Trident's First Gleaming: A Special Operations Group Thriller (12 page)

_______

S
alt-and-Pepper sat across a table from them with his back to the door. Except for the table and chairs, the small, cold room was empty. The mirror on the wall was probably one-way so the interrogation could be videotaped and observed from outside the room.

“You seem to know who we are, but we don’t know who you are,” Hannah said.

“I’m Tristan Nichols, Deputy Ambassador,” Salt-and-Pepper said.

Tristan was impressive—a leader who wasn’t afraid to step out of the office and dirty his hands. Even so, Chris had to know: “Why are we being held here?”

Tristan leaned forward. “I want to ask you and your accomplice some questions about the deaths of two Agency men in Syria.”

Chris’s brow furrowed. “Accomplice?”

“You shot Maximilian Wolfeschlegelaltona and Victor Shivlin before shooting Jim Bob Louve in the face. Late-night revelers on a nearby yacht heard the gunshots and called the police and an ambulance. Maximilian’s corpse was discovered in the waters of Latakia Marina, and Victor’s was located on a yacht in Ras al-Basit, but Jim Bob survived. The bullet broke his nose before glancing off and entering below his eye, where it stuck in his upper jaw. He is still in a lot of pain, but he says you and Hannah stole the Switchblade Whisper and sold it to the Chinese. The Agency sent out a flash message to bring the two of you in, dead or alive.”

Chris couldn’t believe his ears. He explained what had really happened.

After patiently listening, Tristan asked, “Then where is the Switchblade Whisper?”

“In the back of the SUV under a blanket,” Hannah said. “Unless you left it in a no-parking zone.”

Tristan frowned. “I didn’t leave it in a no-parking zone. It’s safe here inside the embassy parking lot.”

“You don’t seem to understand the gravity of holding us and the Switchblade Whisper here,” Chris said. “The Switchblade Whisper already had a GPS tracking device imbedded in its black box. Hannah affixed her own tracking device to the drone. The Chinese probably did the same.”

“I’ve heard a lot of bullshitters in my career, but you are one of a kind,” Tristan said.

“You don’t have to believe me,” Chris said. “But you do need to search the Switchblade Whisper for any tracking devices and take them far away from here.”

Hannah cut in. “A terrorist named Professor Mordet is trying to get his hands on the technology in the Switchblade Whisper. If he succeeds, he’ll hack into the United States’ critical infrastructures and cause as much damage and loss of human life as possible.”

Tristan stood and looked down his nose at them. “Both of you are truly special. I hope they send you to some deserving place like Leavenworth. Nobody is going to break into the embassy parking lot. There are three concentric circles of protection around this facility, starting with the outer fence and the vehicular barricades. The latest technology monitors this place twenty-four seven. And there are two Turkish policemen out front, a Marine, three diplomatic security officers on duty, and me.”

“Hell is made up of concentric circles,” Chris said under his breath.

Tristan stood. “I think we’re finished here.” He walked out the door, slammed it shut behind him, and locked it from the outside.

“You think the deputy ambassador will figure out trouble is coming before it arrives?” Hannah asked. “If Mordet doesn’t lose all his men fighting the Chinese, he will have enough to storm this embassy.”

Chris tried to wiggle his hands out of the handcuffs, but they were too tight. “I’m afraid the deputy ambassador has too much faith in Jim Bob’s version of events and concentric circles.”

“Sorry.”

“For what?” He stood, walked over to the wall, put his back to it and knocked. He moved over and knocked again, repeating the process.

“For dragging you into this.”

“I’m a big boy.” He knocked on the door and other walls.

Hannah stood and strolled up to him.

He put his lips close to her ear and whispered, “Metal door can’t be broken. Opens inward, so we can’t kick out the lock. And the walls seem solid.”

“How are we going to get out of here?” She spoke softly, her breath heating his skin.

“Ceiling seems weak, from the looks of it. If we stand on that table, we can probably break a hole through it, climb up, cross over to the next room, and bust down. Hopefully it’s not locked from the outside, too.”

“Break out of here while they’re videotaping us through a one-way mirror?”

Fatigue was catching up to him. “Maybe they’ll get bored and stop watching us?”

“Maybe Mordet and his men will give us a diversion,” she said.

“Hope it doesn’t come to that.” He eyed a chair to sit in, but his butt was sore from sitting in vehicles since Syria, so he lay down on the floor on his stomach to rest for a moment.

They’d been waiting for what seemed like hours. Hannah seemed bored and took the same position lying down. After a few minutes, she smiled. His body warmed at the sight, even in the chilly interrogation room.

“You’re smiling,” he said.

“I just remembered something.”

“What?”

“When you and I were first stationed together in Syria,” she said, “you and that Syrian gal seemed pretty serious. Caused a bit of a stink on base—people worried that she was a spy. What happened to her?”

“Her parents were opposed,” Chris explained. “Eventually, she sided with them. It upset me at the time, but it was for the best. Our line of work isn’t the greatest support for maintaining romantic relationships—you know, keeping secrets, frequent overseas deployments, and when we’re home, we’re not home—individual schools, platoon work-ups. Few women can accept that lifestyle, let alone live it.”

“After you got out of the Teams, didn’t you meet anyone at college?”

Chris grinned. “Yeah. One of the kindest I’d ever dated. I was interested in finding a spouse, but she wasn’t ready.”

“No one in your church?” she asked.

“There’s a buttercup in Dallas.”

“Well?”

He shrugged his shoulders, and the grin left his face. “She’s married.”

Hannah smiled. “I guess I have you all to myself.”

He chuckled, not knowing how seriously to take her. “How about you?”

She beamed. “Okay, there was the
torero
from Spain.”

“What’s a torero?”

“He was a matador—his tight little butt fit nicely in those tight pants. In Spanish, their costumes are called
traje de luces
, the suit of lights.”

“So what happened with you two?” Chris asked.

“His family is all Catholic, and he wanted to marry me, but I don’t believe in marriage. Haven’t seen him in about a year. Lives in Madrid. We’re just friends.”

“Are you seeing anyone now?”

She shook her head.

His calling as a minister didn’t prevent him from marrying, but since Hannah wasn’t the marrying type and he couldn’t cohabitate, a relationship with her seemed to be a dead-end road. Even so, he couldn’t help wanting to spend more time with her, and a part of him couldn’t help but wonder if, in time, she might change her mind.

Her chocolate-brown eyes glistened, giving him enough bliss to forget about the mission and remember how tired he was.

She seemed to read his mind: “Just close your eyes for a moment; recharge your batteries.”

He did, just for a moment…

_______

H
e was thirteen years old in Syria.

It was an afternoon just days after he’d been rescued, and he stood behind a wall near a doorway to the living room, eavesdropping on his parents.

“We can’t wait forever,” his father said.

“It’s too soon,” his mother said.

“If you won’t tell him, I will. It’s better he hear it from us than from someone else.”

“He needs more time,” she said.

“You mean, you need more time.”

“Give it a rest.” She seemed to notice something in the window and turned to examine it—Chris’s reflection.

He’d gotten in trouble for listening in on a private conversation once before. He wanted to walk away and act like he hadn’t heard anything, but it was too late for that. He trudged into the living room.

Instead of being angry, his mother’s shoulders drooped. He waited for her to scold him, but she didn’t, so he turned to walk away, but she said, weakly, “Chris.”

He turned and faced her. Her eyes glistened. “The day you were kidnapped,” she said, “the same terrorists kidnapped your friend, Nikkia, too.” She took a deep breath—then another.

“They rescued her, didn’t they?”

She shook her head. “Nikkia didn’t survive, honey.”

Chris stood there stunned. After what felt like minutes, he forced himself to speak. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Tears rolled steadily down his face as if they would never stop.

His mother swallowed hard. “I wanted to, honey. I really did. I just didn’t know when to tell you. Or how.”

“I wish I could see her,” he cried.

His mother stood up from the couch, walked over to him, and hugged him. “I wish I could see her, too.” Her voice lost its steadiness. “I wish I could see her, too.”

The news of Nikkia’s death had hit him like a bomb, shaking the earth beneath his feet, pulling at his limbs, sucking the oxygen out of the room, and paralyzing him. He closed his eyes again, wanting to shut out everything—wanting to know why he’d never see her again. When his eyes opened, he was looking into a pair of startled chocolate-brown eyes, and the ground was still shaking. He’d fallen asleep, but he didn’t know for how long. All he knew was that the air was full of smoke and debris. He coughed.

Her lips moved, but he couldn’t hear what she was saying. His ears rang like they’d been boxed, and he couldn’t hear anything more than the ringing. His heart pounded; fear struck. He scanned the room to find the door. Blackened, it hung by a hinge.

There must’ve been an explosion. It’s the only explanation.

He tugged at his handcuffs, trying to free himself before an assault team could enter the room and start shooting, but no one came. Not yet. He could see the room across the hallway, flayed open as though a mortar round had hit it.

His frogman training kicked in, and without thought, he struggled up to his knees and helped her to her feet. Still suffering the aftershock of the blast, he lost his balance but managed to remain upright. “Nikkia, we’ve got to get out of here.”

“What?” she asked groggily.

“Trouble is here!”

As he started to comprehend what was happening, the ringing in his ears lessened slightly. AK fire chattered from outside the embassy, answered by Turkish shouts and a scream. The sounds of gunfire came more frequently now—and louder. Mordet’s men must’ve entered the gate and were shooting their way to the building.

Chris peeked out of their room and down the hall toward the front of the building.

The racket of combat continued to increase. His pulse picked up speed, so he sucked in a deep shot of oxygen and calmed himself until an armed man appeared, shooting at Chris before he could react. He ducked back inside the room. “Come out with your hands where I can see them!” the terrorist yelled in Arabic.

Another AK shot rang out in the hall. Now it sounded like there were two tangos. In the back of his mind, he knew he might not survive, but he clung to hope, anyway. He looked at Hannah, who flashed him a brittle smile.

An AK poked into the room then. Chris prepared to head-butt the terrorist in the face. But when the tango entered, Chris realized the tango wasn’t a tango at all. He was Sonny.

Sonny saw Chris’s fighting eyes and body stance. “Don’t Taze me, bro,” he said in his pained nasal New York accent.

Hannah stared at Sonny. “Who are you?” she asked.

“I’m Super Jew,” Sonny replied, sticking his chest out.

Chris wasn’t sure he could trust him—he didn’t even know who Sonny worked for—but he wasn’t going to turn down a rescue, and now wasn’t the time for a conversation. “The naked man on the donkey,” he explained. “Sonny.”

Sonny pulled out some keys. “Two-Face gave me these and told me to get you two out of here while he evacuates the dip-dunks.” Sonny unlocked Chris’s handcuffs. Chris looked at his watch: 2018 hours. He pressed the compass button on his watch and quickly checked his bearings—it was time to go, and he didn’t want to end up lost.

Sonny unlocked Hannah’s handcuffs. “Tangos are overrunning the embassy,” he said. “Don’t have much time.” He poked his head into the hall and looked both ways. “Let’s go.” He ventured out of the room. Chris and Hannah followed.

Just outside the door, they stepped over a motionless wide-eyed Arab leaking crimson on the vanilla tiles. Chris’s arms and hands fought to regain proper circulation, but he managed to pick up the terrorist’s AK. Sonny quickly ushered them to the back of the building. Chris motioned for Hannah to follow directly behind Sonny so Chris could protect their flank. They hurried single file down the hall.

Chris glanced over his shoulder. Two terrorists moved into the hall. Now the stakes were much higher than defending himself. Now he was defending Hannah and Sonny, and he’d rather die himself than let them get hurt.

“Contact, rear!” Chris shouted, pivoted and took aim while standing.

“Contact, rear!” Hannah and Sonny echoed.

The fear of failing his teammates cranked the panic throttle wide open, and anxiety flooded over Chris. Both terrorists brought their AKs up to their shoulders to fire. The faster terrorist presented the most immediate threat. Chris’s sights wobbled over the tango’s head while his finger quickly took out the slack in the trigger. All his senses screamed to jerk the trigger the rest of the way before they jerked theirs, but in the back of his mind, Ron Hickok’s voice calmly said,
Squeeze
. Chris’s finger exerted pressure straight to the rear without causing the rest of his hand or more than the trigger to move. The first terrorist’s head flopped back, and he back flopped to the floor.

The second terrorist fired. One round stung Chris’s shoulder, and wall plaster sprayed the side of his face. The throttle of fear closed tightly shut, leaving Chris in serenity as he squeezed the trigger again. And again. The second terrorist’s gut bent like it’d been hit by a baseball bat, and his head sprayed blood. The firing stopped.

The possibility that a shot might have killed Hannah or Sonny reopened the fear throttle. He wheeled around to see if they were injured.

Hannah and Sonny appeared fine. They burst through the exit at the end of the hall. Chris sprinted behind them, moving through the door before it closed.

Outside the main building and under the evening firmament, they were still inside the consulate compound—trapped like rats without an escape hole. To the south lay the German embassy, and beyond the trees and fence to the east stretched a busy multi-lane boulevard that ran from the northwest to the southeast.

From the west, three Arabs armed with AKs approached. When they noticed the trio, they abruptly halted with surprised looks on their faces. Before they could act, Sonny shredded the Syrian closest to him, and Chris terminated the man on the opposite end. Then Sonny and Chris converged on the poor bastard in the middle, filleting him with AK fire. The three Syrians hardly had time to know what hit them.

Chris gave Hannah his weapon before hurrying toward the three dead Arabs. As he reached the bodies, the main parking lot came into view. It held only a few vehicles, including the SUV with the Switchblade Whisper. Around it gathered a mob of nearly thirty terrorists, some celebrating by shooting their AKs in the air. There were too many of them, and Chris was too poorly equipped to take them on.
Enjoy the celebration. This ain’t over yet.

Several tangos noticed Chris and broke away to chase him. He snatched an AK from one of the dead terrorists and slipped around the corner of the main building, out of sight. Chris ran into a cluster of trees. Sonny had already scaled the fence and was on the other side providing cover with his weapon. Next to him lay Hannah’s weapon while she made her way over the fence.

Chris wished the AK had a sling so he could strap it on his back, leaving his hands free to scale the fence, but it didn’t. The space between the black vertical iron bars on the fence was too narrow for him to squeeze through, but they were wide enough for him to hand his AK to Sonny, so he passed it through. Then he jumped and grabbed the horizontal rail near the top of the black fence. He pulled himself up and maneuvered over the spiked fence posts, which weren’t as sharp as they could be and weren’t razor-edged like concertina wire. Even so, one of the spikes snagged the inside of his pant leg, preventing him from descending. He became an easy target for the bad guys who’d just turned the corner of the building.

While Chris struggled to free his leg, Sonny and Hannah’s AKs spit heat at the tangos. Chris wiggled loose from the spike and dropped down beside Sonny and Hannah. He prepared to fire, but no one was left standing to shoot.