Trident's First Gleaming: A Special Operations Group Thriller (6 page)

“You’ll figure out a way to close the gap. You always do.” She reached over and patted his hand.

Chris closed his eyes as she drove, but he couldn’t rest. And he couldn’t shake the dark cloud of discouragement that hovered over him.

It was late when they arrived back at the Agency in Langley. They unloaded their gear, bagged and tagged it so it could be loaded on the plane with the rest of their kit for a military flight out ahead of them. Chris and the others would be flying under civilian cover, so if his weapons, explosives, comms, and other black gear were sent to the wrong place, he wouldn’t find out until they arrived in their area of operations.

Once the task was completed, Hannah drove them to their hotel in nearby Hampton. The pair entered the hotel and took the elevator to the fifth floor, where both their rooms were.

They stopped in the hall outside Chris’s room. He didn’t want to go in alone, but he wanted to do the right thing and say good night. He searched his mind for some middle ground but found none. While he thought about what to say, the silence grew more and more awkward.

“Thank you,” he finally said. “For today.” He tried to think of something else. “And for this mission.” He was sincere about his gratitude for her, but he wasn’t sure about the mission, especially after his performance on the firing range. Despite his concern, there was no turning back now.

_______

I
n the evening, in the port city of Latakia, Syria, a middle-aged Chinese intelligence officer named Bo Geng strolled behind a twenty-something curvaceous prostitute called Farah. She led him into a cheap, dilapidated hotel. Although prostitution was officially illegal in Syria, the police turned a blind eye. Most of the women, like Farah, were from Iraq, refugees unable to work legally in Syria, so they turned to hustling. Others were pressured by family members in Iraq to become call girls in Syria. Their customers came from all over the Middle East, where moral codes were much stricter. Bo had paid the equivalent of four hundred dollars for an evening with her.

Before stepping inside the hotel, he looked for any signs of police or his own intelligence agency. He’d been filing false reports for more money and time to spend on Farah, and he was in no hurry to return to China. And he was certainly in no hurry to spend time in a Syrian jail.

Bo flipped the light switch, and cockroaches scurried across the dingy floor. The light was dim, but he could see well enough. He locked the door behind them.

Most of the wallpaper in the room was missing, revealing a concrete wall that crumbled in patches. Large chips of the vinyl floor were gone, and long cracks formed a giant spider web. The bed frame was rusted, but the tattered sheets appeared clean.

His eyes ravaged Farah from her scuffed knee-high boots to her frayed hip-hugging jeans to her tight, faded teal-colored T-shirt. She liked to suck in her gut, but it wasn’t enough of a gut to deter him. Even though her skin had a dirty complexion, he liked the darkness of it. He embraced her, but she pulled away and motioned for him to wait. Farah’s hands explored the outside of his trousers, stopping at his back left pocket, where he had a pair of handcuffs he’d used with her the night before.

“So you want that again?” he asked in Arabic. His hands quivered with anticipation as he pulled out the handcuffs. The danger of being caught by Syrian authorities or Chinese intelligence increased his excitement.

Farah smiled. From her worn handbag, she pulled out her own pair of handcuffs, raising the ante. Much of the black paint had rubbed off the metal, clearly used before, but they were new to him. If the police or his superiors busted through the door, he’d be hard-pressed to explain away what was happening. He was a fast runner, though.

Bo felt a rise in his trousers. “What do you have in mind?”

She sat on the bed and handcuffed one of her hands to a bent metal pole decorating the headboard. She giggled, and he quickly approached her to put his handcuffs on her free hand.

She motioned for him to stop.

Is she teasing me?
“What’s wrong?”

“Handcuff yourself to the bed,” she said.

“You are a creative woman,” he said.
If I handcuff myself to the bed, there’ll be no running away. But the police and my chief have no reason to come here. I ran a surveillance detection route before coming here. No one knows I’m here. And I can handle Farah.
He handcuffed his hand to the bed.

