The Trident Deception (48 page)

But not the father.

The result wasn’t exactly what Wilson had hoped for, but it was something. At least he wouldn’t be responsible for Tom’s death.

Wrapping one arm around the Search periscope, he braced himself for the explosion.

*   *   *

Torpedo 200348 closed the remaining one hundred yards, and its electromagnetic coils detected the large steel object it chased. Once within range, it fired the initiating charge, igniting the six hundred pounds of PBXN-105 explosive in the torpedo’s warhead. The MK 48 torpedo disintegrated as the equivalent of eight hundred pounds of dynamite detonated, splitting open the three-inch-thick steel hull of the
Collins
like papier-mâché, blowing a gaping hole into the Engine Room.

*   *   *

Wilson’s firm grip wasn’t enough to keep him from being knocked to the deck as the torpedo exploded. He pulled himself to his feet as Humphreys likewise climbed to his. Wilson knew they were in trouble when the Flooding Alarm sounded; in jeopardy when he felt the stern squat down from the added weight of the inrushing ocean; in extremis when the stern planes had to be pushed to full dive in an attempt to keep the submarine’s angle from tilting out of control.

The equipment in the Engine Room began to fail in a crescendo of alarming indications. The lights flickered; Control was momentarily drowned in darkness when the motor generators went off-line, and then emergency lighting energized a second later. But as the submarine surged toward the surface, the
Collins
received the nail in its coffin.

The Engine Room rang up all stop.

There was no more propulsion, nothing available to drive them upward except for the Emergency Blow that had already done its work. They were almost there; almost to the surface.

Not that it would do them much good.

As the submarine’s speed bled off, Wilson knew they would be able to carry less weight and would begin to sink. Even if they reached the surface, it would be only a few seconds before they submerged beneath the waves again; insufficient time for the hatches to be opened and for any of the crew to escape.

The red numbers on the digital depth meter, which had been changing rapidly as the
Collins
sped toward the surface, stopped at forty meters. The numbers began changing again, this time in the opposite direction, slowly at first, then increasing speed as the ship passed through one hundred, then two hundred meters. The numbers began changing so quickly that Wilson could estimate the ship’s depth only to the nearest hundred meters, and the
Collins
soon passed below Test Depth.

As Wilson stared at the digital depth gauge, the numbers stopped changing, and he wondered if the ship’s depth had stabilized. But he soon understood the meaning of the immobile numbers. The submarine hadn’t halted its descent—it had descended beyond the maximum range of its depth gauges; it could no longer report the depths to which the
Collins
sank. The frozen numbers stared back at him, and he wondered how the ship managed to hold together below Crush Depth.

Looking around Control at the men and women whose lives would soon be extinguished, their faces illuminated by the eerie yellow emergency lighting, Wilson realized it was all his fault. He was the one who had dragged them into this. His thoughts turned to the families who would wait in vain on the pier for the
Collins
’s return home from her long patrol. They would no longer have the comfort of a husband or wife, mother or father.

As the men and women in Control stared at him, with fear on their faces yet their eyes still harboring a faint glimmer of hope the American captain would somehow save them, it was all too much. Wilson turned his head away, avoiding their gaze. With a flooded Engine Room, their submarine would travel in only one direction.

Down.

There was nothing more he could do.

A loud, wrenching metallic sound tore through the ship, and the stern began to tilt downward. Wilson slid across Control, grabbing onto the Attack periscope as the submarine reached a ninety-degree angle, descending stern first. The hull groaned from the rising sea pressure, and the piping systems in the compartment began to give way, water spraying across Control as the
Collins
plummeted into the dark ocean depths.

79

USS
KENTUCKY

The
Kentucky
shuddered as a shock wave passed by, followed by Sonar’s report. “Explosion in the water, bearing one-eight-four!” Cheers erupted in Control, dying down as Sonar followed up. “Conn, Sonar. Breaking-up noises, bearing one-eight-four.”

