The Trident Deception (7 page)

Rosenfeld pushed past his security detail, jogging toward the source of the chaos, dodging the men and women fleeing in the opposite direction. An explosion had destroyed one of the cafés. Rosenfeld’s pace increased as his desperation mounted, and he soon found himself in a full sprint toward the carnage a hundred feet ahead, his security detail matching his pace. A moment later, he spotted the shattered red-and-green Sandrino’s sign on the ground.

The sidewalk and street were littered with broken glass, splintered wood, and the twisted metal remnants of tables and chairs; fires burned inside the destroyed café. The shrieks of terrified onlookers gave way to the cries of the wounded—screams of agony mingled with low, muffled moans. Somewhere among the carnage—
God, please spare their lives
—were his two daughters. Rosenfeld reached the first woman lying unconscious on the pavement. His pulse pounded as he turned over the teenage girl, relief coursing through his body as he stared at a stranger’s face. He hurried to the next body a few feet away, then the next.

Then up ahead, there was someone who could be his daughter; long, straight black hair, the lavender sweater he’d bought each of them for their last birthday. As Rosenfeld turned over the fourth body, his blood chilled in his veins. A young girl looked up at him, recognition in her eyes as she stared at her father. She was still alive, but …

Rosenfeld fell to his knees, drawing his daughter onto his lap, resting her shoulders on his thighs and her head in the crook of his arm. He knew she was his daughter by the sweater she wore, the topaz ring on her finger. But her face was too mangled for him to determine which of his daughters he held. She lifted her hand, her blood-smeared fingers caressing the side of his face as if to comfort
him,
to help assuage the grief that would soon overwhelm him. Her mouth moved, but no words came out. Only the horrid gurgling of air pushing past fluid, until she finally closed her mouth, forcing the blood out and down the side of her face. She kept her eyes focused on his, and Rosenfeld watched as the illumination within her beautiful brown eyes faded, until the light was extinguished altogether and her hand fell to the ground.

A strange hush fell on the scene of devastation. It took a moment for Rosenfeld to realize his mind was selectively filtering the sounds, letting through only those that seemed to matter. A man sobbed as he knelt in the middle of the street, stroking the cheek of a woman who lay beside him, her eyes open and unblinking, staring at the cloudless sky. Nearby, a woman on her hands and knees retched noisily, her vomit splattering against the curb. Slowly, the low moans of the injured could be heard all around him, and then, faintly in the background, the high-pitched sirens of approaching ambulances grew gradually louder until the full terror registered in his ears.

Rocking his daughter in his arms, Rosenfeld searched for her sister, finally locating her ten feet away. Rachel lay on her stomach with her head turned to the side, her eyes frozen open in death’s stare, her face surrounded by a crimson pool spreading slowly across the gray pavement. Dragging Sarah over to her sister, Rosenfeld clutched both daughters tightly against his chest, attempting to squeeze the pain from his body. His breathing came in short, ragged gasps; there was no air. The curb and stores along the road began to tilt, slowly at first, then at an increasing rate as the world, it seemed, spun out of control.

Worst of all was the guilt. It swirled around him, threatening to consume him in a maelstrom. The small, seemingly inconsequential failings first—if only he hadn’t arranged to meet his children for lunch today—then the larger, more complex issues: if only he had dealt with the Arabs more effectively, more
harshly
. But in the end, all that mattered was that it was
his
fault. He had failed, both as a father and as prime minister. He had failed Hannah three years ago, and now his children. Looking around at the dead and dying, he realized he had failed them all.

Kneeling in the middle of the street, his face turned up toward the godless sky, tears streaming down his face, he could not escape it. Like a black plague devouring everything in its path, his guilt consumed him.

7

JERUSALEM, ISRAEL

A morbid quiet had descended upon the PMO building. The staff spoke softly among themselves, their voices falling silent in the vicinity of the prime minister’s office. Standing alone in front of Rosenfeld’s door, Kogen knocked softly, waiting for a response that never came. Opening the door slightly, he peered into the dimly lit office, illuminated by a small lamp on the credenza behind the prime minister. Rosenfeld was sitting at his desk, his shirt collar unfastened, his tie on the floor beside him. Although his features were shrouded in shadow, Kogen could see the hatred burning in the older man’s eyes.

