The Trident Deception (28 page)

But perhaps it was meant to be to this way.

The father sacrificing the son.

Like Abraham, commanded by God to slay Isaac on Mount Moriah, Wilson had been requested to sacrifice his child. But as Abraham lifted the knife to murder his son, an angel of God appeared, revealing a ram caught in a nearby thicket, instructing the father to sacrifice the animal instead. As Wilson stared at the flickering image of Admiral Stanbury, he wondered whether, like Isaac, there would be a last-minute reprieve for his son.

He decided he would be there to find out.

“Yes, Admiral. I’ll board the
Collins
.”

43

HMAS
COLLINS

Just east of the Mariana Islands, Commander Brett Humphreys peered through the
Collins
’s Search Periscope, observing the four inbound trawlers approaching the submerged submarine. Although the contact density this afternoon was heavy, it was thin compared to the morning, when the entire Mariana’s fishing fleet, it seemed, had put out to sea at the same time in a mad dash. Laden with the fruit of their harvest, they were returning in a much more civilized and staggered manner. Satisfied that none of the trawlers was a collision threat, Humphreys returned control of the periscope to his Officer of the Watch, who pressed his face to the eyepiece as Humphreys stepped back.

The
Collins
had been on patrol almost five months now, loitering in the western Philippine Sea for the last month before continuing her circular route from Perth back to the east coast of Australia. They would pass through the Bismarck Archipelago and into the Coral Sea, then follow the eastern shore of the continent on their journey south. After a port call in Brisbane followed by a week in Sydney, the diesel submarine would begin her scheduled full-docking cycle in the Australian Shipbuilding Corporation shipyard in Adelaide, where she would receive long-overdue maintenance and significant upgrades to her tactical systems.

Delivered in 1996, the
Collins
still had her original combat control suite, and her Torpedo Room was loaded with old MK 48 Mod 4 analog torpedoes, procured from the Americans in the 1980s. But that would change after the
Collins
returned from deployment, when she would be upgraded to the new American BYG-1 Combat Control System and MK 48 Mod 7 ADCAP torpedoes. In the meantime, the crew would compensate with their experience.

Humphreys stayed in control for a moment, surveying his seasoned crew. After five months at sea, the
Collins,
fully manned at fifty-eight hands, was a model of efficiency, the crew quietly relaying reports and orders between stations. Even the early morning foray of fishing trawlers, over twenty of them within 4,000 meters at one point, had not frayed the crew’s nerves, the Officer of the Watch expertly guiding the submarine through congested waters. The contact density on the remainder of their journey would be sparse until they approached Sydney, where Jodi would meet him. After five months at sea, the thought of his beautiful wife waiting on the pier was a compelling image, one that was quickly dispelled by the ship’s Communicator, stopping next to him.

“Message from the Submarine FEG, Captain.”

Humphreys read the message, surprised at the sudden change in orders and lack of details. The
Collins
had been directed to modify its patrol and head east, into the open ocean. Follow-on orders would be hand-delivered after a personnel transfer at specified coordinates. But the end of the message made clear the routine monotony of their long deployment had come to an end. Typed in capital letters, the last sentence read:

PREPARE FOR WAR PATROL

Humphreys turned to his Officer of the Watch. “Prepare to Snort, three diesels. Charge all batteries.”

44

JERUSALEM, ISRAEL

Levi Rosenfeld entered the Prime Minister’s Office building at 9
A.M.
, returning from the Mossad’s headquarters in Herzliya, a suburb north of Tel Aviv. Still unaware of the details of the Mossad’s operation, Rosenfeld had been briefed on the basic plan and the American response—the United States was assembling its surface and naval air forces in the Pacific, forming a barrier through which the
Kentucky
must pass. The Mossad had somehow neutralized the most potent arm of the American Pacific Fleet, and its submarines were no longer a factor. But there was still a slim chance the Pacific Fleet would find the
Kentucky
. Rosenfeld had been alarmed there was the potential their plan could fail, surprised after Kogen’s assurance there was nothing the Americans could do. But considering what the Mossad had accomplished thus far and the high probability of success, he let it go.

As Rosenfeld entered his office, he was greeted by Hirshel Mekel, his executive assistant, who rattled off the remainder of the prime minister’s itinerary for the day. Rosenfeld nodded absently as he sat behind his desk, his thoughts still dwelling on the morning’s meeting, until his attention snapped back to the man standing in front of him.