Malone didn’t share the enthusiasm as he thought solemnly about the men who would never return from sea. It could just as easily have been them.

There, but for the grace of God, go I
.

Nonetheless, he was relieved. They had survived, and now they had to clear the area quickly in case there were other warships or aircraft nearby, which would no doubt converge on the explosion. But first they had to slow from ahead flank, allowing their sonar signature to melt back into the ocean.

“Helm, ahead standard. Left full rudder, steady course two-seven-zero.”

Malone paused, then addressed the watchstanders in the Control Room. “Attention in Control. I intend to clear datum to the west for several hours. Once we’re a safe distance away and have confirmed there are no contacts nearby, we’ll slow and launch our remaining missiles. Carry on.”

The eyes of his men lingered on him for a few seconds before they returned their attention to their workstations.

Malone stepped down from the Conn as the
Kentucky
traversed quietly away from the explosion reverberating through the ocean depths.

80

PENTAGON

At the small table in Hendricks’s office, Christine sat alone with her thoughts. She had ignored Brackman’s advice to seek medical attention, determined to remain at the Current Action Center until they received word on the
Kentucky
’s and
Collins
’s fates. Shortly after the
Kentucky
launched four missiles and her position updated on top of the
Collins,
SOSUS reported an underwater explosion in the vicinity.

One of the submarines had been sunk.

Which one was unknown. The
Collins
had not yet radioed in, and with each passing minute, the likelihood the
Kentucky
had survived grew. The tension was mounting in the Current Action Center, as they had no antiballistic missiles remaining. Their only hope hinged on the
Collins
.

The door opened and Brackman entered. It was clear from the expression on his face that he’d brought news. Christine rose from her chair as he spoke.

“We’ve picked up a submarine emergency distress beacon in the vicinity of the explosion.”

Christine looked for clues in Brackman’s expression, noting his pale face.

Her words came out slowly. “Which submarine?”

“The emergency beacon is from the
Collins
.”

A pit formed in her stomach. They had failed.

“Now what?” she asked.

“The
Kentucky
will clear datum,” Brackman replied, “knowing that others in the area will converge on the explosion and begin their search there. Once she’s safely away, she’ll launch her remaining missiles.”

“How long do we have?”

“No way to know for sure.”

“Is there anything we can do?”

“We’ve already vectored in our P-3Cs and laid an extensive sonobuoy field, but we haven’t picked up anything so far. We’ll keep looking. But now that the
Kentucky
is in Emerald, free to travel in any direction—”

“I know,” Christine finished the sentence for him. “The odds of finding her are minuscule.” There was an uneasy silence before she continued. “Are you sure there are no more antiballistic missiles in the region?”

“Yes, ma’am. We’re checking with 5th Fleet on the possibility of reloading the cruisers in theater, but from what I know of Trident submarine protocols, even if we have the SM-3 assets and can reload, there’s no way we’ll be ready before the
Kentucky
resumes launching.”

There was another awkward silence. Finally, Brackman said, “I’m sorry, Christine.” Then he turned and left, closing the door behind him.

Christine approached the window in Hendricks’s office, examining the CAC screen. The
Kentucky
’s estimated position was a red circle again instead of a teardrop shape, centered at the location of the torpedo explosion. In the center of the circle, the blue icon symbolizing the
Collins
blinked rapidly for a few seconds, then disappeared. She wondered what the crew on the
Collins
had thought and felt as the cold water rushed into their submarine, dragging them down into the dark, frigid ocean. She shuddered, hoping they died quickly and painlessly. Then she realized she had done everything possible to ensure the crew on the
Kentucky
shared that same fate.

Yet the
Kentucky
had survived—and would soon launch her remaining missiles.