Two hours earlier, the scene at the PMO building had been frantic once staffers realized the bombing had occurred at the prime minister’s lunchtime destination. A few minutes later, Rosenfeld’s security detail had called in, relaying his safety. The relief was short-lived, however, when they remembered Rosenfeld’s daughters were meeting their father for lunch. Soon, their worst fears were confirmed.

Rosenfeld returned to the PMO building an hour later, trudging through the Aquarium toward his office. The front of his white shirt was stained dark red, the side of his face coated with a thin sheen of dried blood. Kogen had stood at the forefront of Rosenfeld’s staff. But like the rest, he could find no words to express his sorrow. Rosenfeld hadn’t given them the chance, his eyes avoiding theirs as he made his way past them. But now, as Kogen looked into the prime minister’s eyes, it was easy to see—as well as understand—that something had changed.

Kogen stepped inside Rosenfeld’s office, closing the door quietly behind him. The Mossad had done its work quickly and had determined who was responsible. Who would be held accountable, however, was the more important question.

“Prime Minister.”

Rosenfeld stared across the room, giving no indication he noticed his presence.

“Levi.”

The older man’s eyes drifted toward him.

“I offer my deepest sympathy for your loss. Both of your daughters…”

Rosenfeld’s eyes fell away.

“We know who is responsible.” Kogen paused, waiting for a response before continuing.

Rosenfeld’s gaze shot toward him, his eyes displaying a clarity they lacked just seconds before. “Who?”

“We were able to trace the path of the suicide bomber using the security cameras along David Street, tracking him back to a Number 20 bus, then farther back to the Central Bus Station, where a car dropped him off.”

“Who is responsible?” Rosenfeld repeated, his rising impatience evident in the tone of his voice.

“The driver of the vehicle is Issa Nidal, a high-ranking member of the Izz ad-Din al-Qassam Brigades.”

“Hamas?”

“Yes, Prime Minister.”

Rosenfeld jerked forward in his seat, startling Kogen. The prime minister spoke in a low voice, hatred dripping from his words. “I want this man and every Hamas leader eliminated by week’s end. Every one of them dead. Is that clear?”

Kogen nodded slowly. “Yes, Prime Minister. We’re already coordinating with Defense.”

Rosenfeld slumped into his chair, the fire extinguished from his eyes as quickly as it ignited. “Anything else?”

Kogen hesitated. He had no doubt Israel would track down and eliminate Nidal and his leaders, perhaps not by the end of the week, but eventually. But attacking Hamas was like scraping away the pus from a gangrenous limb. Iran was the sickness, and Hamas and its attacks on Israel only the putrid symptoms. Kogen knew, just as Rosenfeld did, that Hamas’s campaign of terror was financed by Iran, and the Izz ad-Din al-Qassam Brigades received their training and weapons directly from Iran’s Revolutionary Guards. Iran was intent on destroying Israel, and there was no doubt their nuclear weapon, if assembled, would somehow be used against Israel. The Iranian weapon assembly complex must be destroyed—that much was clear—and the Mossad had carefully crafted an opportunity.

However, the operation they had nurtured for years was on the verge of discovery. Kogen’s contacts in the United States had determined a White House intern had sent a cryptic e-mail to the president’s national security adviser. If she were to obtain and decrypt the information the intern had collected, the operation would be exposed and their opportunity lost. The plan could still succeed, but only if they acted quickly. And now, with the blood of his children staining the prime minister’s clothes, there would be no better opportunity to obtain his permission.

With only a twinge of guilt, Kogen pressed forward. “We must discuss what I proposed last night. There’s a possibility the operation has been compromised.”

“It’s no longer an option?”

“It is still viable, but we must initiate the plan now, before it is exposed. There’s increased risk with executing early, but we’ve incorporated safeguards that will counter that risk. The operation will succeed. But you must decide.”

“How long do I have?”

“You must decide today, Prime Minister. You must decide now.”

“What are the details of this operation?”

“With all due respect, I think it’s best you not know the specifics. But I can assure you it will be impossible to trace the genesis of America’s attack back to Israel.” Kogen approached Rosenfeld, stopping at the edge of his desk. “But I must make one thing clear, Levi. Once we execute, there is nothing we, or the Americans, can do to stop it.”

