The Trident Deception (27 page)

“We’ll coordinate our missile defense from here,” he began. “If we can get to the missiles before they release their warheads, there’s a chance we can take several of them out. But once the first few missiles are destroyed, breaking apart into dozens of warhead-size fragments, our surveillance systems will be overwhelmed. Even more challenging is guiding our interceptors to their targets. Each one of the
Kentucky
’s missiles will be traveling at fifteen thousand miles per hour—four miles per second—so even if we’re able to ferret the missiles and their warheads from the growing debris field, our antiballistic missiles face the daunting task of intercepting warheads streaking through the atmosphere at twenty times the speed of sound.”

As Hendricks explained the challenges they faced, Christine’s mind grew numb. She had known the task of destroying the
Kentucky
’s missiles and their warheads was difficult, but only now did she appreciate the futility of the effort. Their only real hope to avoid the destruction of Iran was to prevent the
Kentucky
from launching. And without their fast-attack submarines, the odds of sinking the
Kentucky
had decreased significantly. In light of the overwhelming task Hendricks faced, Christine searched for the appropriate encouragement to offer, finally settling for a few simple words.

“Just do your best, Dave.”

“You know I will.”

Christine crossed the room, stopping to examine the pictures on Hendricks’s desk, looking for a segue into her first topic. She was surprised to find a wedding photograph of her and Hendricks in the mix, a black-and-white picture of them outside the chapel in Clemson, South Carolina—Dave in a black tux with Christine wearing a Mori Lee drop-waist gown. No such photos existed in her town house; the memories of their marriage had been filed away.

After a moment, Christine turned toward Hendricks and asked the question point-blank. “Can I trust you?” She had meant to say
Can
we
trust you?
but the one word had come out differently.

“In what regard?”

His response instantly grated on her nerves. A man who could be trusted only in certain regards could not be trusted at all.

“Yes,” Hendricks added quickly, picking up on her irritation. “You have my word. I will reveal nothing about what happened in the Operations Center or about our attempts to sink the
Kentucky
.” He kept his eyes fixed on his ex-wife’s, conveying the sincerity of his response.

“Thank you,” Christine replied, placing her hand on his arm.

Hendricks’s eyes went to her hand, and she saw it in his face; the unexpected physical contact reminding him of the times they’d spent in each other’s arms. Christine withdrew her hand, turning back toward the desk and its pictures. She had seen his reaction to her friendly gesture, and even more, she could feel the same response rising within her. But she pushed it away. This was not the time for those types of feelings to resurface.

Christine forced her thoughts quickly onto the second topic; the real reason for her meeting. She turned back to Hendricks. “There’s something else I wanted to talk to you about. It’s about the launch order. I’m convinced someone else was involved besides Mike Patton.”

One of Hendricks’s eyebrows rose slightly. “And who would that be?”

“Hardison.” There. She’d finally said it.

Hendricks’s eyebrow rose even farther. “The chief of staff? You’ve got to be kidding.”

Christine shook her head. “There’s no way a simple NMCC watchstander pulled this thing off. He had help from someone high up. I think it’s Hardison. He’s the one who drafted the directive to load the
Kentucky
with twice as many warheads as the other Trident submarines. Then he whisked it across the president’s desk for signature without even mentioning that small detail.”

Hendricks was quiet for a moment before responding. “That could easily be coincidence. If you decide to look into this, you’ll need to be careful. Your intern was murdered, and if Hardison’s involved, he won’t hesitate to do it again. Whatever you do, don’t confront him directly.”

“Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself.”

Hendricks frowned. “If you’re right about this, you’re wrong about being able to take care of yourself. You’re going to have to go high order, direct to Larson, and fast. And you better be damn sure about it, because your career in politics will be over if you’re wrong.”

Christine considered Dave’s advice. He was right. If Hardison really was involved, she couldn’t pussyfoot around; it was too dangerous. But she also didn’t have enough evidence—really, any evidence—to take to the director of the FBI. She would have to pry this issue apart carefully, find the smoking gun that would implicate Hardison without question.

