The Trident Deception - Страница 5

Доступ к книге ограничен фрагменом по требованию правообладателя.

Wilson’s ire began to build as he contemplated the fate of his students. He ought to fail them all, permanently ending their careers, a fitting reward for their inability to lead their crew in combat. But as he scanned the faces of the sullen and embarrassed officers, he wondered if instead of this being his worst class, it was his best. No other group of Prospective Commanding and Executive Officers had learned this critical lesson more thoroughly than the men standing in front of him.

“Excuse me, sir.” The Houston’s Junior Officer of the Deck interrupted Wilson. “The Captain requests your presence on the Bridge. The Kentucky has returned to periscope depth and is requesting release.”

Wilson acknowledged the officer’s report, then finished addressing his students. “When we get back to port, I want a complete reconstruction of each encounter, with detailed analysis of what you did wrong and what you could have done better in each scenario. You have seventy-two hours to complete reconstruction of all twenty events.”

* * *

A moment later, Murray Wilson emerged onto the Houston’s small Bridge cockpit, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the bright daylight, joining Commander Kevin Lawson, the Houston’s commanding officer.

“Looks like I’ve got some work to do,” Lawson said, a look of embarrassment on his face. “I know I’ve got a new Sonar Chief, but I didn’t realize how far the sonar shack’s proficiency had fallen. We’ll spend a few weeks in the sonar trainer before our next deployment.”

Wilson didn’t reply. He knew Lawson would take a turn on his crew as soon as they returned to port. Instead, his eyes searched the horizon for the Kentucky.

“Bearing two-seven-zero relative,” the Lookout behind Wilson said.

Turning to his left, Wilson spotted the Kentucky’s periscope and antenna just off the Houston’s port beam, only a few hundred yards away as the ballistic missile submarine headed out to sea for her long strategic deterrent patrol.

Lawson passed the handheld radio to Wilson. “The Kentucky’s on channel sixteen.”

Wilson took the radio, holding it close to his mouth. “Outbound Navy unit, this is inbound Navy unit, over.”

A familiar voice crackled from the radio; Murray’s son, Tom, responded to the Houston’s hail. “Inbound Navy unit, request release, over.”

Wilson replied, “Outbound Navy unit, you are released for other duties. Godspeed and good hunting, over.”

There was a burst of static, followed by Tom’s response. “That’s not an appropriate wish for this class of submarine, but thanks anyway. See you in a few months, sir. This is outbound Navy unit, out.”

Wilson handed the radio back to Lawson, then watched the Kentucky’s periscope grow smaller as the submarine headed out to sea, finally disappearing altogether as she descended into the murky ocean depths. A brisk wind whipped through the fast attack’s Bridge, sending a chill down Wilson’s spine. He rubbed both arms as he looked up, noting a towering bank of dark gray cumulous clouds approaching from the west, the direction the Kentucky was headed. But Wilson’s son and the rest of the submarine’s crew wouldn’t even notice the storm churning the water’s surface several hundred feet above them.

“The cold front’s rolling in fast,” Wilson said, turning to Lawson. “Let’s get in before we get caught in the storm.”

4

WASHINGTON, D.C.

National Security Adviser Christine O’Connor sat in her West Wing office with her elbows propped on her polished rosewood desk, rubbing her temples with her fingertips in a slow circular motion. As she gazed out her window overlooking the White House south lawn, hoping for relief from her pounding headache, she took no notice of the gray skies and steady rain that had moved in overnight. Instead, her thoughts dwelt on the upcoming meeting with the president’s chief of staff; the reason, she was sure, for her painful migraine.

Searching through her desk, Christine located and then downed four ibuprofen with a gulp of lukewarm coffee. Although she felt far older today, she was only forty-two, not that most people would have guessed; only the thin lines around her slate-blue eyes gave her age away. Still, it felt like her time in the administration had aged her more than it was worth. As Christine brushed a strand of auburn hair away from her face, she wondered, not for the first time, if she had made the right decision.

