Larry Bond - Shattered Trident

“Commander Mitchell’s idea is audacious, brilliant, and will be completely unexpected by the warring parties. The shock value will almost certainly be immense. You will have the world’s undivided attention, Mr. President. You can make your pitch with the assurance that you will be heard,” concluded Kirkpatrick.

“Thank you, Ray,” Myles replied. “General Dewhurst?”

The chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff was calm, but he took a noticeable deep breath before answering. “Mr. President, I am uncomfortable with providing any specific guidance. Quite frankly, this is not something I’ve been trained for or previously considered. However, my personal opinion is that Commander Mitchell’s proposal is very bold and will indeed shock the hell out of people. Just look at the effect it’s had on us. But, Mr. President, you will be letting the nuclear genie out of the bottle. My concern is that the cork may not go back in.”

“Kind of like a champagne bottle, eh, General?” questioned Myles with a slight grin.

Dewhurst chuckled. “A good analogy, Mr. President.”

Facing the secretary of defense, Myles repeated his question. “Malcolm, what are your thoughts?”

“I’m with the chairman on this, Mr. President.”

Myles became silent. Joanna could see the strain on his face, the magnitude of the decision weighing heavily upon him. After what seemed an eternity, he looked at Patterson and asked, “Joanna, Commander Mitchell said the radiation release would be minimal if we did this properly. Is he correct?”

‘There is a precedent for this concept, Mr. President. Unfortunately, it’s a single data point,” Patterson began. “Back in 1955, we detonated a thirty-kiloton fission device at a depth of two thousand feet. The gas bubble did vent into the atmosphere and the surface water initially showed significant contamination levels, but as the water dispersed, the radiation decreased rapidly. Radiation exposure by the personnel in the test area was minimal.

“If you pursue this option, we’d use a lower-yield fusion weapon, say ten or twenty kilotons, which generates less fallout. If we can get the warheads deeper, that would also help,” Patterson remarked.

Joanna paused briefly as she considered her next statement; it would likely have a major impact on the president. “In my professional opinion, Mr. President, the ecological damage from the detonation of a handful of these warheads would be far less than the spilled contents of a single supertanker.”

Myles nodded slowly. Leaning back into his chair, he looked around the room, his advisors watching him with great expectation. He announced his decision. “I will authorize the use of nuclear weapons for demonstration purposes. We will execute the good commander’s plan. Ray, I’ll need the details on this operation ASAP! No, sooner.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. President!” Kirkpatrick exclaimed. “I’ll have DARPA, DTRA, and ONR work on the size, number, and placement of the warheads.”

“Very good, Ray. But your point about absolute covertness is well taken. How do we deliver these weapons?”

“B-2 bombers will have no problems getting to the drop locations without being detected, Mr. President,” volunteered Dewhurst. “We can have them in the air within a couple of hours.”

Kirkpatrick shook his head. “I’m sorry, my dear Chairman, but stealth bombers aren’t viable in this case. We’d need to use multiple bombers, possibly four or five, perhaps more, to deliver the warheads over such a large area. Our bomber bases are being watched, both China and the Littoral Alliance have eyes on the ground. As soon as the bombers take off, they’ll be reported. We know this has happened in the past.

“Furthermore, I don’t believe there is an air-delivered weapon that will meet the specific requirements.” The national security advisor turned toward Patterson.

“Dr. Kirkpatrick is correct, Mr. President. The best airborne weapon we have is a B61 Mod 11 strategic nuclear bomb. But even with its special delayed fuze feature, that allows only about one hundred feet of penetration in soil, maybe a little more in water. We need over ten times more depth capability.”

“I see,” replied Myles. “So what other options do we have?”

“Mitchell knew,” stated Kirkpatrick forcefully. “Submarines, Mr. President. The only platform that can give us the necessary stealth and deploy a weapon that can get deep enough is a submarine. He didn’t say anything because he knew we’d come to this conclusion. He’s already volunteered for the mission.”

The president looked at Patterson. She silently nodded her agreement. Myles chuckled briefly. “Why am I not surprised? Very well, then, the attack submarines at Guam will carry out the mission. I hate to ask them to do more, but somehow I don’t think they’ll mind. Let’s get this moving, people!”

As the president’s advisors started collecting their notes, Myles called out to them. “One last thing. Andy is also correct that this decision is political suicide. Since the decision is mine to make, the consequences of that decision are also mine. Therefore, I request that you do not discuss with anyone what you’ve shared with me this morning. I consider the guidance you’ve collectively provided me to be for nonattribution. God willing, in a few days we’ll have more mundane things to talk about. Now, let’s hop to it!”

13 September 2016

0730 Local Time

Littoral Alliance Headquarters

Okutama, Nishitama District

Tokyo, Japan

Komamura woke with a blinding light in his eyes. He tried to close them tightly, but that wasn’t enough, and he reflexively threw an arm up to shield his face. The sudden movement triggered an explosion in his head, pain so intense he thought he’d been struck. He tried to scream, but all that came out was a weak “aaaahh.”

The spike of pain subsided to a deep throb, and he opened his eyes carefully. Even with his arm protectively shading his face, the light seemed unnaturally bright, and he rolled over, away from its source, and discovered he was in his quarters, in bed, with no memory of how he’d gotten there. Low-slanted morning sunlight streamed through the window.

Like any academic, Komamura cared more about where he worked than where he slept, so his bedroom was small, like a monk’s cell or a dormitory room for a college student. There was a single western-style bed with a nightstand, a standing closet and dresser, and a small desk and chair. Miyazaki Nodoka sat slumped forward at the desk, her head pillowed on her arms, snoring softly.

“Miyazaki-san?” He’d meant to call her name, but it came out more as a croak and he realized his throat was dry, almost painful. He coughed, and that set off his headache again.

His graduate student and assistant stirred at the sound, then sat up, shaking her head to clear it. She looked over to Komamura, and managed to smile while also looking deeply concerned. “ Sensei, you’re awake!” She quickly knelt next to the bed. He started to speak, but couldn’t get his throat working, and she picked up a glass with a straw, holding it so he could drink.

The water helped, and she put one arm behind his back to bring him to a sitting position. He said gratefully, “Thank you, child. You’re always supporting me.”

To his surprise, her face fell and she backed away from the bed, still on her knees. Weeping, she fell forward, knees, elbows, hands, and forehead all touching the floor. “No, sensei . I did not. Please forgive me.” She held her pose, like a supplicant, crying and shaking with what? Shame?

“Stop this. Raise your face. What has happened?” He had to ask again before she finally lifted up her head. “It was my idea,” she confessed. “I’m so sorry.”