81

USS
KENTUCKY

One hundred miles north of Enewetak Atoll, a collection of forty coral reef islands surrounding a deep central lagoon, a dark shape drifted up from the ocean depths. The object, lost in the shadows of the early morning light shimmering on the ocean’s surface, rose at a ten-degree angle, its main engines silent, slowing during the ascent until it came to rest several hundred feet below the ocean waves. Valves in the black metal skin of the warship opened and closed as water was sucked into and purged from its internals, keeping the ship steady at launch depth. The towed array, no longer streaming behind the ship, drifted down until it came to a vertical rest, hanging from the submarine like a spider’s thin, silky thread.

*   *   *

After sinking the
Collins,
Malone continued west for two hours. Finally convinced there was sufficient distance between the submarine and the explosion, the
Kentucky
had come shallow, its crew manning Battle Stations. The
Kentucky
had not yet completed its mission; there were still seventeen missiles to be launched.

The Chief of the Watch reported the ship was at Battle Stations Missile, and Malone, standing on the Conn, picked up the 1-MC. “Set condition One-SQ for strategic launch. This is the Commanding Officer. The release of nuclear weapons has been directed.”

The XO spoke into the 21-MC handset, repeating the Captain’s order.

Malone left Control and, after opening the safe in his stateroom, returned a minute later with seventeen keys, each hanging from a green lanyard, which he handed to a missile tech waiting to arm the missile tube gas generators.

A moment later, two junior officers arrived in Control with the CIP key, which they handed over to Malone. He held the key in his hand for a moment before inserting it into the Captain’s Indicator Panel, then flipped up the Permission to Fire toggle switch. The panel activated, the status lights illuminating for Missile Tubes Five through Twenty-Four.

One by one, the missiles were brought online, with the exception of the missiles in tubes Eight, Ten, and Twelve. Malone monitored the progress of the missile gyro spin-up until the indicating lights for seventeen missiles illuminated. The next column of lights toggled from black to red as each missile accepted its target package, carrying the impact coordinates for their warheads. The third column of lights on the Captain’s Indicator Panel turned red as the missile techs in Missile Compartment Lower Level armed the gas generators. One by one, seventeen gas generators were armed.

The USS
Kentucky
was ready to launch again. All that remained was Malone’s final order. One final command, and seventeen missiles would streak through the atmosphere toward their destination. Malone turned to his phone talker next to him, who would pass the order—
You have permission to fire
—to MCC.

*   *   *

Standing in MCC, his shoulders sagging, Tom Wilson held the Trigger in his hand, hanging listless by his side. His eyes were blank, a vacant gaze aimed at the Launch Control Panel, awaiting his Captain’s order. Nearby, Petty Officer Tryon, along with the other missile techs, stared at Tom. Tom knew what they were thinking, but didn’t really care. Hours earlier, he had struggled with the launch decision, and it had boiled down to the commitment he made when he took the oath of office, to follow the lawful orders of a superior officer, and in this case, the president of the United States. What he hadn’t bargained on, however, was the personal toll that commitment would take.

The realization that commitment would erase the lives of millions of innocent men, women, and children was something he hadn’t anticipated. From the moment he squeezed the Trigger that first time, he knew he couldn’t live with what he had done. Whether it was one more time or seventeen more times, it didn’t matter.

He would launch the remaining missiles when ordered. He would sort through the rest later.

*   *   *

Malone stood in Control, his hands on each side of the Captain’s Indicator Panel. Next to him, the phone talker waited expectedly for his order to launch.

Malone hesitated.

It didn’t make sense.

An Australian submarine had attacked them. Why? For the last two hours, he had tried to piece together the unusual events of the past ten days, believing this was the key. Why did they attack? Were they trying to prevent them from launching?

Suddenly, the disparate pieces of the puzzle fell into place. Except—they hadn’t received a Launch Termination Order. Why not? Their Radio Room was perfectly operational. Malone shook his head.

It didn’t make sense.

He surveyed the men in Control. His crew was at Battle Stations Missile, and the
Kentucky
was hovering at launch depth. His phone talker stood next to him, his finger over the button on his mouthpiece, waiting to pass the Launch order.