The Trident Deception (14 page)

The older man gave no indication he’d heard Kogen, staring directly ahead as the rabbi began another prayer. The rain splattered against Kogen’s umbrella in a soft, steady tempo as the man’s voice droned on. Located on the western edge of Jerusalem, Har HaMenuchot offered commanding views of Mevaseret Zion to the north, Motza to the west, and Har Nof to the south. But Rosenfeld stared blankly ahead. Surrounded by relatives from both sides of what used to be his family, Rosenfeld stood alone and isolated; the gray, bleak sky overhead reflecting his grief.

As the rabbi finished his prayer, Rosenfeld nodded for Kogen to continue.

“The Mossad operation was a success, Levi. Our people will soon be protected from these animals.”

16

WASHINGTON, D.C.

An early morning stillness clung to the White House as Christine strode down the West Wing corridor, her footsteps muffled by the plush blue carpet. As she headed toward the stairway leading to the basement, her thoughts never strayed from her all-night vigil in NMCC. She’d finally departed only a few minutes ago to return to the White House and the awaiting president. During the night, her extensive weapon background had proved useful in assessing the threat the
Kentucky
posed, but her knowledge of ballistic missile submarines and the weapons they carried was still somewhat limited. Thankfully, the man walking on her right had filled in the missing details.

Navy Captain Steve Brackman was the president’s senior military aide, a post filled by each branch of the armed services on a rotating basis. Fortunately, the president’s current aide was a naval officer, and even more fortunate, he was a former commanding officer of a ballistic missile submarine. After Christine informed the president of the
Kentucky
’s launch order, Brackman had been sent to NMCC. Arriving there late last night, Captain Brackman was a sight for sore eyes, in more ways than one.

Tall and handsome, with dark, penetrating eyes, Brackman had a chiseled body that would make a Calvin Klein model envious. Put his image on a Navy recruiting poster, Christine thought, and the percentage of female enlistments would skyrocket. He wasn’t just good-looking either—as commanding officer, he had received the coveted Admiral Stockdale Award for Inspirational Leadership. Assigned to the administration eighteen months ago, Brackman was approaching the end of his two-year tour. He had never shared the details, but soon after he arrived, Christine had learned he was a recent widower, his wife and son killed in a horrific accident of some type. This morning, however, he would aid Christine in preventing a horrific accident of an undoubtedly different type.

*   *   *

In the basement of the West Wing, Christine followed Brackman into the Situation Room; the air was cold and the tension thick as she closed the door, alone with Brackman and two other men. The president sat at the head of the rectangular conference table, a grave expression on his face, while Hardison, seated on the president’s right, appeared hostile. Hardison had arrived early, no doubt whispering in the president’s ear as they waited. Even though there were more important things to discuss this morning, Christine was ready to defend herself. She would not go down without a fight.

This mess was going to be her fault, if Hardison had his way. In their conversations throughout the night, she could tell he was jockeying for position, probing her about the CD she’d found and her role in the debacle. He would take advantage of her involvement—her decision to withhold knowledge of the CD, and her arrival in NMCC after the message was transmitted—somehow twisting things around to pin the blame on her. Hell, she had almost stopped it. Yet Christine knew that somehow, it was all going to be her fault.

Hardison’s eyes bored a hole through her body as she approached the conference table, and she returned his stare as she and Brackman sat opposite him, her eyes locked with Hardison’s until the president cleared his throat. Turning her attention to the commander in chief, Christine thought he had aged overnight. Although he had entered office with salt-and-pepper sideburns, the gray was now throughout his full head of brown hair and the lines in his face were more deeply creased. The decision the president would make this morning would no doubt add more years to his appearance.

As the president began to speak, Christine’s eyes flicked back to Hardison. His malevolent gaze was still fixed on her, and she steeled herself for the worst. She would restrain herself in conversation with the president, but if Hardison opened his mouth, she was coming out swinging.

“Considering your role in this mess…,” the president began.