“I suppose you’re right. Perhaps the orders were sent to the
Kentucky
simply because she would be invisible to our fast attacks. Maybe it was just pure coincidence—and bad luck on our part—that launch orders were sent to a submarine with twice as many warheads.” Christine looked up at her ex-husband, her eyes steeling with resolve. “But I’m going to find out if Hardison was involved, and if so, he’s going to pay for what he’s done. And pay dearly.”

Hendricks met her gaze. “I just hope it’s him that pays, and not you.”

*   *   *

As Christine left his office and headed back toward the White House, Hendricks wasn’t convinced his ex-wife could take care of herself. The stakes in this plot were high, and those involved wouldn’t hesitate to eliminate anyone who cast suspicion in their direction. Chris was impetuous; he knew that firsthand. While she could power her way logically through even the most complex issues, she was a creature ruled by emotion. Emotion she struggled to restrain, but every once in a while she would do or say things against her better judgment. He wondered if she would be able to restrain herself from confronting Hardison directly at some point.

He let out a deep sigh.

Probably not.

42

GARDEN ISLAND, AUSTRALIA

A purple-orange dawn was breaking across the western shore of Australia as a white Holden sedan traveled along a two-lane causeway connecting the mainland to a small one-by-six-mile island. Eight-foot-high waves crashed against the granite rocks protecting the causeway, protesting the man-made intrusion into Cockburn Sound, while the strong western wind carried the salt spray over the top of the granite barrier, dumping moisture onto the road like rain. The thumping of the windshield wipers was the only sound in the sedan as Murray Wilson sat in the backseat, alone with his thoughts as he approached the end of his journey.

It had been a long trip from Pearl Harbor. A C-130J, with its uncomfortable web seats and four loud turboprop engines, was the only aircraft Stanbury had been able to requisition on such short notice. The four-thousand-seven-hundred-mile flight to Amberley Royal Australian Air Force base on the outskirts of Brisbane, with a refueling stop along the way in Pago Pago, felt like it took much longer than thirteen hours. The Australians had done their best to match the American Air Force’s hospitality, providing yet another C-130J for the transcontinental flight to Pearce RAAF base north of Perth, where Wilson was met by an Australian seaman leaning against the white sedan on the airport tarmac. After a forty-minute drive toward the shore, the seaman flashed his badge at the security gate guarding the entrance to Fleet Base West.

The road barrier lifted away, allowing entrance to Australia’s largest naval base, home to several Royal Australian Navy commands. On the south-east corner of the island, along the shores of Careening Bay, five
Anzac
-class frigates called the island their home. But more important, Garden Island was home to the Australian navy’s submarine fleet of six
Collins
-class long-range diesel submarines.

After a right turn at the twin five-inch destroyer gun mount marking the entrance to the waterfront and a right on Baudin Road three blocks later, the sedan pulled to a stop in front of a two-story exposed concrete building. Only two other cars populated the otherwise deserted parking lot in front of the Submarine Force Element Group headquarters. Wilson made no move to exit, and the seaman took advantage of his hesitation, lighting a cigarette as he stood on the curb.

The end of the seaman’s cigarette glowed bright red as he took a drag, and the smoke he exhaled was carried away by the cold morning breeze; a breeze similar to the chill wind that had whipped through the
Houston
’s Bridge six days earlier. Wilson had listened to his son’s voice over the handheld radio, perhaps for the last time, as the
Kentucky
headed out to sea. Wilson wondered what he would have said to his son had he known it might be the last time he spoke to him; that two days later the entire Pacific Fleet would sortie in an effort to sink his submarine. He wondered what he would have said to explain his role; the father doing everything possible to end the life of his only child.

Wilson knew he could still back out. He could omit the real purpose for his meeting with Commodore Lowe and instead discuss the upcoming Submarine Command Course—Australian officers participated in the quarterly American training exercises, with one of the four events each year held in Australian waters. He would report back to Stanbury that Australia had understandably declined to sink an American submarine, and none would be the wiser. Wilson doubted a follow-up conversation would ever occur between the two admirals; Stanbury would never learn the Australians had not been asked. It would be Wilson’s secret.