Two years earlier, in the incoming administration’s temporary spaces off Pennsylvania Avenue, Christine had sat nervously across from the president-elect, answering pointed questions from the man she’d met only moments earlier. She hadn’t expected the interview to go particularly well; she disagreed with the president-elect’s positions on national security on almost every point and made no effort to imply otherwise. However, there must have been something about her straightforward responses and poised demeanor that sealed the deal for the president. Christine had accepted the appointment, even though she knew it would be difficult working in an administration whose political views she didn’t share. Unfortunately, she hadn’t counted on the animosity between her and the president’s chief of staff.

Kevin Hardison was the kind of type A personality who cared only about results. As the president’s right-hand man, he was unencumbered with the obligation — or the talent — to maintain personal relationships. He didn’t seem to care whose feelings he hurt or careers he ruined in his quest to achieve the administration’s goals. Although Hardison treated the rest of the White House staff fairly, with equal disdain, he seemed to have reserved a special spot in that black void where his heart should have been for Christine.

This wasn’t the first time she had worked with Hardison, and the previous experience had been altogether different. The two had met on Congressman Tim Johnson’s staff, working in his office in Rayburn Hall. Christine, fresh out of Penn State with a political science degree, had been paired up with Hardison, ten years her senior, to learn the ropes. The two had gotten along well, developing what she thought was a strong friendship.

So it was no surprise to Christine that Hardison had recommended her to the president. However, Hardison had assumed she was still the malleable staffer she once was, and that he would be able to force her to acquiesce to his policy initiatives. Hardison hadn’t responded well to his rude awakening once she assumed the role of national security adviser.

As Christine navigated the hazards of disagreeing with the powerful chief of staff, it didn’t take long to determine why the president had selected her for his national security adviser. As a congressional staffer, Christine had specialized in weapon procurement programs, analyzing and recommending adjustments to the budget. Her weapon system expertise had proved valuable to the current administration, as few, if any, on staff knew the difference between a Tomahawk and a Standard missile, between a Sidewinder and an AIM-9X, or even the basic difference between a mortar, a howitzer, and an artillery gun, the latter distinction being crucial to those fighting in the mountainous regions of Afghanistan.

Perhaps even more important was the experience she had gained as the assistant secretary of defense for special operations and low-intensity conflict, along with a two-year stint as the director of nuclear defense policy. Her track record working for both Republicans and Democrats was noteworthy, and her ties to the Defense Department’s congressional supporters were extensive. Her ability to liaison effectively with key representatives and senators on both sides of the aisle had proved useful to the president, who, as a former governor of a Midwestern state, was considered a Washington outsider.

One of the staff secretaries entered Christine’s office with a stack of files in her arms. Seeing the bottle of ibuprofen, the secretary came to a quick and correct conclusion. “You’re meeting with Hardison, aren’t you, Miss O’Connor?”

Christine nodded, smiling weakly. The chief of staff had crafted yet another plan to restructure the nation’s intelligence agencies, no different from the last in any meaningful way, and was awaiting her endorsement. That endorsement would not be forthcoming. She believed the endless reorganizations, despite the impressive names and ambitious proclamations, did nothing more than change the tablecloth. The only way to make significant changes was to break some china. But the venerable intelligence agencies had far too many congressional allies for any meaningful reorganization to occur.

As Christine prepared to review the four reorganizations since September 11, 2001, the secretary clutched the files against her chest, evidently not noticing Christine wasn’t in a particularly talkative mood. Christine was about to politely request the files when she spotted Hardison, headed down the hallway toward her office, a frown on his face.

“Speak of the devil,” the secretary whispered. “And he doesn’t look too pleased.”

* * *

Hardison entered Christine’s office, wasting no time on pleasantries. He grabbed the remote on Christine’s desk, pointing it at the TV on the wall across the room. A reporter appeared on-screen, umbrella in hand protecting her hair and makeup from the steady drizzle, the spandrels of the Calvert Bridge arching gracefully behind her. “To recap today’s gruesome discovery, the murder victim discovered in Rock Creek Park has been identified as twenty-two-year-old Russell Evans, a White House intern. Police officials have provided few additional details, but we’ll keep you up-to-date as new information is obtained. This is Doreen Cornellier, Channel Nine news.”