Farah lay down on top of him, burying his face with her bosom, tantalizing him. She pressed herself hard against him until he couldn’t breathe. He thought he might suffocate, but Farah backed away, and he inhaled. Then she pummeled his face with her chest again. This time, with his free hand, he tried to pull up her shirt, but she moved away, escaping his grasp and allowing him to catch his breath. She unbuttoned and unzipped his trousers. Then Farah sandwiched Bo between her and the bed, but this time he could breathe and enjoy.

Click.
Bo’s other wrist was cuffed to the bed, and Farah’s hands were free. She smiled and pulled off his trousers. He was so aroused that his emperor was ready to enter the palace.

“Now I want you to beg,” she said.

“I’m not going to beg,” he said pompously, tugging at his cuffs.

“No, you must beg.”

“I’m not begging.”

“I can see you need some time to think.” She giggled.

“Okay, okay, I’ll beg.”

“You better hurry.” Farah walked into the bathroom and closed the door.

“Please. I’m begging.”

“You don’t sound very sincere,” she said. “I’ll just freshen up while you become sincere.”

“Please. I beg you.” He waited, but there was no reply. He heard the shower running. “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. I want you more than life itself. I’ll do anything for you.”

“That’s more like it,” her voice called. The bathroom door opened.

Bo grinned. Then a stranger appeared in the doorway. Bo’s grin dissolved.

In the doorway stood a man with longish, black curly hair and a handsome face—he looked like a movie star. In his hand, he carried a brown leather satchel. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance,” the man said.

The man gave her a fistful of money, and she put it in her jeans pocket, avoiding Bo’s gaze. She brushed past the stranger, grabbed her handbag, unlocked the door, and ran out of the hotel room.

Once she was gone, the man locked the door again.

“Who are you?” Bo asked.

“That is not important now.” Condescension filled the man’s voice. “What is important is who you are.”

“I am a businessman with China National Petroleum Corporation.”

“Yes, Mr. Bo Geng. That is your cover story. I want you to tell me who you really work for.”

Bo’s heart rate sped up, and he started to sweat. “What are you talking about?”

“You are from the Ministry of State Security of the People’s Republic of China, no?”

Bo didn’t like how the stranger talked down to him, and he felt that the stranger was talking down to China. “Who are you?” he spat.

“I am the commander of Syria’s cyber warfare unit, but you should be asking ‘what do you want?’”

“What do you want?”

“I want what you want,” the stranger reasoned.

“I don’t understand.”

The stranger smiled. “I want to bring America to her knees. Maybe not for the same reasons, but we both want the same thing.”

Bo looked at him, puzzled. “Who are you?”

“I am the one who devours the souls of humans. The one who grows spiritually stronger with each bite. I am the one who will use the Switchblade Whisper to feast on America.” He stroked his satchel.

Bo didn’t know what was inside it, and not knowing made his gut queasy. “I know nothing about any Switchblade Whisper.” His statement was partly true. He knew what the drone was and that the Syrians had brought it down, but he didn’t know where or why.

The stranger smiled again. “One of my people betrayed me and sold information about my cyber-warfare unit to you. Of course, he is no longer with my unit, but you sent an encrypted message to your superiors.”

Bo pulled against his handcuffs, and they rubbed against his skin and bones, but he couldn’t free himself.

The man stepped closer to the bed. “We decoded your message. And you claimed you found a piece of the aircraft. I want to see the piece and know where you found it.”

“I lied,” Bo said. “I lied so I could get more money. And so China wouldn’t send me home. I didn’t find anything.”

“Is there anyone else looking for the Switchblade Whisper?” the stranger asked.

Bo swallowed. “Chi Lee. He is with the PLA Special Forces.”

“Is he working alone?”

His hands flapped in the cuffs. The more he tried to ease them, the more they tried to take flight. “I don’t know.”

The stranger stepped closer to the bed, his body pressing against it. “I believe that you have every reason to tell the truth. But I am not sure that you truly believe that.”

“I’m telling you the truth,” Bo said.

The man stroked his hair like a new pet. “I believe you.”

Bo recoiled out of disgust and whimpered. “Please unlock my handcuffs.”

The stranger’s eyes were dark and void of emotion, like two black holes. “I have one more question: if Chi Lee does obtain the Switchblade Whisper, how does he plan to transport it to China?”