As at that moment in Stanbury’s office, Wilson had to make a decision. As the seaman finished his cigarette and flicked it onto the ground, extinguishing the butt under the heel of his shoe, Wilson realized he had run out of time. As he stepped out of the sedan and headed toward the FEG headquarters, Wilson knew he had fifty feet and one cup of coffee to decide.

*   *   *

After a quick left upon entering the FEG headquarters and a short walk down the white-tiled hallway, Wilson entered the one-star admiral’s office, an office not unlike Stanbury’s seven thousand miles away. It seemed a standard collection of furniture was procured for every admiral’s office, no matter which navy the officer served: the same mahogany-stained desk; the same dark, lustrous conference table, its polished surface reflecting the bright overhead lights.

“Murray!” Commodore Rick Lowe rose from his chair, walking around his desk to shake the American captain’s hand. “Good to see you again. How was your flight?”

Wilson grimaced. “C-130.”

“I feel your pain. I once had to fly all the way to Washington on one of them.”

Joining Lowe at his conference table, Wilson placed a thin double-locked courier case on the floor, leaning it against the front leg of his chair.

“Can I get you some tea? Coffee?” the commodore asked.

“Coffee would be great, sir. And thanks for coming in early to meet with me.”

Lowe hollered, then ordered a cup of coffee after his yeoman popped his head through the doorway. “So what brings you to Australia? And what’s so urgent that it can’t wait until a more civilized hour? Surely not advance planning for the next Command Course?”

Wilson suddenly realized he wouldn’t have the time spent over a cup of coffee to make his decision. He would have to answer the commodore’s question, and that answer would determine whether he would subsequently request Australia’s assistance. As he prepared to reply, the same arguments that had tumbled through his mind during the long trip south, the uncertainties that had risen again in the back of the sedan resurfaced. But deep down, he knew he had already made his decision. He had understood the personal implications of his assistance when he agreed to Admiral Stanbury’s request six days ago. And nothing had really changed.

He reached down and retrieved the courier case, placing it on the table in front of him. After spinning each of the five tumblers to the required number, he pressed both unlock mechanisms, releasing the latches. He pulled out a chart, unfolded it, and laid it on top of the table.

“Do you have any submarines near this location?” Wilson pointed to an area on the chart two thousand miles west of Hawaii.

Lowe studied the chart for a moment. “The
Collins
is nearby. Why?”

Wilson pulled an orange folder from the case, placing it onto the chart.

“Commodore, there’s something extremely sensitive we need to discuss.”

*   *   *

An hour later, Wilson stood alone in the Australian video conference room as the image of Admiral Stanbury flickered over the secure link to Hawaii. “Australia does have a submarine near the
Kentucky
, the
Collins,
and they’ve agreed to send her orders to sink the
Kentucky
.”

“That’s good news, Murray.” Stanbury’s voice warbled through the static.

“But they’ll send the orders on one condition,” Wilson added.

“What’s that?”

“They insist the orders be delivered personally by a U.S. Navy captain or admiral, and that he remain on board for the duration of the mission. Under no circumstances will an Australian submarine fire on an American submarine without a more senior U.S. officer aboard.”

Stanbury’s image froze on the screen for a second before the video connection resynced. “That’s understandable. We’d probably want the same.”

“Who do you want on the
Collins
?” Wilson asked the question, even though he already knew the answer. The two of them were the only officers in SUBPAC who knew the details of the
Collins
’s new mission. One of them would have to board the Australian submarine.

“I realize this will be hard, Murray. But I need you on the
Collins
. Will you board her?”

Until this moment, Wilson had hidden behind the belief that he was merely the chess master who moved the pieces into position. The entire fleet had been mobilized in the search for the
Kentucky,
and he was only remotely involved, providing direction behind the scenes. Someone else would do the actual killing, launching the torpedo that would sink his son’s submarine. Now he would have to take an active role. And if they found the
Kentucky,
he would have to give the order to the
Collins
’s commanding officer that would send his son to his watery grave. He would be directly responsible for his child’s death.