The Trident Deception (45 page)

But nothing happened. She hadn’t been shot.

Christine released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She looked at the man. A wisp of smoke drifted up from the end of the pistol, confirming the gun had been fired. But where had the bullet gone? Looking closer, she noticed the man’s aim was slightly off. The gun wasn’t pointed at her. It was pointed at—

Her head spun toward Hendricks. He was standing next to her, his eyes wide, a thin stream of blood trickling down from a hole in the center of his forehead. His knees gave way as he crumpled to the floor at Christine’s feet.

The man pointed his gun back at Christine. “As I said, there’s been a change in plans. You will proceed to the Pentagon and do what you can to destroy the missiles if they are launched.” He reached into his coat pocket and extracted a folded piece of paper. “I don’t know the password to Hendricks’s computer, but if you can get in, this is the name of the program and the cancellation code that will disable the virus corrupting the targeting information.”

He placed the paper on the foyer table next to the front door.

“I’ve done you a favor. Now I expect one in return. Forget what I look like. If I find out my description has been provided to anyone or entered into any database, I’ll kill both of you. Do you understand?”

Christine nodded, and the man looked expectantly at Hardison.

“Yes,” Hardison said, pain evident in the tightness of his voice.

The man holstered the gun under his coat and left.

Christine rushed over to Hardison and examined his hand. The man had put a bullet right through the center of his wrist, and it was still bleeding profusely. She pulled the tie from his neck and tied it tightly around his wrist, then picked up the phone and dialed 911.

Hardison slumped to the floor, resting his back against the kitchen cabinets, and she knelt down with him. “Help is on its way. I have to go to the Pentagon.”

“Go,” Hardison said. “I’ll be all right. I’ll wait for the authorities and clean up your mess. As usual.” He forced a smile.

Christine squeezed his shoulder, then retrieved Hendricks’s CAC ID card from his wallet and dashed to the front door, grabbing the piece of paper from the foyer table on her way out.

75

PENTAGON

20 MINUTES REMAINING

Christine burst into the Current Action Center, almost tripping over Captain Brackman, who opened the door. As the watchstanders turned toward the commotion, shocked expressions cascaded across their faces. She’d received a similar response at the entrance to the Pentagon; her face and neck were coated with dried blood and her blouse smeared with red stains. The entire left side of her face was swollen and her nose was crooked, her lips split open.

Brackman stepped back. “What the hell happened to you?”

“It’s not important.” Christine’s eyes went to the electronic map at the front of the CAC. Four red lines arched up from the Pacific Ocean, slowly diverging as they headed west.

“Four missiles were launched,” Brackman announced. “We don’t know why the
Kentucky
stopped. But we’ve been unable to intercept the missiles for some reason.”

“The targeting data is corrupted.”

Brackman’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know that?”

“How I know doesn’t matter. What matters is that I can fix it. I need to access Dave Hendricks’s computer account.” Without waiting for permission, Christine sprinted along the top tier of the CAC into Hendricks’s office. Stopping behind her ex-husband’s desk, she hit the space bar on his computer keyboard, bringing the monitor to life. As Brackman stopped behind her, she slid Hendricks’s CAC ID card into the computer slot. The standard password window appeared in the center of the screen, awaiting the six-character pass code required to gain access.

During her short trip from Clarendon to the Pentagon, Christine had mulled over the possibilities, and was almost positive she knew Dave’s pass code. When forced to choose a six-character code, he had always used his birthday. She tried to think of alternate six-digit codes but came up empty.

It was his birthday.

He had better not have changed it, or she was gonna kill him.

She typed in the six digits, then pressed Enter.

Christine held her breath as the screen stared back at her, giving no indication the entry was correct.

Then the screen cleared.

She released her breath and prepared to wait for the start-up scripts to run, but the computer screen turned a solid blue instead, with one word across the screen in large white letters:

PASSWORD:

This must be the extra security program Dave was talking about. He said she knew the password. Perhaps it was the one they had used on their computer network at home when they were married. Closing her eyes, she pictured him sitting at their desk, typing in the password, one letter at a time.

The password sprang into her mind.

Hendricks had graduated from Clemson, and many of his passwords were related to his alma mater. She typed
TIGERS,
then hit Enter. The monitor responded instantly:

INCORRECT PASSWORD. ATTEMPT 2 OF 3:

PASSWORD:

Christine’s heart sank. What could it be? As she scanned the pictures on Dave’s desk, searching for a clue, her eyes halted on the framed photo of them on their wedding day.
Could that be it?
Their wedding date? She had to admit she’d used it as a password on several of her Internet accounts.

She typed the date into the computer, then hit Enter. The computer responded:

INCORRECT PASSWORD. ATTEMPT 3 OF 3:

PASSWORD:

WARNING: 3 INVALID PASSWORD ENTRIES WILL DISABLE THIS ACCOUNT

Christine’s mind spun. What password was so obvious she would know it? She’d have to go back to the day they met, searching for that special event, that special day, that special—

Weekend!

That was it! The first weekend of their honeymoon in Rome, when they had been forced to spend the first two days in that fleabag hotel. A weekend Dave said he would never forget. A weekend at—

The
Esplanade!

Christine hesitated, searching through her memories a moment more. But there was no other obvious choice. She flexed her hand, then typed in the name of the hotel. The computer cursor blinked at her, waiting for her to hit Enter. If she was wrong, she would be forced to watch the destruction of Iran from video feeds into the Current Action Center, the might of the entire U.S. military overwhelmed by a single ballistic missile submarine.

She pressed the Enter key firmly.

The cursor blinked at her, still sitting after the last character of the password.

Then the blue background disappeared and messages appeared on the monitor, informing her the computer was running start-up scripts and loading Hendricks’s account profile.

