his neck. Ron looked slowly around the Operations Center at the unconscious men and women at their workstations, his drowsy appearance transforming into a bewildered expression.

“What the hell—”

“I need the combination to the inner safe, Ron. What is it?”

Ron stiffened as his gaze shifted back to Mike. “I can’t tell you,” he sputtered. “You have the combination to the outer safe. No one person can have both combinations.” Ron’s eyes roamed around the Operations Center, spotting the safe and its open outer door. “What are you doing?”

Mike pressed the applicator against Ron’s neck. “This injector contains a poison that will kill you in seconds. Give me the combination.”

“I can’t, Mike! Then you’d have access to the nuclear authorization codes!”

“Yes you can. And you’ve got ten seconds to give me the combination.”

“We’ve worked together for fifteen years,” Ron replied, the panic rising in his voice. “Our wives were best friends. I’ve got four kids at home!”

“You’re right, Ron. And it would be a shame for Arlene to have to bury you, with your children standing beside her as they lower your coffin into your grave.”

“I can’t, Mike! Please!”

11

ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA

A black Suburban, its blue lights flashing, crossed the 14th Street Bridge at the end of rush hour. Forcing its way across three lanes of heavy traffic, an identical Suburban followed closely behind. Christine, sitting in the passenger seat of the lead vehicle next to Agent Kenney, ended her phone call without a word, her eyes fixed on the rapidly nearing Pentagon.

En route, Christine had contacted the deputy director of the National Military Command Center, who, while perplexed by the Watch Captain’s failure to answer Christine’s phone calls, was convinced it was nothing more than a simple connectivity problem. The deputy director was in a meeting a few blocks away in Crystal City but had agreed to meet Christine at the Operations Center. He had called back just before Kenney’s SUV peeled off I-395 toward the Pentagon. Personnel inside the Command Center were also failing to answer the classified lines, and the deputy director’s concern had skyrocketed. Kenney had picked up Christine’s rising tension and was pushing his vehicle as fast as traffic moved out of his way.

A few moments later, the Suburban squealed to a halt at the Pentagon’s River Entrance just as the second SUV, containing two men, ground to a halt behind them. One of the men joined Christine and Kenney as they ascended the River Terrace three steps at a time, while the second remained with the vehicles. Christine and the two agents sped through the Pentagon entrance as they flashed their badges to security personnel, then, after dropping down three levels via the A Ring escalators, headed out along Corridor 9 toward the outermost ring. They eventually reached the end of a long hallway, where two Marines stood in front of a large security door.

“Open the door,” Christine ordered.

“We can’t,” the Marine on the left answered. “The door won’t unlock, and there’s no response from inside.”

“Are you sure you have the correct code?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“What’s standard protocol if you can’t gain access?”

The Marine looked at Christine uncomfortably. “The deputy director will be here any minute. It’ll be his call on what to do next.”

As the Marine finished speaking, a man approached, running down the corridor, stopping next to Christine. He was out of breath as he spoke. “I got here as soon as I could, Chris.”

Dave Hendricks, the deputy director of the National Military Command Center, was a relatively handsome man in his forties, about six feet tall, of medium build, wearing a blue sport coat and a coordinating tie. After a curt introduction to Agent Kenney and learning the door refused to respond to the Marines’ security code, he attempted to open the door using his code, with the same result.

“Any ideas?” Christine asked.

“Blow the door,” Hendricks replied, looking in Agent Kenney’s direction.

Kenney motioned to the agent beside him, who spoke into his suit jacket sleeve.

*   *   *

Inside the Operations Center, Mike placed the list of names next to the safe, flattening the creases in the paper. He glanced at the safe, the inner door still shut, then at Ron and Andy Bloom, their stiff bodies on the floor. Psychological profiles had been run on all ten men and women who knew the combination to the inner safe, and the names on the list were arranged in order of who was most likely to crack and trade the combination for his or her life. The profiles of Ron and Andy were obviously incorrect. But Hoover had assured him the odds of all ten men and women sacrificing their lives to protect the combination were minuscule, with a 99.7 percent probability one of them would acquiesce. Mike would obtain the combination; it was only a matter of time.

Mike ran his finger down the list of names to the next one.

Third time’s the charm
.

*   *   *

Outside NMCC, a third CIA agent had arrived with the requested materials, and after placing the small block of C-4 explosive onto the door lock mechanism and inserting the detonator, Agent Kenney headed down the corridor and around the corner into F Ring, where Hendricks and Christine waited with the Marines and the two other agents. The Marines and agents drew their firearms, then Kenney pressed the trigger, its thin wire trailing to the C-4, detonating it in a rumbling explosion. A cloud of smoke engulfed the corridor, debris ricocheting off the walls. The smoke slowly cleared, and a partially open door materialized out of the haze.

The two Marines surged forward, one stopping on each side of the door. The one on the left peered into the Operations Center, then shoved the door open and moved inside, his weapon pointed across the room.

“Freeze!”

The second Marine joined the first, pointing his pistol at a man at the far end of the room. There were about twenty other men and women in the Operations Center, all of them slumped in their chairs or sprawled on the floor. The lone man suddenly pressed something against his neck, then fell to his knees, collapsing against the wall.

*   *   *

As Michael Patton’s vision began to cloud, a warm satisfaction spread through his body. He would have revenge against the country that encouraged the murderers who had extinguished Theresa’s life, the country that supplied the Palestinian groups with the weapons and money that made their terror possible. His rage was intense at first, but he had learned to look at the issue dispassionately, convinced that the laws governing people’s behavior were no different from the laws of physics.

For every action, there is a reaction
.

Israel had reacted thousands of times to the senseless slaughter of its people, their response diffuse and ineffective by the time it reached the savages who manipulated the strings of hatred. But the savages had crossed the line when their vitriolic hatred took Theresa’s life, and they would soon pay dearly. Hoover had requested a launch order be sent to the
Kentucky,
and Mike had complied. But he had made one small, yet significant, change to the message.

As the darkness closed in, Patton was convinced this reaction would make a difference.

Those responsible would finally suffer the repercussions of their actions.

It didn’t matter that millions would die in the process.

Mike had done the right thing.

He was certain.

*   *   *

One Marine rushed to the front of the room, carefully checking the man for weapons and signs of life, while the other Marine and the three CIA agents checked the other personnel. Christine scanned the facility, assessing the situation, trying to determine the man’s intent and the extent of the damage inflicted. Aside from him, three other men appeared dead, a strange blue tint to their skin. The other men and women were unconscious but appeared alive as far as she could tell.

Near the man at the front of the Operations Center was a small circular trash can with a charred black residue inside, and a sheet of paper with random letters and numbers lay next to the radio communication panel at the front of the room. Christine’s eyes shot toward the adjacent safe, spotting the two open doors, the inside barren. She immediately looked back at the communication panel, where a small green light blinked, indicating a successful transmission.

It took barely a second for her to realize what the man had done.

“Shut down all transmitters! Do not relay that message!”

Hendricks reached for the phone, but Christine knew it was already too late.

12

USS
KENTUCKY
PENTAGON