“Here’s the latest report,” Mekel repeated, handing the manila folder to Rosenfeld.

Rosenfeld flipped through the thick investigation of the suicide bombing that had taken his daughters’ lives, stopping at the section that identified the organizations responsible. Kogen had informed him Hamas was to blame, but Rosenfeld was determined to ensure every group that contributed to his children’s death, no matter how limited its role, would feel the full wrath of Israel’s response. Rosenfeld found and read the section he was looking for, then flipped forward and backward through the thick investigation.

“This report is incomplete. Kogen informed me Hamas sponsored the suicide bomber, but this report says it’s still undetermined.”

“This is the latest version, Levi,” Mekel replied. “The draft was completed just hours ago, and I obtained an unofficial copy before it was submitted. I knew you’d want an update as soon as possible.”

Rosenfeld opened his desk drawer, pulling out an identical manila folder containing an earlier version of the report, approved by the Israeli intelligence minister. “This version clearly identifies the suicide bomber as a member of the Izz ad-Din al-Qassam Brigades and traces their funding and weapons back to Iran’s Revolutionary Guard. How is it that a later version is inconclusive on this issue?”

Mekel shrugged. “I assure you this draft is the most up-to-date version. Hiring a former Mossad staffer as your executive assistant has its advantages.”

Rosenfeld studied the cover letter of the earlier version, then closed the folder, looking up at Mekel. “How closely connected are you with your former Mossad friends?”

“I’m still very well connected, sir. What do you have in mind?”

3 DAYS REMAINING

45

WESTERN PACIFIC OCEAN

A hazy, gray dawn clung to the horizon as a helicopter beat a steady path north across the vast emptiness of the Pacific Ocean. Inside the Sikorsky S-70B Seahawk, Murray Wilson stared out the passenger-side window, his eyes fixed on the dark ocean several hundred feet below. A stiff wind blew the cresting waves eastward, painting the watery blue canvas with thousands of frothy white specks. Not far above, a heavy blanket of steel-gray, moisture-laden clouds threatened to open up at any minute.

The weather had steadily deteriorated as Wilson traveled north toward his rendezvous with the HMAS
Collins.
Eighteen hours earlier, he had boarded the C-130J, still waiting at Pierce RAAF base, for a trip across the Australian continent to the northern tropical port of Darwin, where he transferred onto the Seahawk antisubmarine helicopter, its normal payload of three torpedoes replaced with long-range external fuel tanks. After refueling stops aboard the
Anzac
-class frigate HMAS
Stuart
and
Adelaide
-class frigate HMAS
Newcastle,
the helicopter was approaching the predetermined rendezvous point, a random spot in the Pacific Ocean.

A change in the beat of the helicopter’s rotors and the feeling of his seat falling out from under him announced the helicopter’s descent. A glance at the navigation display across from the pilot verified they had reached their destination. As Wilson peered through the window, searching the ocean below for the silhouette of a black submarine against the dark blue water, the stiff westerly wind buffeted the small helicopter plummeting from the sky. It was going to be one hell of a personnel transfer.

*   *   *

Eight hundred feet below, Commander Brett Humphreys stood in the
Collins
’s Bridge, scouring the dark gray sky for a sign of his friend’s arrival. The message from the Submarine FEG had not been specific, informing him only that a U.S. naval officer would transfer aboard with more detailed orders. However, a crew manifest change had been received a few hours later over the submarine broadcast, identifying the American officer as Captain Murray Wilson.

Three years earlier, Humphreys had been assigned as the Australian foreign exchange officer on COMSUBPAC staff, and he and Jodi had become close friends with Murray and Claire. Following his two-year tour, Humphreys returned home, taking command of the
Collins
. As he stared into the overcast skies, he wondered if Murray had finagled a boondoggle to see his good friend, but that didn’t jibe with the order to prepare for war patrol. Something was afoot.

Humphreys heard the faint roar of the Seahawk before he saw it. It took awhile for the gray helicopter to appear out of the haze as it descended, slowing to a hover fifty feet above the stationary submarine. The rhythmic beat of the helicopter blades pulsed in Humphreys’s ears, the downdraft rippling across the turbulent ocean surface in a circular pattern. As he waited for the two crewmen in the Seahawk cabin to lower their human cargo, a light rain began falling, and Humphreys pulled the hood of his foul-weather jacket over his head.