Christine breathed a sigh of relief. After the desktop appeared, she selected the Search function, typing in the name of the virus. The hourglass spun for a few seconds, then displayed the program, buried in one of Hendricks’s personal folders. She launched the program, then typed in the code the man had given her. One word appeared on the screen, followed by a Yes or No option for the reply:

TERMINATE?

She clicked Yes, and the question disappeared, leaving only the computer desktop.

A moment later, the workstations throughout the Current Action Center updated with new targeting information. Seconds later, SM-3 missiles from cruisers in the Gulf streaked up toward their targets, followed by four THAAD missiles from their battery in Afghanistan.

Christine followed Brackman, stopping behind the Watch Captain’s console as the missiles closed on their targets.

“This had better work,” Brackman said softly. “We’re almost out of missiles. These are the last four THAADs and we have only one cruiser left with SM-3s.”

As Christine stared at the display, the first SM-3 closed on the
Kentucky
’s first missile. The green trace representing the SM-3 intersected with the red trace representing the
Kentucky
’s missile; the two traces kept on going.

“We missed,” Brackman said quietly.

The Watch Captain’s hands moved quickly across his panel. There was another SM-3 following behind, and it was reassigned. Christine’s stomach knotted as the second SM-3 intersected the
Kentucky
’s missile, but this time the red and green traces terminated.

Cheers erupted in the Current Action Center.

The
Kentucky
’s first missile had been destroyed.

But there were three more to go.

Christine turned her attention to the next SM-3, closing on the
Kentucky
’s second missile. She followed the green trace until it intersected the red one. Both terminated.

The second missile was destroyed.

She focused on the remaining two missiles. Four SM-3s were headed toward the third missile, while four THAADs had been assigned the task of eliminating the fourth missile. She glanced at the Watch Captain’s workstation, expecting to see only the two remaining missiles. But there were now a dozen contacts. The first two missiles had broken up into ten pieces, making the task for the remaining SM-3s and THAADs even tougher.

The first SM-3 closed on the third missile, in the middle of the debris field. The red and green traces marched slowly toward each other. Then kept on going.

Christine watched the next SM-3. It missed too.

The third SM-3 closed on the
Kentucky
’s missile. The red and green traces intersected, then terminated.

The third missile had been destroyed.

Only one missile continued its descent.

76

MISSILE FOUR

15 MINUTES REMAINING

Seven hundred miles above earth, the
Kentucky
’s fourth missile, officially referred to by the
Kentucky
’s crew as missile FOUR, streaked through the stratosphere toward its programmed targets. But missile FOUR had an unofficial name as well. Trident missiles were stored in the submarine’s missile tubes for years between depot overhauls, and missile technicians occasionally performed minor maintenance, entering the missile via an access panel in its side. When entering each new missile for the first time after it rolled off the assembly line, one of the missile techs would stop before exiting, inscribing the missile’s unofficial name on the inside of the graphite epoxy shell of the missile’s third stage. Inside missile FOUR, written in indelible black marker, was its name, along with a message for the recipients of its warheads:

Pray not for
Redemption
.

Redemption
reached the apex of its flight path, arching downward on its return to earth. A portal opened in its side, exposing a camera that peered into the heavens.

Click.

An image of the stars was compared to the missile’s navigation memory, and a second later, its third-stage engines fired silently in the darkness, rolling the missile to starboard and gently increasing the angle of its downward trajectory. The third-stage engines fired again, halting the missile’s roll and pitch at the desired angles.

Click.

Redemption
took a second star fix, verifying its flight path had been properly adjusted so that all eight of its warheads, when released, would hit their targets precisely.

The four restraining clamps around warhead One retracted, followed by a brief pulse of the missile’s third-stage engines. Warhead One separated from
Redemption,
beginning its lonely journey toward its aim point. The clamps around warhead Two retracted, and the ritual repeated itself seven more times, as
Redemption
released all eight of its warheads flawlessly, exactly as programmed.

Four THAAD missiles streaked up through the atmosphere, the first three missing the small warheads and missile FOUR, distracted by the debris from missile THREE. But the last THAAD homed on the desired target, slamming into missile FOUR, breaking it into pieces.

The THAAD missile had done its job.

Only a minute too late.

77

PENTAGON

10 MINUTES REMAINING

Looking up at the display at the front of the Current Action Center, Christine had watched the SM-3s destroy the first three missiles, her relief turning to dismay as eight red traces branched out from the fourth missile. Their task was now impossible, as the eight warheads had blended in with the surrounding debris; a total of twenty-three traces streaked downward. The icons representing their missile defense platforms blinked yellow, indicating they were out of weapons; all except the USS
Lake Erie,
which still glowed a steady green. But no missiles streaked upward.

“The
Lake Erie
is paralyzed,” the Watch Captain announced, looking first at Brackman, then at Christine. “Her Aegis fire control system can’t determine which of the targets are the warheads, and they don’t have enough missiles to target each bogey.”

“If their fire control system can’t sort out the contacts,” Christine replied, “you’re going to have to.”

There was a slight hesitation. “And how do I do that?” the Watch Captain asked.

“Figure it out,” Christine answered.

The Watch Captain stared at Christine for a moment, then turned back toward his screen. He wiped his palms on his thighs, then squinted at his display. “There has to be something about the eight warheads that distinguishes them from the debris,” he said, talking more to himself than to Christine.

As Christine and Brackman exchanged worried glances, the Watch Captain picked up an erasable marker and began scribbling information on the Plexiglas next to his workstation. He cycled through the twenty-three targets, annotating information in several columns, then paused to examine the data, placing an asterisk next to one of the target numbers, and then another. He put down the marker, examining the data in front of him.