Trident's First Gleaming: A Special Operations Group Thriller (18 page)

_______

C
hris wasn’t hungry and skipped breakfast. He felt disconnected from his body—and the world. Ron Hickok had been his SEAL instructor during First Phase of BUD/S training, and he’d taken a special interest in Chris—as if Ron had seen something in him that he couldn’t see inside himself. In Second Phase, new SEAL instructors replaced the First Phase instructors, and in Third Phase, Chris found himself outshooting his SEAL pistol and rifle instructors. It was then that he’d realized he had a special gift. Years later, he’d had the opportunity to take shooting classes from Ron; in contrast to other SEAL shooting instructors, Ron challenged Chris. Ron didn’t subscribe to any one religion, but he was intensely spiritual and often he seemed to teach directly to Chris’s soul. Ron wasn’t married, and he treated Chris like a son; Chris loved him like a father.

Ron had always seemed invincible, but Mordet had killed him, and Chris’s own mortality struck him like a sledgehammer—Mordet might kill him, too.
How could God allow this to happen?
He didn’t ask in anger; he just didn’t understand why Ron had to die. Although Chris believed becoming angry at God was preferable to ignoring God, he valued his relationship with deity more than he valued anger.

Hannah tapped Chris on the shoulder with a chocolate-flavored energy bar, bringing him back to reality. “You should really eat something,” she said, “so you can maintain your energy level.”

She was right, and he nodded. He ate the bar, but his taste buds, too, were numb, and he couldn’t taste the chocolate. Even so, he forced it down.

They spent most of the rest of the morning poring over the intel and analyses, and just before noon, Sonny stepped out of the living room to answer a call. Young announced, “I might have something.” His hand flew over the keyboard. “Just a minute.”

Chris nodded and turned to the television, where CNN was on. He watched for a few minutes to see if they were reporting anything related to Mordet.
Nada.

Sonny came into the room then, a broad smile on his face.

“What?” Hannah asked. “Who was on the phone?”

“JSOC,” Sonny said. “The Department of Homeland Security has cleared our names.”

Before Hannah could respond, Young spoke. “Finished restoring deleted files, and on Mordet’s laptop, I found this photo.” He grabbed a printout from his printer and showed it to them: a painting of an eye held between a monster’s teeth.

“What is it?” Hannah asked.

Young studied the picture. “Looks like some sort of evil eye.”

“But what does it mean?” She crossed her arms, thinking. None of them knew.

For the rest of the day, they spread out across the living room, helping Young sift through more data and analyses to try and figure out the meaning of the painting and what Mordet was planning. They left the TV tuned to CNN, playing at low volume while they worked.

Just after five p.m., they had a few loose threads but nothing substantial yet. Chris happened to glance at the TV when a CNN BREAKING NEWS banner flashed across the scene.

“This just in,” a news anchor began, “the Baltimore-Washington International Airport has lost power, and there have been reports of explosions. CNN Center is working hard to find out more.” The network showed a live video of the airport. “Witnesses on the ground confirm that the entire airport is dark, inside and out.” Then she repeated the same information.

Everyone in the room shifted their gaze from Young’s computer to the TV.

Chris looked at the others. Their eyes were all glued to the TV.

“We now have an unconfirmed report that a passenger plane was shot down,” the reporter added. “On the phone with us is a witness, Jeremiah Whitmaier, talking to us from inside the airport. Jeremiah, what can you tell us about the situation?”

“All of a sudden, the lights went out in the building and outside on the runway, and then I heard explosions,” Whitmaier said. “A plane was making a landing, but then it seemed to pull out of the landing and crashed at the end of the runway.”

“Would you say it was shot down?” the reporter asked.

“No, I didn’t see anything, and the plane wasn’t on fire or anything like that.”

“Where do you think the explosions came from?” she asked.

“They seemed to come from outside,” Whitmaier said.

“Thank you, Mr. Whitmaier.” The reporter turned to the camera. “And we’ve just received a phone call from a witness inside the terminal at BWI,” she said. “What did you see, sir?”

“The whole airport is dark,” the witness said. “No runway lights or anything. People are saying a plane was shot down.”

“Did you see a plane shot down?” the reporter asked.

“No. We only heard that air traffic control is redirecting flights to Ronald Reagan Airport for safety.”

Another reporter interviewed an airport official who said that the emergency generators for each airfield had been blown up and that a plane carrying fifty-four passengers had crashed. Airport emergency personnel continued to fight to rescue possible survivors.

Washington Dulles International Airport was also experiencing a blackout and explosions, and there were rumors that a plane had been shot down there, too. All aircraft scheduled to arrive at Dulles were now being diverted to Ronald Reagan, as well.

Chris’s chest tightened. The mass hysteria—and destruction—was just beginning.

“We should go to BWI,” Sonny said excitedly.

“And do what?” Hannah asked.

“Stop Mordet.”

“I want to stop him, too, but we don’t know where he is.”

“We need more information,” Chris said. “And a plan.”

He looked back to the TV, where the reporter was continuing her coverage. “We just received word that a plane crashed at Ronald Reagan Airport—this is terrible. We’re going live to an eyewitness there. Nancy, can you hear me?”

“This is Nancy. The lights went out, and there’s no electricity, and then there was an explosion, and a plane came down—oh, no.”

“Can you hear me?” the reporter asked.

“Oh, no! Another plane is coming down in flames! And two planes just hit head-on on the runway! They fell from the sky! Those poor people. They fell out of the sky!” Screaming and shouting sounded in the background. Then came a loud crashing noise.

“Nancy, can you hear me?” the reporter asked. “Are you still there? Can you hear me?” The reporter paused, worry creasing her forehead. “I hope Nancy is okay. I hope everyone is okay, but we just lost contact with Nancy.”

The news report shifted to show live video from a helicopter. Cars below were jammed bumper to bumper and hardly seemed to move.

Hannah’s phone rang, and she answered it. She spoke in hushed tones into the receiver. After hanging up, she looked to the others. “Agent Garnet says that the terrorists hacked into air traffic control and are purposely directing planes to fly into each other in a narrow corridor of airspace above Ronald Reagan Airport.”

“The attack wasn’t supposed to happen until tomorrow,” Sonny said.

Young sat at his computer monitoring air traffic over Ronald Reagan Airport. “Why would Mordet need to gain access to the Switchblade Whisper’s black box just to wreak chaos on the airports?”

“What do you mean?” Hannah asked.

“I mean it doesn’t take a special algorithm to do what he just did. The pilots communicate with air traffic control on 1090 MHz—anyone can access that. The Automatic Dependent Surveillance Broadcast isn’t encrypted or authenticated. Anyone with Internet access can monitor air traffic using planefinder.net or another website.”

“Are you saying that anyone could do what he just did?” Hannah asked.

“I’m not saying anyone is as insanely brilliant as Mordet, but I’m saying he didn’t need the black box from the Switchblade Whisper to do what he just did.”

“If he didn’t need the black box, why’d he go through so much trouble to get it?”

Chris heaved a breath. “Because this is just the warm-up.”

Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night; nor for the arrow that flieth by day.

— P
SALMS
91:5

_______

“J
ust a moment, please,” a CNN reporter said, “we’re cutting away to the president of the United States. He’s about to give a speech.”

“Today is a dark day for America,” the president began. “I was briefed by Homeland Security that an airplane crashed at Baltimore-Washington International Airport, and more than five have plummeted at Ronald Reagan Airport, one of them smashing into the terminal, in what seems to be a terrorist attack on the US. Please pray with me for the victims, their families, and America. The federal government will do everything in its power to protect our citizens, help the victims and their families, and hunt down the terrorists responsible. May God bless America.”

Hannah stalked out of the room, her cell in hand, and Chris closed his eyes for a moment to collect his thoughts. Little Kale’s lighter seemed bulkier and heavier in his pocket. Then he remembered that it was a SEAL who’d rescued him. Years later, on a sunny day in southern California, a
SEAL trident
was pinned to Chris’s chest—the gaudiest military insignia in the US Navy: an eagle bowing its head humbly and its talons clasping a trident and cocked flintlock pistol. Other badges in the Navy were silver-colored for enlisted sailors and gold-colored for officers, but the SEAL trident was only one color—gold. The enlisted men and officers suffered together for it in the same training and on the same battlefields. Golden light reflected off the insignia—especially around the three prongs at the tip of the trident. The remembered image of the trident struck him with the same power as the voice that’d spoken to him as a little boy in the bottom of the dried-up well.

For the first time, his roles as a minister and SEAL came together in one body—his body. It hit him with such force that he opened his eyes and sat straight up, filled with new energy.

“I called my boss and gave him a piece of my mind,” Hannah said, returning to the room.

“What’d he have to say about that?” Sonny asked.

“He apologized.”

“Did you accept his apology?” Chris asked.

“I told him where to stick his apology,” she said. “He wants the three of us to stop the attacks and capture or kill Professor Mordet and Little Kale. Agent Garnet is going to help us.”

“Now they want our help?” Sonny said. “If only they would’ve listened sooner—”

“I can’t imagine the CIA just decided this on their own,” Chris interrupted. “The Posse Comitatus Act forbids the CIA and JSOC from operating on US soil without special authorization from the president. Or at least the governor.”

“This came down from the National Security Council,” Hannah said.

“The chair authorized this, too?” Sonny asked.

Hannah nodded. “Including the chair.”

“POTUS,” Chris said. The president of the United States chaired the National Security Council.

“Exactly,” Hannah confirmed.

Young seemed oblivious to them, slaving away at his computer screen. Chris stood and joined him, looking over his shoulder.

“When I studied the digital image of the evil eye,” Young explained, “I found hidden data, but it’s locked by a password, and it’s taking me time to crack it.”

Chris thought about possible passwords. Then it hit him. “Did you try
Ha’la
?”

Young turned to him. “What’s that?”

“Mordet’s sister’s name.”

“How do you spell it?”

Chris spelled the name.

Young typed it in and tapped
enter
. A river of data rushed down the screen and filled the monitor.

“That’s it! That’s the password.” Even though he only had one hand, Young typed twice as fast as any normal person. “I’ve accessed Mordet’s network in Maryland, and now I’m running a diagnostic to show his route and measure packet delays so I can trace a more precise location.”

“If you can trace his location, what prevents him from tracing ours?” Chris asked.

“Nothing,” Young answered.

“We’re going to have to move you to another location,” Chris said. “You won’t be safe here.”

Chris, Hannah, and Sonny discussed possible plans for capturing Professor Mordet and Little Kale. Then Young’s phone rang.

“You expecting a phone call?” Hannah asked.

Young stopped typing. “No.”

Hannah stepped toward him. “What’s the caller ID say?”

“Private.”

“Put it on speaker,” Hannah said.

Young did so and then answered the phone.

“Hello,” said the man at the other end. Just his voice alone filled Young’s room with murk. “Chris, is that you?”

All eyes in the room shifted to Chris.

Young held the phone out to Chris, and he took it. “Hello, Professor Mordet.”

“It has been awhile,” Mordet said calmly. “I was hoping to get ahold of you sooner. I missed you. Did you miss me?”

“Miss you?” Chris asked.

“Because I am the only person who can understand you, Chris. This world can be a lonely place for us who live in a fourth dimension.”

Chris needed to probe him, to catch him off guard and exploit a weakness. “When I first met you, you told me about the plane crash, and that you had to eat the other passengers to survive.” He paused. “But you didn’t mention anything about eating your sister, Ha’la.”

Mordet’s breath caught audibly. “You spoke to someone from my village?”

“I spoke to someone who knows about you.”

“Was he paid for this information?”

“Yes,” Chris said.

“Did Hannah pay for it?”

The fact that he knew her name surprised Chris, but when he thought about how many assets she’d run in and around Mordet’s village back in the day, it wasn’t so surprising. But it wasn’t important who paid for the information; Mordet was just trying to confirm who was working with Chris. He didn’t respond.

“Hannah should not pay for rumors. She should get her money back.”

“Why would this man lie?” Chris asked.

“Because he is not like you and me. He is not like Ha’la,” Mordet said, raising his voice. “He sells his soul for the things of this world.”

Chris continued probing. “People think you’re crazy.”

“And people never thought you were crazy?” Mordet said calmly. “We see things that other people cannot see, and we learn at an early age not to talk about it. People are crazy, but you and I are the ones who are sane. People feel so self-conscious about it that they try to take us back to the wall and chain us there, so we become as hypnotized by the shadows of social networking and web surfing as they are—hearing only what they want to hear, mesmerized by their own mental masturbation.”

I am nothing like this man
, Chris reminded himself. Still, he had to try to make Mordet feel understood. Then maybe he would tell them something they could use to stop him. Chris tried to understand him, in hopes of figuring out a way to stop him. “And that’s why you eat people?” Chris asked casually.

Professor Mordet’s voice dropped to a whisper: “When I was in the twelfth grade, I woke up in the middle of the night to hear a voice: ‘How does flesh grow? Flesh must eat flesh; that’s how flesh grows. How do souls grow? Souls must eat souls; that’s how souls grow. How do you grow? You eat people; that’s how you grow.’ I looked around my room for the source of the voice, but I couldn’t find it. For a moment, I thought I might be losing my sanity. But the voice came again and said the same thing. I felt so … liberated. It was so similar to Plato’s allegory of the cave. Up until then, I had been living my life chained to a cave watching shadows on the wall. The voice freed me. Immediately, I turned around and saw the fire and the reality that was casting shadows on the wall. My life until then had only been two-dimensional.” He paused.

Chris’s skin became cold, but he mentally blocked the cold from entering the core of his body.

“You have a secret, too, Chris. I can sense it. Both of us can see beyond the shadows on the wall.”

Chris lost patience with Mordet’s decapitation of reason. “Souls don’t need to eat souls. You’re smart enough to know that. Souls that destroy souls destroy themselves in the end. It doesn’t matter whether you heard a voice or not; you make your own decisions.”

“I thought I proved my point when I escaped from that prison in Iraq.”

“You proved that your lust for evil is greater than your desire to do good.”

“I am on a mission to transform beyond epic proportions.”

Chris forewent preaching and spoke as a SEAL. “I won’t let you do that—especially not here in my country.”

“I have already grown much since you and I last met,” Mordet said.

Chris clenched his fist, and his vocal cords tightened up. “You ate Ron Hickok.”

Professor Mordet was silent for a moment. “Ah, you must have been one of his students. So you must know something about how much I have learned. And from hearing the softness in the edges of your voice, it seems you have not grown. I am not the same man you once captured in Syria. You will not capture me again.” His voice became so cold that it made Chris shiver. “I believe I will succeed, and my mental strength will make it so.”

“What is your next target?” Chris asked.

“Now you’re disappointing me.”

“You’re estranged from reality.”

“I am estranged from mediocrity,” Professor Mordet said. “You and I are not mediocre. And there is a fine line between what is real and what is not. How can you know the difference unless you walk that line, too? People are going to die, and I cannot let you stand in my way.”

“That mental strength is about to get real expensive,” Chris warned.

“The last time we met, you broke your promise. If I see you again, you are going to honor your word. With interest.”

The phone line went dead.