Trident's First Gleaming: A Special Operations Group Thriller (3 page)

Before Chris reached the bottom, the stench hit him with the force of a cargo ship at full speed. His feet touched the ground, and he immediately put a rappelling harness on Young. Part of the offensive odor came from Young: a mixture of urine, feces, and something else Chris couldn’t discern. He gagged. Young was missing both ears and most of an arm. In that moment, the wounds were Chris’s, and he wanted to kill Mordet.

He attached Young’s harness to the free rope and gave it a tug. Chris’s teammates pulled Young up. Fortunately, the harness didn’t require two hands for balance. Then Chris tugged on his own rope, but there was no response. “Hey, pull me up!”

Chris tugged again, harder. Nothing. “Get me the hell out of here!” Not waiting for an answer, he pulled himself up the rope. He climbed higher and higher—faster and faster. Soon he cleared the top, freed himself from the rope, and took cover behind the well. Oxygen rushed into his lungs like a roaring river.

Psycho grinned with bloodlust with each insurgent he dropped—he enjoyed the killing too much. Beside Chris lay Beanpole, his neck and face covered in liquid goo—he’d been shot. Chris neither liked nor respected Beanpole, but he was still a teammate, and it sucked some of the life out of Chris to see him injured like that. While Little Doc tried to help Beanpole, Young crouched next to them shaking.

Chris dropped the rappelling gear, stood between Young and the enemy, aimed at the nearest attacker, and squeezed the trigger—two to the chest. The attacker landed on his back with his leg folded underneath him. Chris patted Young on the shoulder. “You’re going home tonight. You’re going to be okay.” It’s what Chris would want to hear, and it’s what Chris intended to deliver.

“Thank you, thank you. I’m going home, I’m going home.” He kept repeating his thanks and that he was going home.

Now the whole inland area seemed to move toward them—there must’ve been nearly a hundred tangos out there, outnumbering the SEALs seven-to-one—despite his team’s talent, the odds favored a SEAL slaughter. If they tried to break contact now, the enemy would overrun them. The SEALs would have to put up a ferocious fight in order to give the enemy enough pause to allow the frogmen to flee.

The enemy raised the volume of their fire to forte fortissimo and advanced on the SEALs. Chris shot a barrel-chested tango, busting his barrel. Another tango stepped in front of Barrel Chest to take his place. There seemed to be no end to them. The air around Chris cracked off like firecrackers, and a round hit him in the gut, punching the air from his lungs. He gasped for air and said a silent prayer of thanks that the bullet-resistant vest
had
stopped the projectile before it cut into his flesh.

The enemy advanced. Despite the SEALs’ best efforts, they couldn’t slow the assault.

So this is how it ends.

His promise to get Young home had become a lie.

“Mary Poppins, Sierra One.” LT’s radioman spoke their call sign anxiously over the communications net, trying to get in touch with a plane above for backup. “Identify our position, over.”

“Sierra One, Mary Poppins, I identify fifteen friendlies, over,” a crew member onboard replied. Flying at an altitude of nearly a mile in the sky, out of enemy small arms and RPG range but within the plane’s own artillery and cannons’ range, Mary Poppins flew in a wide circle around the battlefield.

“That is correct,” LT’s radioman confirmed. “Kill everything west of us outside danger close!”

“Roger, Sierra One. Kill everything west of you outside danger close.”

Over the noise of the ground fighting, a small clap of thunder came from the sky. The first 105 mm, thirty-three-pound projectile popped the sound barrier as it shot to earth. In the middle of the enemies’ position, the earth exploded, flinging body parts and dirt. The closest survivors lay stunned in a column of rising smoke.

Six seconds later, the smoke cleared, and another 105mm bomb struck the earth, this time on the enemies’ left flank. Most of the insurgents on the right flank figured out it was time to haul booty. Six seconds later, the right flank detonated, obliterating the slow learners.

Meanwhile, the plane’s cannon opened up. Each second, two explosive pom-poms blasted clusters of bad guys.

Enemy bullets stopped popping the air around Chris’s head.

“Pop smoke,” LT commanded over the radio.

Psycho and the rear security SEAL from LT’s squad popped their smoke grenades. Soon the smoke blocked the line of sight between the insurgents and the SEALs.

“Leapfrog back to the primary extract,” LT said. “Second squad, to the helos.”

Chris pulled Young up from the ground. “Run to the chopper!” Chris shouted.

Young didn’t have to be told twice. He ran with Chris’s squad to the Black Hawk and didn’t stop until they arrived safely inside. Doc attended to Beanpole, who was still alive.

Two or three AKs broke out on full auto behind them, but LT’s squad silenced them.