Here it comes
.

“… you handled the situation extremely well.”

Christine was caught off guard. Had Hardison actually complimented her, praising her actions? Or had he criticized her as usual, with the president giving him the Heisman this time, stiff-arming his attempt to demonize her, deciding instead to give her the credit she deserved? Her eyes went to Hardison again. His expression hadn’t changed—still the same disapproving frown.
Figures
. The president had overridden him.

“So where do we stand on terminating this launch?” the president added.

Christine shrugged off her surprise at the unexpected compliment and answered the president’s question. “We’ve been transmitting the cancellation message for the last nine hours, but so far the
Kentucky
hasn’t responded. We have to assume she’s had a Radio Room casualty, or worse, sabotage, and that either way, she hasn’t received the cancellation message. That means she’ll execute the strike order, launching her missiles eight days from now.”

“Do we know who’s behind this yet?”

“We have our suspicions, given the launch is directed at Iran, and that the perpetrator’s wife was an Israeli national, killed by Palestinian terrorists while visiting Israel a few years ago. Everything points to Israel, but we have nothing concrete so far.”

The president’s face hardened. “I want this nailed down, Christine. Pull out all the stops.” The president paused for a moment before continuing, “What kind of destruction are we talking about if the
Kentucky
launches?”

“The
Kentucky
carries twenty-four missiles. Each missile can be configured with up to eight warheads, but they’re usually configured with four under the New START treaty with Russia.” Christine paused, glancing at Hardison.

The chief of staff flashed her a dark look.

“What?” the president asked.

Christine’s eyes returned to the president. “The
Kentucky
is unique in that her missiles are configured with a payload of eight warheads. There are several target packages that require more than four warheads per missile, so—”

“We’re in violation of START?” the president asked.

Hardison had been uncharacteristically quiet so far, and Christine wondered if he had expended himself arguing with the president over her culpability, and was now sitting there, sulking. Or was it something else? But then he joined the conversation.

“Not exactly,” Hardison replied. “Under New START, we can deviate from four warheads per missile, as long as we have proper authorization.”

“Who authorized this deviation?”

“You did, Mr. President,” Hardison replied. “You signed the authorization a year ago.”

“I don’t recall approving this.”

“I have your signature, sir. But in your defense, it was a thick document, and I may not have pointed out that clause.” Hardison shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

The president glared at his chief of staff, his jaw muscles flexing. “We’ll discuss this later.” He turned to Captain Brackman. “Put this in terms I can understand. Relative to Hiroshima, how much destruction can the
Kentucky
’s warheads deliver?”

Brackman answered, “The bomb we dropped on Hiroshima was a twenty-kiloton weapon. Each of the warheads carried by the
Kentucky
is a four-hundred-seventy-five-kiloton bomb, so each of the
Kentucky
’s warheads is roughly twenty-five times more powerful than what we used to destroy Hiroshima. Multiply that by twenty-four missiles, then again by eight warheads per missile, and that’d be around … five thousand Hiroshimas.”

The president’s face paled. “My God. We have to inform Iran.”

“I don’t recommend it,” Hardison said. “The chaos we’d cause would be almost unimaginable. As long as we have the potential to stop the launch, we don’t want this issue going public. Plus, if the country finds out we issued a valid launch order to one of our submarines, it could topple your presidency.”

“I don’t give a damn about my administration right now,” the president snapped. “The only thing that matters is turning off this launch.”

“I understand, sir,” Hardison replied in a conciliatory tone. “But if we can do it while keeping the issue under wraps, it’s important we do so.”

There was a long silence as the president considered Hardison’s recommendation. Christine knew they could keep this issue quiet for a short period of time, claiming operational necessity. But a long-term effort to conceal what had occurred, if discovered, would carry severe political and even criminal repercussions.

After what seemed like several minutes, the president spoke. “Who else knows about this?”