Mentally, his nerves mixed in a blender. “I’m telling the truth—I don’t know. Please let me go.”

“Okay, since you are not answering my last question, I will help you.” The man opened his satchel and pulled out a set of knives. “The small one is a paring knife, excellent for removing skin. Next, the long carving knife is used for slicing thin cuts of meat. Oh, maybe you will appreciate the irony of this next one.” He pointed to another blade. “A Chinese cleaver, used for chopping through bone. And the last is a boning knife, which does what its name implies.”

Bo’s mouth was dry, and his head felt like it was on fire. Screaming, he yanked on his handcuffs.

_______

I
n the morning, Chris, Hannah, Victor, and Jim Bob took separate routes to make sure they weren’t under surveillance by any of the foreign spies that often targeted Langley. After shaking any tails and making sure they were “clean,” they would rendezvous at the Montreal-Trudeau Airport, where they’d assume their new identities.

Unlike traveling abroad, Chris was on his home turf and had the advantage of blending in more easily and noticing anyone who exhibited a marked appearance or behavior—such as a foreign operative whose dress was too casual or too formal in comparison to the other people in his environment, a commuting salary man without a bored look on his face, or anything else out of the norm. Also to his benefit, surveillance would probably only be solo or a small team rather than a large team, such as the KGB used in Russia during the Cold War to observe suspected CIA officers.

Chris took a taxi to a nearby hotel, briskly walked in the front door, and quickly walked out the back. If enemy agents were following him, they’d struggle to keep up. He didn’t want to be obvious and turn around to look for a tail, so he checked the window reflections. No one suspicious. So far, so good.

From the rear of the hotel, Chris hailed another taxi. As he sat down and told the driver where to take him, he observed the hotel door to see if anyone came out. When the taxi driver pulled away from the curb, the hotel door remained still.

No surveillance vehicles seemed to pursue, but Chris remained alert as his taxi dropped him off at Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport—the busier the airport, the easier it was to disappear into an ocean of people. DC was also a hotbed for spies, so the farther from DC, the better. From there, he flew to New York’s John F. Kennedy International Airport. Inside JFK, Chris switched carriers and hopped on a plane to Montreal, Canada.

In a restroom stall of the Montreal-Trudeau Airport, he changed into a green polo shirt with
Adventure Tours
embroidered on the left breast. He proceeded to the security gate, where he showed his navy blue Canadian passport with his alias—
Chris Grey
—written inside. He placed his wallet on the counter between them. In it, he had a Montreal driver’s license, Visa card issued by Canadian Tire, a business card with working phone number and email address that the Agency manned daily, and a Tim Hortons card, the Dunkin’ Donuts of Canada. In his carry-on, there was a Canadian edition of the Bible and some business papers.

After passing through security, he found a seat in the Swiss International Airlines lobby near the gate for Zurich, the next stop on their circuitous journey to Latakia, Syria. Chris wore the face of any other tired traveler, but he maintained situational awareness, watching out for anything that didn’t belong.

Hannah arrived at the gate, wearing her green Adventure Tours shirt, carrying a drink, and strutting as if she didn’t have a care in the world. But Chris knew better—Hannah was switched on, too. She sat down next to him. Any moment, Victor and Jim Bob were due to arrive wearing their Adventure Tours shirts, too.

Hannah took a sip from her straw. “You ever know a shooting instructor named Ron Hickok?” she asked randomly.

Ron was the toughest SEAL instructor Chris had had at BUD/S. Later, he’d taken an honorable discharge from the Navy and opened a gun school called the Blaze Ranch for military and law enforcement personnel and US citizens. Teaching guns was his true destiny. Before he’d agreed to teach Chris beyond the advanced levels, he’d sworn Chris to secrecy. Chris hadn’t understood why, but he’d wanted to learn, so he’d agreed not to talk about his training. “Is there anyone in our business who doesn’t know Ron?”

“I’d heard of him; that’s why I signed up for one of his courses. When I first arrived at the school, someone must’ve said ‘hi’ to me, but I didn’t notice, and even if I had, I wouldn’t have known it was Hickok because I’d never met him before.”