“First squad, back,” called LT. LT and his teammates rose and dashed to the helo. The AC-130 overhead continued to pound the terrorists with 40 mike-mikes.

Immediately after the rest of the men loaded onto the helos, they lifted off the ground. They flew with the doors open because that was the quickest way to enter and exit, especially during emergencies. The helos turned east and pulled forward. “RPG, six o’clock!” a voice came from the rear of Chris’s helo.

“RPG, six o’clock!” others in the middle of the chopper echoed.

“RPG, six o’clock,” the pilot acknowledged. He banked the helicopter hard and turned south.

Gravity pulled mercilessly on Chris, and somebody bumped into him, almost knocking him off his bench. It was Young: unable to hold on with one arm, his feet slid out the door and kicked Chris. He had remembered to connect a tether to Young, securing him to the helo, but in all the excitement, he couldn’t remember if he’d secured himself.

Chris strained to hug the helo, but gravity continued to pull at him, and the wind continued to whip his body mercilessly. He was losing his own grip.
If I can hold out just a little longer—until the RPG passes and the helo straightens out.

Boom!
The RPG blew up, shaking the helo. Chris slipped. His heart leaped just before Psycho caught him, stopping him from falling off.

The Black Hawk leveled off, and Chris no longer had to fight with gravity. He noticed that he had attached his tether. He looked around and was glad to see that no one appeared injured. Now they were in the homestretch. More importantly, Young was free. Chris exhaled long and hard.

Psycho put his mouth close to Chris’s ear and shouted above the wind, “When we get back, are you really going to give Mordet that piece of your ear?!”

“Are you on meth?”

“It wouldn’t be very reverend-like of you to break a promise!”

“Mordet can eat my badonkadonk!”

Psycho laughed. “Be careful what you wish for!”

“I’m finished!”

“What do you mean?” Psycho asked.

“I mean I’m finished with this shit! I’m not going to re-up!” The words came out of his mouth so naturally. It was what he had to do.

Psycho’s face became serious. “Really? What are you going to do?”

“Become a preacher!” Chris said.

“You’ve got to be shitting me!”

…Lord, I believe; help thou my unbelief.

— S
T
. M
ARK
9:24

_______

SPRING 2014

T
he darkened sky dumped rain on the roof of a church in Dallas while Chris stood behind the pulpit and opened his Bible to St. Mark 9:14-29. As he looked out across the congregation, a beautifully familiar figure entered the church and took a seat at the end of a pew near the back.

Hannah. It’s been years.

She lit up God’s house with a devilish grin.

He smiled, too, wanting to run to her and greet her, but he had a sermon to finish. “Jesus approached his disciples,” he continued, “where they were gathered around arguing with a group of people. A father explained that his son was possessed by an evil spirit. The boy had seizures—foamed at the mouth, scratched and bit people. Sometimes the evil spirit caused the boy to throw himself into fire and water. The father asked Jesus’s disciples to cast the evil spirit out—”

Chris’s parents had told him about the terror they’d felt when he was held hostage in Damascus. As he gave his sermon, he thought of their pain. And his own.

“—And so it is with us,” Chris summarized. “With a little bit of sincere faith, we can perform stellar miracles.”

The head minister had given Chris the useful advice to include personal anecdotes in his sermons, helping the listeners connect to his messages more easily, but now only the horrors of war came to mind, and Chris dared not share them, so he concluded his sermon.

Three women, including Hannah, lingered to talk to Chris. In the back, men and women socialized with each other, and the rest filtered out the door. “I really enjoyed how you explained the story of the father and his son,” a not scantily endowed woman in a lemon-yellow jumpsuit said.

Chris politely thanked her. Her husband was an alcoholic and had frequent brushes with the law. Chris and Reverend Luther had helped her out more than once when her husband was incarcerated. Many of the members had come to Chris and Reverend Luther for counseling regarding personal challenges.
Some people have the misconception that only good people attend church, but churches are like hospitals—they are for the sick and afflicted, and in this world, everyone is sick and afflicted.

A second woman, wearing a flowery rose-red dress, also complimented Chris on his sermon. She was a single mother struggling to raise her teenage son, Ben. Chris’s peripheral vision spotted Ben. Todd Koak, a middle-aged member of the congregation who never minded his own business, cornered the kid. On any given day, Ben was a little awkward, but now he seemed particularly uncomfortable. “Excuse me,” Chris interrupted Ben’s mother then walked to where the young man and Todd stood.

“When are you going to talk to a recruiter?” Todd asked.

“I don’t think I want to,” Ben replied

“It’s your duty as an American to serve.” Todd spoke loudly with a voice full of pride and authority.