“Right now there are only five persons who know everything,” Hardison answered. “The four of us, plus Dave Hendricks, the deputy director of the National Military Command Center. The Command Center director, Admiral Tracey McFarland, is on travel the next two weeks, and as acting director, Hendricks has agreed to cover for us until the issue is either resolved or we provide other direction. The rest of the NMCC staff has no idea of the content of the message that was transmitted. Christine was wise enough to see to that.”

The president fixed Hardison with a serious look. “And what makes you think this Dave Hendricks will comply with our desire to keep this matter confidential?”

Hardison turned to Christine.

“I requested his confidentiality as a personal favor,” Christine answered.

The president raised an eyebrow. “And he would do this because…?”

Christine smoothed a wrinkle in her skirt, then locked her fingers together around her knee. “Dave is my ex-husband.”

The president leaned back in his chair. “And I assume you divorced on amicable terms?”

“As amicable as any divorce can be, I suppose. We’re still good friends and he’s agreed to honor our request to keep the content of the message confidential as long as possible.”

“Why don’t we have Hendricks sign a nondisclosure agreement?” Brackman interjected.

“I don’t recommend it,” Hardison answered. “It’s not a good idea to have hard-copy evidence of our direction to keep this issue quiet.”

The president nodded his agreement as Christine picked up where Hardison left off. “Even with a nondisclosure agreement, once we give the order, there’s a high probability this will go public.”

The president leaned forward. “What order?”

“Mr. President. The three of us see only one solution, given the
Kentucky
’s failure to acknowledge the cancellation message. We’re here to ask you for that authorization.”

“Authorization for what?”

“To sink the
Kentucky
.”

The president’s face went blank. “There must be some other option. You’re talking about sinking one of our own submarines. With our own people aboard.”

Hardison replied, “She has to be stopped from launching. She hasn’t acknowledged the cancellation message, so we have no choice.”

“Wait a minute,” the president replied. “The
Kentucky
is eight days away from launch range. Why do we have to sink her now? Why can’t we keep sending her the cancellation message? Maybe she’ll fix her radio gear and she’ll receive the message.”

“There’s another issue,” Brackman answered. “The CIP key.”

“What’s that?” the president asked.

“It’s a key on board the submarine the crew needs to launch the missiles. It’s kept in a safe that no one on board knows the combination to. Not until they receive a Launch order. Now that the crew has received the Launch order, they have the CIP key and can launch. The question no one can answer is, Is the crew part of this plot and that’s why they’re not responding to the Termination order, or are they not responding to the Termination order because of a Radio Room casualty?”

There was silence around the table as the president digested Brackman’s words.

Brackman continued, “Unfortunately, there’s no way for us to figure this out, and the longer we wait, the harder it gets for us to find and stop the
Kentucky
. So you have to make a decision, Mr. President, and you have to make it today.”

The president stood and turned, facing the dark monitor on the Situation Room wall. The silence was unbearable as the president sorted through the options and their outcomes. Finally, he turned back to his advisers; his dark brown eyes had grown darker still.

“Here’s what we’re going to do. First, continue to limit those who know about the launch order. As this evolves, we’ll evaluate to who and when to divulge information. Inform Williams, as we’ll have to go through the secretary of defense to give orders to the Unified Commanders. Second, keep the vice president in the dark. I want him insulated in case I’m forced to resign over this issue. Finally, it seems we have no other option.” The president’s shoulders slumped, his confident façade crumbling under the weight of his decision.

“Sink the
Kentucky
.”

17

PEARL HARBOR, HAWAII

With the sun only a few degrees above the horizon, the waterfront along Pearl Harbor was already a frenzy of activity, every submarine making preparations to get under way. Heavy cranes lifted green warshot torpedoes across the wharves onto loading skids on top of the submarines, while smaller cranes swung pallets of supplies to sailors waiting topside. As Captain Murray Wilson hurried toward Admiral Stanbury’s office, he was joined by the admiral’s aide, Lieutenant David Mortimore, saluting as he approached.