For all of the above, I apologize. I did my best to keep everything as close to real life as possible while developing an entertaining story. Hopefully it all worked out, and you enjoyed Power Play.

  * * *

  ONE FINAL NOTE: Torpedo fuzing technology is an extremely sensitive subject, classified at the Top Secret and even the SCI level. The fuzing techniques discussed in Power Play are somewhat vague and may or may not be completely accurate. If you are knowledgeable about U.S. torpedo fuzing and identify an issue in Power Play, please DO NOT comment in a public forum.

  Keep reading for an excerpt of Rick Campbell’s next book, TREASON

  PROLOGUE

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  It was just past two in the afternoon when the president’s motorcade sped down 17th Street NW toward the White House. In the center of the convoy, the president rode in the back of Cadillac One, a hybrid vehicle built on a truck frame and extensively modified with armored plating and bullet-proof windows. As the motorcade approached the President’s Park South, commonly called the Ellipse, Cadillac One screeched to a halt, as did the rest of the motorcade.

  The president’s door was yanked open and he was pulled from Cadillac One by his Secret Service detail. They surrounded the president, shepherding him toward the nearest building as the head of the president’s detail explained.

  “We’re under attack—ballistic missile!”

  Atop several buildings surrounding the White House and Capitol Building, surface-to-air missiles streaked upward. The president followed the white exhaust trails, spotting five reddish orange objects descending toward the city. He almost froze when he realized what they were.

  There had been no warning.

  How was that possible?

  Neither NORAD nor the Joint Air Defense Operations Center had provided a warning, which should have arrived twenty or more minutes ago.

  Through a gap in the Secret Service detail, the president spotted the Navy officer carrying the Presidential Emergency Satchel, sometimes referred to as the nuclear football, containing the nuclear launch authentication codes and attack option matrix, sprinting toward him. But there was neither the time nor the necessary information—who had attacked—for a response.

  As the missiles streaked upward, the president knew the probability of destroying the descending warheads was minuscule. Not even the most sophisticated anti-ballistic missiles in the American arsenal could consistently intercept nuclear warheads traveling in the descent phase.

  A few seconds before warhead detonation, the president and his security detail had just begun climbing the steps toward the nearest building. They weren’t going to make it. The head of the president’s detail reached the same conclusion. He forced the president to the ground and ordered the agents to cover him with their bodies. As the president was smothered by his detail, one question in his mind stood out from the others.

  How could this have happened?

  THREE WEEKS EARLIER

  1

  MOSCOW, RUSSIA

  Russian President Yuri Kalinin entered the Kremlin conference room, joining his advisors seated around the table. The six men stood, then returned to their chairs after the president took his position at the head of the table. To the president’s right sat Defense Minister Anton Nechayev and Foreign Minister Andrei Lavrov. On the other side of the table were four military officers: Chief of the General Staff Sergei Andropov, joined by the commanders of the Russian Ground Forces, Aerospace Forces, and Navy.

  Kalinin had assembled his senior civilian and military advisors to review the results of their disastrous initiative—Russia’s invasion of Ukraine and Lithuania, along with their blackmail attempt to prevent NATO from intervening. Their effort had failed, however. The Americans had soundly defeated the Russian Navy and NATO had begun preparing a counterattack into Lithuania and Ukraine. Russia had withdrawn its troops and peace now prevailed across Europe, but the sting of Russia’s failure remained.

  Diplomatic relations had returned to normal and it was time to discuss the way forward. Kalinin turned first to his new minister of defense. “Proceed.”

  Nechayev began with his prepared summary. “The Navy has finished its assessment. The water depth where the battle occurred is too deep to raise the sunken ships; they are a complete loss. Fortunately, the battle cruiser Pyotr Velikiy and aircraft carrier Kuznetsov remained afloat after the battle. Both restored propulsion and have arrived at our nearest shipyard. However, they are heavily damaged and it will take at least two years to return them to service.”

