Trident's First Gleaming: A Special Operations Group Thriller (8 page)

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C
hris activated the compass of his Pathfinder watch. He briefly pressed the light button while cupping the watch face with his hand to limit the amount of light that escaped. He wanted to bandage his wound, but he wanted to put distance between himself and the enemy forces behind him.

For several hours, he persevered down the mountain. He hoped Hannah and Jim Bob were okay, but he couldn’t muster the same hope for Victor.

A wave of weariness swept over him. As a child prisoner, his body had become weak, and his time in the Teams had torn him down frequently, but he’d forgotten all that. He’d forgotten what it was like to be exhausted in his bones. Since leaving the Navy, he’d kept himself fit, but now he felt physically unprepared for the rigors of combat. Even so, he knew the power of his mind, and he willed himself to press on.

Finally, he made it to the bottom of the mountain. A sting in his thigh reminded him of his wound. He found some cover behind a thick tree, leaned against it, and examined his wound. There wasn’t a lot of blood, but he had a Moby Dick-sized bruise that was swollen and tender, so he bandaged his leg with a simple first aid packet from his pocket.

After bandaging his wound, he resumed walking until he spotted an Iranian-made Tira—Farsi for
gazelle
. The window was partially opened, so he reached in and unlocked the driver’s door. He climbed inside and re-locked the door, then opened his pocketknife and jammed the blade in the ignition as far as it would go. He angrily pounded the handle with the heel of his hand, driving the blade for the heart. Then, as if it were a key, he turned the handle. The Tira started.

He peeled out on the loose gravel, heading back toward the city. The original plan was that the four of them would take the Switchblade Whisper directly to the yacht. Because that was also the most logical choice for Victor’s escape, Chris headed for the marina. Fury replaced his exhaustion, and he stomped the pedal and drove like a madman. Realizing he might draw unwanted attention, he eased off the gas.

Stay in control. You don’t know for sure this is Victor’s fault, and even if it is, you can’t kill him in anger
.

When he arrived, he parked at the Syrian Yacht Club and stepped out into the dark silence. There was no sign of the van Jim Bob and Victor had used. The restaurant had closed, and there was only one light on in the office building. He’d have to sneak past the guard to reach the yacht.

He crept up to the office and peered inside. The guard’s body lay face down in an inky puddle on the floor with a black spray of stains on the wall behind him. It was ghastly to look at, but the sight pulled at his eyes for attention. He turned away rather than treat the deceased as some kind of freak show.

It had to be Victor.

Then his heart sank. Part of him acknowledged that Hannah could’ve conspired with the bastard, but Chris didn’t want to believe that. She was his friend, and he cared about her—enough to leave his congregation to risk his life on this mission. Then again, maybe Hannah, Victor, and Jim Bob were all in on this together. Toxic fumes rose from his being, but he still wasn’t sure who to direct them at.

When he reached the pier, he wasn’t shocked to find the yacht missing; what was a shock was the body floating on the dark bay under the moonlight. The ocean licked the sides of the pier as Chris proceeded to get a closer look. He was reluctant to identify the body, hoping it wasn’t hers, but he had to know for sure. He stepped forward close enough to recognize the corpse: Wolf. Chris wanted to puke, cry, and kill someone at the same time—the mix of emotions acidic on his tongue. He exhaled forcefully, trying to expel some of the poison.

Who did this? Why?

Chris needed answers. Wolf’s killer, or killers, could be anywhere. Whoever it was had to have a reason for killing Wolf and taking the Agency yacht. Chris went over what he knew in his head. The focus of their mission had been to recover the Switchblade Whisper, particularly the black box, and destroy what they couldn’t take with them. Mordet was also after the drone, and other enemies of America would probably be interested in acquiring it, too, if they knew about it. Then he remembered overhearing Victor’s cell phone conversation in what sounded like Chinese.

Maybe Victor is working for them.
If so, he could’ve already handed it off to the Chinese and escaped via the Agency yacht, but during Victor’s phone conversation, he’d said what sounded like the city of Ras al-Basit, which had a marina large enough to park a yacht. That was fifty klicks north. Realizing there was little more he could learn in Latakia, he decided to sail to Ras al-Basit.

Chris’s eyes skimmed the docks, looking for an easy boat to break into.

There. Just down the pier.

He quietly made his way onto the yacht then checked to see if it had fuel. The tank was three-quarters full. That would work. He hotwired it quickly and sailed north with his lights off, following the coast.

The night air and rocking of the sea calmed him. But after ten klicks, another boat came in his direction from the north. He changed course to head farther out to sea, but the boat shifted direction toward him. He had a better view of it now, and it was roughly the same size as Chris’s. As it got closer, he identified it as one of the Zhuk-class patrol boats that Syria had acquired from Russia. It moved closer. His first inclination was to try and outrun it, but even if his boat was faster, he couldn’t outrun their bullets. “Stop!” a voice called out on a megaphone.

Chris slowed the yacht to a stop and touched his right hip, feeling his shirt covering the concealed pistol, but he also remembered his role as a minister.

I can shoot it out now, or I can try to talk my way out of this. I’ve already shed a lot of blood. God, help me, please.
He raised his arms in surrender, hoping to talk his way out. The patrol boat pulled up beside the yacht. A uniformed machine gunner on the bow aimed his weapon at Chris, as did another man carrying an AK-47. The stern machine gun was unmanned, and in the pilothouse, dim lights illuminated the pilot.

The man with the AK ordered the machine gunner to hang out bumpers to protect the boats from damaging each other. As the gunner abandoned his gun, Chris thought shooting them might actually be the better option. The man with the AK motioned to Chris. “Come here!”

Chris slowly walked to midship.

The gunner barely finished hanging the last bumper before the two vessels came together. “Tie up the boat and then tie him up!” AK commanded. The gunner proceeded to secure the patrol boat to the yacht, and AK motioned for Chris to board his boat. “What are you doing out here by yourself on this yacht so late at night?!

Chris hopped from his yacht onto the patrol boat. The man with the AK aggressively walked toward him. Chris proceeded cautiously with his hands up.

AK closed the gap between them. “Why don’t you answer me? Are you deaf?” He shouted the last bit, shoving the gun toward Chris’s chest.

Chris didn’t enjoy killing, but he didn’t want to be tortured and hung from a tree for the whole world to see, either. In the absence of divine intervention, Chris chose frogman intervention. He dropped his hands from the surrender position and his left hand slapped the AK away. Meanwhile, his right hand drew the pistol. He fired low from the hip, so he wouldn’t shoot his other arm before he could pull it out of the way. Two shots struck AK in the lower gut, and he fell on his back.

The gunner turned and ran for his weapon.

Now Chris had both hands on his pistol as he placed his sights on the gunner’s back and blasted him twice before he could reach the machine gun. The gunner’s back arched as he fell forward.

Then Chris hurried to the pilothouse and threw open the door. The pilot chattered frantically into the radio, but Chris popped him in the head, ending the transmission. On his way off the patrol boat, he administered the coups de grace for the gunner and AK. He’d wanted to avoid a fight, but they hadn’t left him a choice.

He returned to his yacht and sailed north. He wasn’t a random killing machine, and he didn’t carry the emotional baggage of being one. It was part of his job—a necessary evil. He didn’t have the luxury of carrying that baggage while simultaneously trying to help Hannah and Jim Bob. Although he attempted to stay positive about the situation, the light in his heart dimmed.

Over an hour later, when Chris arrived at the Ras al-Basit Marina, the darkness in the sky had surrendered to the morning light. There were some fishermen in their boats and on the pier but no sign of security.

When he saw the Agency yacht in the harbor, his heart brightened. Not knowing if Victor was still on it, he docked his vessel with one eye on the Agency yacht. After tying up, he wanted to draw his pistol, but he didn’t want to attract unwanted attention, so he kept it holstered as he walked quietly across the pier. Carefully observing his surroundings, he boarded. As he descended the ladder from the main deck to the lower cabin, he drew his pistol. Inside, blood splatter stained a wall—most likely Wolf’s blood. Chris searched for any traces of intel about where Hannah, Jim Bob, or Victor might be but found nothing significant. For a moment, he thought the bloodstains might be Hannah’s, but the thought distressed him, and he banished it. There was no sign of Victor or any clues. It was empty.

Chris went ashore and found a vehicle—a white sedan without maker markings. He commandeered the white sedan and drove southeast into town. With each building and road he passed, he found no new clues, and more and more, he realized he had no idea where he was going. He exhaled his frustration, but he couldn’t blow it all out.

At the north end of Ras al-Basit, the road curved around to the east. Another road headed north, following the Mediterranean coast. He passed the intersection and drove east before slowing and making a U-turn. Then he made the turn north before taking another U-turn. This time he turned around south toward Ras al-Basit, where he’d just come from. He was driving in circles. Chris pulled off the road and stopped the sedan. Hannah was still missing. As was Jim Bob. And Victor.

Failure squeezed the energy out of him.

He folded his arms, closed his eyes, and breathed deeply before saying a prayer. After he said
amen
, the disappointment and negative feelings flowed out of him. Serenity flowed in. The sun broke the horizon, its rays entering his windshield and warming the air around him. The warmth embraced him like some omniscient mercy. He’d relied more on his SEAL skills than his minister skills thus far, and he was more imperfect than perfect, so he didn’t feel worthy of mercy, but he accepted its embrace anyway.

More cars passed by, leaving him exposed like a deer in an open field waiting for hunting season to begin. He spotted a grey van heading south and followed it. The van took him back into Ras al-Basit, where Chris allowed a black Mercedes to pull in between his sedan and the van. At a traffic light, the van
dragged it
, waiting for a red light, so anyone behind would be forced to stop, then just before the light changed, the van passed through the intersection—maybe the driver was trying to ditch possible tails. The Mercedes ran the light and sped aggressively past the van. Chris stepped on the brake, and his sedan came to a standstill. As he waited for the light, the van pulled farther and farther away. Two cars entered the road behind the van, creating more obstacles between him and his target.

“Come on, please,” he begged the light. He could run it, but if Victor was in the van, he’d be checking his rearview mirror and notice Chris’s move. When the light finally turned green, he stepped on the gas. A large cargo truck pulled out in front of him before he could pick up speed. Chris wanted to pass it, but there were too many cars coming from the opposite direction. Soon he lost sight of the van.

When the opposite lane cleared, Chris passed the truck. Next, he overtook the two vehicles, but the van was nowhere in sight.

Did it already make a turn? Where would it go? Was that even the Agency van?

If it was, someone would have had to drive it, and another someone would’ve had to drive the yacht in order for both to arrive in Ras al-Basit. In such a scenario, there would be at least two people involved
.
Once again, he wondered if Jim Bob and Hannah were Victor’s co-conspirators.

Chris sped back to the marina and was relieved to find the Agency yacht still moored there.
Whoever brought the Agency yacht here is likely to need it again.
He spun the steering wheel to the right, then straightened out, but he had to collect himself so he wouldn’t fly into the marina like a flaming banshee. He eased off the accelerator.

He parked the sedan in a place that provided some concealment, but he’d stolen the sedan from the same parking lot, and the owner might return, so he exited it. He could wait outdoors, but passersby might spot him and become suspicious of his loitering, so he hid below deck in the cabin of the Agency yacht.

For breakfast, he scarfed down an energy bar and washed it down with water from his Camelbak. The morning wore on slowly, and images of home drifted into his mind.
I’d be a lot safer if I packed up and went home to the States. But I can’t abandon Hannah and Jim Bob now.

In the afternoon, the noise of vehicles came and went from the direction of the parking lot. Voices and the sounds of boats came and went, too. He ran out of water, so he filled his Camelbak from the yacht’s supply.

It’d been hours, and isolation crept in as awareness of the situation around the yacht became stale. He peeked above deck—the blue-black sky dimmed with the quickening of evening. There was no sign of the Agency van in the parking lot. A group of well-dressed young partiers boarded the yacht to his right. The partiers couldn’t seem to make up their minds whether they were preparing to get underway or staying docked.

He returned to the cabin. It had become dark, but he didn’t want to turn on the light. It was too risky. He sat on the couch in the main cabin and prayed for Hannah’s and Jim Bob’s safety and for guidance about what to do next. Fatigue crept into his prayer, his mind wandered, and he had to start his prayer again from the beginning. On the third time of restarting his prayer, he thought about the possibility that Hannah and Jim Bob were kidnapped, and his thoughts strayed to his own experience as a kidnapped child—and how it had changed the course of his life.