“Why are you talking to me about Ron Hickok?”

“That asshole kicked me out before I even started training—just because I didn’t return his greeting. My boss tried to smooth things over on the phone, but Hickok refused to accept me.”

Chris gave her a patient smile. “I’m assuming there’s some point to this.”

She made a punching motion. “He’s lucky I didn’t give him optic surgery.”

“What he lacks in personality, he more than makes up for with firearms talent.”

“Guess so. Victor learned under him.”

Chris sat up in his chair. “So that’s the point. This is about Victor.”

She nodded.

“You ever hear of
Flash-Kill
?” he asked.

“Yeah. That’s Hickok’s move that kills his target so fast that the rest of the world seems to slow down. He was legendary for using it in Iraq.”

Chris leaned toward her and lowered his voice. “Did he ever teach it to Victor?”

“I heard he never taught Flash-Kill. The only one who ever used it was Hickok.”

“So why are you telling me all this?”

“Because Victor is dangerous.” There was a slight quiver in her voice. “And I don’t trust him.”

Chris nodded. “I don’t know him enough to trust him, but I don’t know enough to like him, either.”

“Do me a favor,” she said. “If he somehow manages to stab me in the back, kill him.”

“Love to.” He spotted Victor ambling to the gate and smiled at him. He knew she didn’t literally mean
stab her in the back
, and he knew that she was joking when she said
kill him
. At least he hoped that was the case.

Victor arrived and stopped next to Chris and Hannah. “What were you two talking about?”

“Nothing,” Hannah said.

“You were both just exercising your lips?” Victor said.

“Are you infatuated with my lips?” Chris asked in a friendly tone, teasing him.

Victor stared at him. “No.”

Jim Bob arrived then, and when he saw Victor arguing, he scolded him in his fatherly tone. “Play nice, Victor.”

Chris wasn’t looking forward to the sixteen-hour trip, wishing he could use the time for more shooting practice. While he sat on the plane getting softer, the tangos would be out running and gunning and getting harder. It was frustrating.

Just after 1630 hours, they boarded their plane. Jim Bob had a carry-on bag, but he couldn’t lift his arms above his head to put it in the overhead compartment, so Victor helped him.

Chris and Hannah sat down, the seats around them still empty. “What’s wrong with Jim Bob’s arms?” Chris whispered.

“He was captured by Hezbollah, and they tied his arms behind his back in torture positions,” Hannah replied.

“So his arms are normal except for motion above his head?”

She nodded. “Jim Bob stalled, giving them false intelligence and unclassified information.”

“How was he released?”

Hannah snapped her buckle into place. “He wasn’t. He escaped.”

Impressive
. “How’d he do it?”

“He faked appendicitis, and when two guards came in to look at him, he snatched one of their weapons and shot his way out. Before escaping the compound, he came across Victor’s cell and freed him.” Hannah opened the in-flight magazine and looked at the schedule of movies.

“Hmm…” Chris made himself as comfortable as he could. He wasn’t interested in watching a flick, though. He had other things to do. While he couldn’t physically practice shooting, he could visualize himself shooting, increasing his biological performance and helping him to close the gap between the shooter he was now and the shooter he could be. Russian scientists had learned about the technique when they’d performed an experiment on three groups of Olympic athletes. The first group received only physical training, the second group received seventy-five percent physical training and twenty-five percent mental training, and the third group received half mental training and half physical training. After the training, the third group performed the best.

Chris closed his eyes and went into a monk-like trance, thinking about his combat mind-set—switching on the killer instinct he’d learned in the Teams, from Ron Hickok and during actual firefights. He imagined the basics of marksmanship: stance, draw, grip, trigger control, sight alignment, follow-through, reloading, and clearing malfunctions. Then he practiced tactics in different locations—plane, building, car, grove of trees—where he used movement and cover to his advantage. He continued visualizing each part of the triad: combat mind-set, marksmanship, and tactics. Chris became so absorbed in his training that he missed the in-flight meal. When he needed a break, he called a flight attendant to bring him his food. She obliged him with his meal and a Swiss smile. Chris returned the friendly expression before chowing down.