  Now that the bad news had been delivered, Nechayev shifted gears. “Our submarine fleet remains a viable asset, especially in light of the American losses during their war with China and the additional casualties they suffered at our hands. Although we lost most of our guided missile submarines, we still have thirty-five diesel and nuclear-powered attack submarines, while America has only eighteen fast attack submarines remaining in service. However, the United States raised twenty-seven of the submarines lost during their war with China, and the first of those will begin exiting the shipyards within the year. Our submarine advantage will not last long.

  “We are in an even better situation regarding our land and air forces. The army suffered only minor losses in Ukraine, so we are in excellent shape on the ground. In the air, we lost all tactical fighters assigned to the Middle East, but the bulk of our Aerospace Force remains intact. After factoring in our anti-air assets, we can deny any NATO attempt to achieve air superiority.”

  With his update complete, Nechayev sat back, letting Kalinin absorb the information.

  General Andropov, Kalinin’s senior military advisor, joined the discussion. “Our basic strategy was sound. NATO cannot defeat our land and air forces without the United States. What failed was our strategy to keep the United States from intervening. If we fix that, we will succeed next time.”

  “Next time?” Kalinin asked.

  Andropov’s eyes narrowed. “America humiliated us. The images of our warships adrift and on fire have been shown repeatedly on the news, and public support for your administration is at an all-time low. If you want to be reelected next year, you’ll have to make a bold move.”

  Kalinin replied, “It was the bold move you and Defense Minister Chernov recommended that created this situation. The plan failed, and I shouldn’t have to remind you that Minister Chernov was assassinated by the Americans.” He eyed his new defense minister, who shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

  “It was a flawed plan,” Andropov insisted. “We were supposed to blackmail the United States, keeping them from entering the conflict, but they blackmailed us instead. If we correct this flaw, we will prevail next time. The Zolotov option is finally ready to implement, and if the updates to the Alexander submarine class are adequate, America won’t dare risk intervening.”

  Turning back to his new defense minister, Kalinin asked, “What is the status of the Zolotov option and the Alexander class?”

  Nechayev responded, “As General Andropov mentioned, the Zolotov option can now be fully implemented. But, as you know, it is a high-risk, high-reward plan. Regarding the Alexander class, the equipment aboard Alexander has been upgraded and is scheduled for another test this afternoon. If it performs as intended, I’d have to agree with General Andropov. The American fleet would be at our mercy. Even if they chose to intercede in Europe, they couldn’t risk transporting their troops or equipment by sea. Any effort to oppose us would be seriously hampered.”

  “Alexander’s test is this afternoon?”

  Nechayev nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “We will meet again tomorrow,” Kalinin said, “and then I will decide.”

  2

  K-561 KAZAN

  Standing in the Central Command Post of his Yasen class attack submarine, Captain Second Rank Anatoly Mikhailov surveyed his crew. They were at Combat Stations, tracking Hydroacoustic two-one, a submerged contact lurking off Kazan’s starboard beam in the Barents Sea. It was quiet in the command post as Mikhailov stood near one of the two lowered periscopes, occasionally glancing at the admiral beside him. Admiral Leonid Shimko, commander of Russia’s Northern Fleet, displayed no hint of what he was thinking as he watched Kazan’s crew prepare to attack.

  Captain Third Rank Erik Fedorov, Kazan’s First Officer, stood behind two fire control consoles, peering over the shoulders of the two operators, each wearing the rank of michman on their uniform. He tapped one michman on the shoulder. “Set as Primary.” The michman complied and Fedorov announced, “Captain, I have a firing solution.”

  Mikhailov examined the target parameters. The enemy submarine was six kilometers off Kazan’s starboard beam, headed west at ten knots. It was mirroring Kazan.

  “Prepare to fire,” Mikhailov announced, “Hydroacoustic two-one, tube One.”

  “Solution updated,” Fedorov called out.

  “Torpedo ready,” the Weapons Officer reported.

  “Countermeasures armed,” the Watch Officer announced.

  Mikhailov examined the target solution again. Satisfied it was accurate and all torpedo search settings were optimal, he gave the order.

  “Fire tube One.”

  The torpedo was impulsed from the tube, and Mikhailov’s ears popped when the impulse tanks were vented, refilling them to supply water for another shot. He moved behind his Weapons Officer, monitoring the status of their outgoing torpedo as it descended to the estimated target depth of 150 meters. The torpedo closed on its target, and at the predetermined range, went active.

  “Torpedo One has enabled,” the Weapons Officer announced,

  The torpedo began pinging, and not long thereafter the Weapons Officer reported, “Detect!”

  The next report arrived seconds later, once the torpedo verified the detected contact was indeed a submarine.

  “Homing!”

  On the Weapon Launch Console, the parameters updated as the torpedo increased speed.

  Mikhailov’s eyes shifted to the nearest fire control console, looking for indication their target had begun maneuvering. The contact remained steady on course and speed. This, of course, was expected. The contact they had fired at was Kazan’s sister ship Alexander, a modified Yasen class, built and launched in secrecy from the Sevmash shipyard in the White Sea.

  The torpedo Kazan had fired was an exercise version, its warhead explosive replaced with inert material. This was the fourth time Kazan had tested its torpedoes against Alexander, and Mikhailov wondered whether leadership suspected there was a problem with their torpedo inventory. After launch, the torpedo’s artificial intelligence controlled every aspect of target prosecution. It wouldn’t be the first time a software bug had rendered their torpedoes ineffective in some way. Thus far, however, Kazan’s torpedoes had performed as designed. This one appeared to be functioning properly as well.

  “Exploder armed,” the Weapons Officer announced.

  The exploder had rotated into the firing position, preparing to detonate the warhead. This torpedo wouldn’t explode, however, since the explosive had been removed.

  Mikhailov watched the torpedo close the remaining distance to Alexander, then the Weapons Officer made the expected report. “Exploder has fired!”

  There was no explosion, though. Instead, Hydroacoustic reported, “Weapon impact.”

  Normal exercise torpedoes had a turn-away feature or depth interlocks so the torpedo didn’t impact the submarine and break into pieces, or even worse, damage the submarine’s propulsor or screw during a shot from astern. However, the torpedo Mikhailov had fired against Alexander ran to termination, smashing into the submarine’s hull.

  The result was anticlimactic. The torpedo had operated perfectly. When Mikhailov turned to Admiral Shimko, he was surprised to see a frown on the admiral’s face.

  “Return to port immediately,” Shimko ordered.

  3

  CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS

  Seated in his cubicle on the fourth floor of the Clark Curtain Laboratory building, Steve Kaufmann stared at his computer display, doing his best to stay focused. It was almost quitting time, in more ways than one. After replying to the latest email, he heard his division director’s voice, calling for everyone’s attention. Kaufmann looked over his cubicle, joined by several dozen other heads popping above the matrix walls. Jacinta Mascarenhas was exiting the elevator. Her executive assistant, Rich Underwood, followed behind, pushing a cart filled with champagne bottles and glasses.

  Mascarenhas headed to an open area in the center of the cube farm, stopping beside a conference table where Underwood hastily unloaded additional glasses from beneath the cart.

  “Gather round, everyone,” Mascarenhas said. “We have some celebrating to do.”

  Kaufmann joined his colleagues, forming a semicircle around Mascarenhas. Kaufmann, tall and gangly, towering above most of his coworkers, watched from the last row of the crowd.

  “Today marks the final shipment,” Mascarenhas began, “the last set of spares for a decade-long project. Many of you have been here since the beginning, and Clark Curtain Laboratory thanks you for your dedication and hard work.” She lifted a champagne bottle, peeling the foil and wire muselet from the cork. “I want to congratulate you on a job well done, completed on-schedule and on-budget, a rare accomplishment in the defense industry.”

  Mascarenhas popped the cork from the bottle, bouncing it off the ceiling. Underwood caught the overflowing champagne in a glass, which he handed to Mascarenhas, who raised it high.

  “Here’s to the successful end of one contract and the beginning of many more.”

  Underwood filled the champagne glasses, and several employees passed them through the crowd until everyone had one. Kaufmann took a sip of champagne, savoring the bittersweet achievement.

  The current contract expired at the end of the month and Clark Curtain Labs hadn’t won enough new government contracts to keep everyone employed. Kaufmann looked around, figuring that over half of those present would be looking for work by the end of the month unless the oft-promised replacement contract materialized. Kaufmann reckoned he’d be among those unemployed.

  For the last ten years, Kaufmann had been assigned to the contract, developing the initial software, then tweaking the middleware as various microprocessors and other components went obsolete and were replaced with new versions. As the effort drew to a close, he’d seen the writing on the wall and had asked to be transferred to another contract, but Mascarenhas had disapproved each request. Kaufmann was far too valuable; no one knew the software code better than he did.

  Kaufmann tilted his head back, emptying the glass. He hadn’t been happy, stuck to a dying contract. But at least he’d gotten a glass of champagne out of it.

  4

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  The mid-afternoon sun filtered through the windows of his West Wing corner office as Chief of Staff Kevin Hardison reviewed the document on the table. Across from him, also reviewing a copy of the proposal, sat his White House nemesis, Christine O’Connor, the president’s national security advisor, while an aide on Hardison’s right took notes. Hardison braced himself for Christine’s rejection of his latest recommendation. Instead, she nodded her agreement. Hardison pulled back slightly, examining the woman across from him—the only person from the opposite political party on the president’s staff—more closely.

  During the past three years, Christine had opposed him on almost every key proposal. The perennial thorn in his side was an incredibly obstinate woman. Even more irritating, her attempts to persuade the president to her point of view were quite effective. Hardison had stopped tracking who the president sided with more often once the trend became clear. However, during the past two months, Hardison had experienced a reversal of fortune. Christine had suddenly become agreeable.

  Following the events at Ice Station Nautilus, Christine had buried herself in her work, staying late into the night and working every weekend. After she returned from Russia, however, the pattern had reversed. She left early when possible and no longer worked on the weekends unless the matter was urgent. Her interactions with Hardison and the rest of the president’s staff had grown distant, and Christine had surprisingly agreed to several proposals Hardison was certain she’d vehemently oppose. Hardison took advantage of Christine’s unusual pliability this afternoon, circling back to a proposal she’d refused to endorse three years earlier; a reorganization of the nation’s numerous intelligence agencies.

  As much as Hardison relished his newfound success, he missed the old Christine. Without her infuriating opposition on almost every issue, coming to work each day had become less … fun. As he reviewed the document before him, he realized he’d scheduled this meeting for opposing purposes. If Christine’s new trend held, he’d obtain her endorsement for a key policy proposal—one the president would be sure to push forward with Christine on board. However, she’d made her position on the issue clear during previous meetings, practically throwing Hardison out of her office the last time he brought it up. He was certain Christine’s bona fides would surface this afternoon when he pressed the matter.

  “So,” Hardison said. “I take it you agree with the restructuring?”

  “I’ll consider it,” Christine replied, with no hint of the icy tone he expected.

  Hardison contemplated his next move as the aide typed notes into her laptop. He focused again on Christine, who was staring out one of the triple-paned, bomb-resistant windows in his office. The fresh scar across her cheek was faintly visible. His eyes went to her wrists; the cuts had likewise healed. Although Christine hadn’t shared the details, the CIA report had painted a clear enough picture: Christine handcuffed to a pipe above her head as she was tormented by Semyon Gorev, the director of Russia’s Foreign Intelligence Service. Hardison wondered what Christine had thought when Gorev slid his pistol barrel into her mouth. The emotions that must have flooded her body as he slowly squeezed the trigger.

 

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