A moment later, the helicopter crew began lowering a man similarly dressed in foul-weather gear. The man swung from side to side in the strong wind, the gusts buffeting him as he descended. A small duffel bag hung from a lanyard attached to the cable, swaying in the wind a few feet below him. The Lookout grabbed it as it swung by and fed it to Humphreys, who pulled hard on the lanyard, guiding the man into the Bridge.

“Welcome aboard, Murray!” Humphreys shouted over the roar of the helicopter’s rotor as Wilson’s feet hit the deck.

“Good to see you again!” Wilson shook Humphrey’s hand.

Humphreys helped Wilson out of his harness and unhooked the duffel bag, then signaled the helicopter to retrieve its cable. The helicopter pulled up and away from the submarine, its cable swaying in the wind as it turned and headed south for its return trip home.

*   *   *

Wilson watched the helicopter disappear into the dark clouds, then followed Humphreys down the ladder into Control, where the Officer of the Watch turned slowly on the periscope.

“Rig the Bridge for Dive,” Humphreys ordered. “Pipe Diving Stations.”

The Officer of the Watch acknowledged, and the order to man diving stations reverberated throughout the submarine a moment later. A junior officer waiting nearby ascended into the Bridge to close the clamshells on top of the sail and secure the Bridge hatches.

“Come,” Humphreys said. “It looks like we’ve got a few things to discuss.”

As Wilson followed Humphreys down the center passageway of the Forward Compartment toward his friend’s stateroom, he realized there were two things about Australian submarines he was unfamiliar with. The first was the configuration of Control with its two periscopes—one designated the Search scope and the other the Attack scope—arranged in a fore-aft alignment rather than side by side like on American submarines. There was no separate Sonar Room, with the sonar consoles lining the starboard bulkhead next to the combat control consoles, further cramping a Control Room that was barely half the size of those on U.S. attack submarines. The
Collins
also had six bow-mounted torpedo tubes instead of the four carried by most U.S. submarines, the only exception being the three
Seawolf
-class with their eight tubes.

The second unfamiliar aspect of Australian submarines had just brushed past him in the narrow passageway; Chief Marine Technician Kimberly Durand had squeezed past Wilson on her way to the Weapon Stowage Compartment. The American Submarine Force had resisted change longer than the rest of the Navy, remaining the last bastion of an all-male service. Although those walls had come crumbling down in 2011 with the admittance of the first dozen female officers, Wilson and the vast majority of American submarine crews had never served with women at sea. The Australian men didn’t appear to notice how close their bodies came as they passed by women in the narrow passageways.

Wilson followed Humphreys into his stateroom, the quarters barely large enough for the two of them to sit. After shutting and locking his stateroom door, Humphreys turned to his American friend. “So what’s this all about?”

Unzipping his duffel bag, Wilson pulled out a sealed white envelope with Humphreys’s name written on the front in Commodore Lowe’s handwriting. Humphreys opened the envelope and retrieved a single-page directive. He read the letter, his eyes scanning from side to side, his eyes suddenly shooting up toward Murray. “You’re not serious?”

Wilson nodded. “We are.”

Humphreys read his instructions again. He looked up, slowly this time, the target’s familiar name registering in his eyes. “Which crew has the submarine?”

Wilson didn’t answer. He couldn’t at the moment. The words wouldn’t have come out, no matter how hard he tried.

46

KANEOHE BAY, HAWAII

Nestled against Oahu’s windward shore, protected from ocean swells by a barrier reef, lie the sheltered waters of Kaneohe Bay, offering perfect conditions for the growth of over forty patch and fringe reefs. Best seen from a high vantage point such as the Pali Lookout, the bay’s varying depths and bottom formations offer shimmering hues of ivory, teal, aquamarine, and violet. Inland of the scenic bay is the tranquil community of Kaneohe, just recently connected to the southern metropolitan cities by H-3, the intrastate highway that took thirty years to construct, its tunnels passing through the volcanic mountain ridges of the Koolau Range. North of the small community, occupying the entire three-thousand-acre Mokapu Peninsula, is Marine Corps Base, Hawaii—home to one of the U.S. Navy’s four Wings of P-3C antisubmarine patrol aircraft.