“I think we’ve already done enough,” Chris said, patting the boy’s shoulder.

Todd ignored Chris. “We have to—”

“How many days did you serve in the military?” Chris interrupted.

Todd took a step back. “I think you know.”

“But does Ben know?”

Todd was silent.

“Todd, tell Ben how many days you served.”

Todd looked at his watch. “I almost forgot. I have to go.” He lowered his head and wormed out the door.

“How many days did he serve, Pastor Chris?”

Chris held up his hand and gestured:
zero
.

“I want to go to college,” Ben said.

“You’ll be a kick,” Chris said, stopping himself before he uttered a word that wasn’t very pastoral. “You’ll be a kick-butt college student.” Chris gave him a friendly fist bump that brightened Ben’s countenance as if he’d just found a hundred-dollar bill. It seemed Ben hadn’t experienced much of that type of male camaraderie, so Chris made a mental note of engaging Ben like that more often.

After most of the congregation cleared out, Hannah strolled over to Chris. Her smile radiated like a supernova. “I thought it was some kind of sick joke until now. You really did become a preacher, didn’t you?”

Chris basked in her warmth. “Long time, no see.”

“Doesn’t seem like so long ago.” Then she whispered, “You can’t really enjoy being with these people.”

“I’m happier than I’ve been in years.”

“I can see they aren’t too into reality, a lot of them are overweight, and they waste what little money they have in that wicker basket that was passed around.”

“They’re trying to do the right thing,” Chris explained, trying not to let her get under his skin.

“The right thing won’t get done by sitting here.”

“You’re welcome to come more often—see what it is we do here.”

“I expected better from you,” she said. “Not this.”

Chris narrowed his eyes at her. “You didn’t come all the way out here just to insult my congregation, did you?”

“Motorcycle bomb in Pakistan,” she began, “shooting in Iraq, car bomb in Syria, IED in Afghanistan, suicide bombing in India, ambush in Somalia—take your pick. In case you’ve forgotten, the terrorists are still at war with us.”

“But you didn’t come all the way out here to tell me that.”

“Of course not.”

Chris understood. “You can’t give me details until I agree to sign on the dotted line.”

“Same old, same old.”

“Why me? Why now?”

“Uncle Sam is cutting back on personnel, and too many missions have spread us too thin.”

“So why me?” he persisted.

“You know Syria better than most, your Arabic is native-like, you have a knack for solving problems like no one I’ve ever seen, and you shoot like the Devil. Your skills at demolitions are second to none. I’d have to recruit at least two men to come close to doing what you do, but I can only recruit one.”

Chris still found it difficult to become excited about her proposal. “I don’t know.”

“Most of all, I need someone I can trust, and you’re at the top of my list. I’ve got bad vibes about this mission, and I want to make it home. Not in a body bag.”

So it’s Syria again.

Years ago, Chris would’ve been thrilled at the prospect of the kind of mission she implied, but he enjoyed the peace of not having to wade through the cesspools of the world, chasing its refuse. He was helping people where he was. And he was safe. “I’d like to help you, Hannah. I really would. But you want me to leave my calling here without knowing more than you just told me. It’s wanting a lot.”

Her face appeared calm, but behind her eyes, her mind seemed engaged in an internal debate about what to say next. Then the internal debate stopped. “After you left Iraq, Professor Mordet was transferred to a prison, and a few weeks later, he escaped.”

“If you didn’t have my full attention before, you have it now.”

“Mordet is now head of Syria’s cyber warfare unit, and we think he’s planning a major attack against the US. He has outsmarted a lot of people, but he didn’t outsmart you. You’re the best person I know to stop him.”

“I’d like to help, but you’re asking me to quit my job here—”

“You don’t have to quit preaching. Just take a three-week vacation. Think about it.” She handed him a sheet of La Quinta Inn stationery with her room number handwritten on it. “This is where I’m staying. I’ll be checking out tomorrow morning. Meet me in the lobby at 0700 with your bags ready to go. I have an extra ticket for you to fly with me to Langley, where you’ll be briefed on the details.”

Chris touched his prosthetic ear. He wasn’t angry about what Mordet had done to him, but he was still angry about what Mordet had done to Young.

“I need you, Chris.” There was a sincerity in her words that pulled at his heart strings. Hannah wasn’t the type who needed protecting, but Mordet was the type who needed stopping, and he might never forgive himself if he let something bad happen to her.

He took the paper and put it in his pocket.

Hannah turned and cruised to the door—her body erect, leading with her breasts, a Venus de Milo with swinging arms. Her hips swayed to and fro in a hypnotic rhythm. Then she was gone.