After a moment, Rosenfeld leaned forward, hatred smoldering in his eyes again. “They have taken everything from me, Barak. I will not let another suffer as I do at the hands of this evil. I will no longer do nothing as our people bury their husbands, wives, and children.” Rosenfeld continued, his voice flat, surprising Kogen with its sudden lack of emotion. “I will approve the operation.”

Kogen pulled the authorization letter from the inside breast pocket of his suit, unfolded the sheet of paper, and slid it toward Rosenfeld. Reaching across the prime minister’s desk, Kogen retrieved a pen from its engraved stand. Fittingly, it was a goodwill gift from the American ambassador to Israel. He laid it on the paper, next to the signature block, and watched as Rosenfeld quickly signed the memorandum.

8

USS
KENTUCKY

As the
Kentucky
cruised westward five hundred feet beneath the ocean’s surface, Lieutenant Tom Wilson sat in one of the two chairs on the ship’s Conn in Control, one chair designated for the Officer of the Deck, the other reserved for the Captain. Sitting on the port side of the Conn, Tom supervised his watch section, eventually turning his attention to the Helm, stationed in front of the Diving Officer of the Watch. The Helm—usually one of the most junior enlisted men aboard—was responsible for maintaining the ship’s course and relaying propulsion orders to the Throttleman in the Engine Room, who would open the main engine throttles accordingly.

Tom had to admit the ship’s propulsion orders had been confusing at first, with the intuitive interpretation usually incorrect. The
Kentucky
was transiting west at ahead two-thirds, which wasn’t two-thirds of the ship’s maximum speed but two-thirds of standard speed. Ahead standard was fifteen knots, and ahead full, well, that wasn’t the ship’s full speed at all but the speed that could be attained with the reactor coolant pumps in slow speed. The ship’s maximum speed, ahead flank, could be achieved only after the reactor had been brought up to 100 percent power, generating heat as fast as its coolant pumps, operating in fast speed, could safely remove.

The time of day was also something that took awhile getting used to. Now that the
Kentucky
was no longer operating in the local waters around Hawaii and was headed out to her patrol area, the clocks had been shifted to Greenwich mean time, to which all other time zones are referenced. The Navy’s radio broadcast and operational orders were tied to GMT, so that every navy ship around the world knew when to execute its orders, regardless of the local time. Although the clock said it was an hour after lunch, Tom’s body told him it was already 3
A.M.
It would take a few days for his biological clock to adapt.

As the young officer returned his attention to the rest of his watch section, a report blared over the 4-MC emergency circuit.

“Fire in the Engine Room! Fire in Propulsion Lube Oil Bay!”

The
Kentucky
’s general alarm sounded, alerting the crew and initiating emergency responses from the personnel on watch. Tom reacted instantly, shouting out his orders, bringing the submarine shallow so they could ventilate the ship, if required.

“Helm, ahead standard! Dive, make your depth two hundred feet!”

The Helm rang up ahead standard on the Engine Order Telegraph as the Diving Officer directed his planesmen, “Ten up. Full rise, fairwater planes.” The Helm pulled the yoke back to the full rise position while the Outboard watchstander adjusted the stern planes, and the submarine tilted upward, rapidly increasing its angle until the deck was pitched at ten degrees up.

As Tom leaned forward ten degrees to counteract the ship’s up angle, he spoke into the microphone lodged in the overhead. “Sonar, Conn. Make preparations to come to periscope depth.”

Sonar acknowledged and a moment later reported two contacts. But the ship’s spherical array sonar, mounted in the bow, was completely blind in the aft sector, or baffles, blocked by the submarine’s metal structure. With the
Kentucky
’s towed array stowed for the transit to her patrol area, Tom had no idea if there were any close contacts aft of the submarine that might run over them on their way up to periscope depth, and he had to find out.

“Helm, left full rudder, steady course one-seven-zero. Sonar, Conn. Commencing baffle clear to port.”

Malone arrived in Control and joined Tom on the Conn, activating a small speaker to monitor the communications between Damage Control Central and the Engine Room. Turning the volume down low so Tom wouldn’t be distracted from his approach to periscope depth, he listened intently to the reports from Damage Control Central: