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another two levels and aft to the missile bay where they could read the gauges monitoring the condition of each of the 24 Trident missiles.
    It was practically impossible for a nuclear weapon to misfire. The solid rocket fuel in the launch missile, however, was a combustible type A substance, and it was unforgiving if mishandled or if its environment suddenly changed in temperature or pressure. A three-stage rocket deciding it was time to spin up and fire was the kind of short circuit in the system that would make life very unpleasant for the crew when the missile hatch was closed.
    â€œPetty Officer Hill, why is armed security stationed at the missile control center during a deterrent patrol?”
    â€œDirective 781, sir.”
    â€œDo you believe the shoot-to-kill order is necessary?”
    â€œSecNav believes it is necessary. And I believe him.”
    â€œWhat is the firing depth for a Trident II D-5 missile?”
    A short pause, then, “I don’t know the exact depth, sir. I do know it’s a shallow launch.”
    â€œWhat pressure is required in the missile tube before the outer hatch may be safely opened?”
    â€œEqualized pressure to the ocean, sir. The fiberglass inner dome cover would otherwise crack, and water would damage the missile.”
    â€œDoes seawater ever touch a missile during launch?”
    â€œNo, sir.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œThe missile rises to the surface surrounded by the pressured nitrogen gas used to launch the D-5 out of the tube.”
    â€œYou’re learning, Petty Officer Hill. Good answers.” Bishop nodded to the security officer and stepped into the missile control center to speak with the weapons duty officer for this watch.

2
    G ina stopped along a bluff on Amberjack Avenue and stepped out of the car just as the rising sunlight filtered through the trees to the east. She watched as a submarine being maneuvered by tugboats pulled away from Marginal Wharf out to deeper Hood Canal waters, then watched the sub turn south. The USS Pennsylvania , she thought, given the pier from which it had departed. Probably traveling to Dabob Bay for a day of shakedown tests, as it wasn’t due to leave on patrol for another six days. Dabob Bay was a 35-minute sub ride from here and a deep enough inlet at 100 fathoms to allow for a sub to dive, for most systems to be tested, and for dummy torpedoes to be fired. Any problems discovered could then be fixed back at the pier before the boat left for the Pacific.
    Gina was glad she had come west to wait on her brother’s return rather than stay in Colorado. Naval Submarine Base Bangor had the feel of a national park. It was 11 square miles of forest preserve surrounding an assortment of base buildings, including four piers on the Hood Canal waterway where submarines docked. At the center of the base, on a bluffencircled by more barbed wire with posted warnings that guards were authorized to use deadly force, was the Strategic Weapons Facility—85 bunkers holding nuclear warheads, launch missiles, and solid rocket fuel. Lightning rods around those bunkers towered 50 feet in the air.
    The base had some of the highest security clearances she had ever encountered, but once her credentials had been issued and inspected at every checkpoint, she was free to move around the area. With two-thirds of the base made up of untamed forest, she could take walks along quiet roads surrounded by towering trees. She could head up to Cattail Lake and watch ducks and great blue herons, beavers and river otter, look for great horned owls, and find numerous raccoons. Sightings of coyotes and red foxes were a regular occurrence, and she’d heard that both a bobcat and a cougar had been spotted in the last month, attracted to the area by the various animals that were their prey. Early yesterday morning she’d had to wait for deer to clear the parking lot so she could walk to Jeff’s car. The base had so much