Trident's First Gleaming

by Stephen Templin

  “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.

  4

  _______

  Chris stood there, silent for a while. He heard someone nearby speak but didn’t catch the words.

  “You okay?” the head minister, John Luther, asked, placing a hand on Chris’s forearm.

  Chris groaned. “I don’t know.”

  Pastor Luther waited quietly. He was a good listener, and Chris wished he could listen as well as Pastor Luther. He wished he could do a lot of things as well as Pastor Luther. People commented on Chris’s big heart, but next to Pastor Luther, Chris felt like his heart was twenty-two sizes too small.

  “Uncle Sam wants me back,” Chris said quietly.

  “It must be important.”

  Chris tried to think critically about the situation. “Or maybe it’s just a wild hawg hunt.”

  “How can you know?” Pastor Luther asked calmly.

  “I can’t know until after I accept the mission.”

  “And then if you find out it’s an important mission?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Pastor Luther nodded.

  After Chris left the Navy, he’d returned to Harvard to finish his degree and completed his internship under Pastor Luther, who’d invited him to return to work for him after graduation. “In the eleven months I’ve been your assistant pastor, I’ve really felt at home with the congregation,” Chris said.

  “You’ve brought a lot of new members to our fold and found some of our lost sheep. You have talents that I don’t have. Is she asking you to quit?”

  “She’s asking me to take a three-week vacation.”

  “You two were friends?” Pastor Luther asked.

  “Colleagues,” Chris replied. “And friends.” The admission came out shy, almost embarrassed.

  “I see.”

  “I don’t want to go,” Chris said, “but something terrible might happen if I stay.”

  “I don’t want you to go, either.”

  “But if the Lord wants me to go, and I don’t go, I’m concerned about the consequences,” Chris said. “Not just for myself but for others. Since Hannah walked through that door, my whole world turned upside down. My old job and this job seem in conflict. She’s a colleague and a friend, but there were moments when I wished we could put the world on pause and see if we could be something more.”

  �
��God hears you.”

  “But right now, I’m afraid I can’t hear Him. Why would the Lord bring me all the way here to this peaceful place—just to send me back to war? Why would I walk away from Hannah just so she could walk back in? I want guidance, but I’m afraid that I only want to hear the guidance that I want to hear.” While Pastor Luther seemed to have a hotline to God, Chris experienced both good and bad reception days.

  “Where does your friend live?” Pastor Luther asked.

  “Virginia.”

  “It must be important for her to come way out here to Dallas.”

  “She said it’s a matter of national security.”

  “This was the Lord’s church before you and I arrived. And it’ll be the Lord’s church long after you and I are gone. I’ll be happy to cover for you until you return.”

  “Will you pray for me while I’m away?” Chris asked.

  “Certainly.”

  “I’ve never been too afraid about physical death, but I am afraid of spiritual death.”

  “I just have one favor to ask of you,” Pastor Luther said.

  “Sure.”

  “When you go back to the kind of work you used to do, old habits will return—it’s inevitable. Much of that can be forgiven. I don’t like killing, but I understand that’s what a soldier must do for his country, and I won’t tell you how to do that part of your job. But I saw how she looked at you and how you looked at her. If you fall into serious transgression, I can’t support you. And if you want my recommendation to preach elsewhere, I won’t be able to give it.”

  “I understand,” Chris said. “You told me the same before I started work here. I agreed with you then, and I agree with you now.”

  “God expects more from you and me. We are His ambassadors. We are His anointed servants. If you marry her, you two can procreate to your hearts’ desire, but until then, you abstain.”

  The conversation was awkward for Chris, and he guessed it was awkward for Reverend Luther, too, but he was grateful for Reverend Luther’s straight-shooting character and unflinching dedication. “Yes, sir. I’ll be careful.”

  “Shall I pray?”

  Chris nodded.

  They bowed their heads, and Pastor Luther prayed to protect Chris from harm, both physical and spiritual. “Please keep all cruelty, hate, and murder out of Chris’s heart, even during battle…”

  Chris had spent the whole night preparing for his journey back to black. After only a couple hours of sleep, he called a taxi that first took him to Pastor Luther’s home. In the dawn light, a spring wind graced new maple leaves with movement, and tree branches sent off an armada of flat fibers that whirled through the air like helicopters. Patches of fresh St. Augustine grass replaced the winter’s dead, and a cardinal pecked for food in the flowerbed where a small rainbow of petunias and lantanas bloomed. Chris rang the doorbell.

  Pastor Luther’s wife answered the door. “Good morning, Chris. You just missed him. He left to visit Zeke Jackson in the hospital.”

  “That’s all right. I just needed to drop some things off for him, if you don’t mind.”

  “Of course not,” she said warmly. “I was expecting you.”

  Chris nodded. “These are the keys to my house and car. And I’ve included some instructions and important papers in this file.” Chris handed the keys and file to her.

  She smiled as she took them.

  “My will is in the file, too,” Chris added as an afterthought.

  Mrs. Luther froze for a moment, as if it was her first time sending a man off to combat. “Don’t worry about your things,” she said. “We’ll make sure they’re taken care of until you return.”

  “Thank you.”

  “We’ll miss you,” she added.

  “I’ll miss y’all, too.”

  She wrapped him in a hug. She started to release him but then hugged him again—tighter—as if she couldn’t make up her mind whether to keep hugging or let him go. Finally she released him. “Be safe,” she said.

  Chris walked away with a wave good-bye, not knowing when—or if—he’d see her and her husband again. She waved back, standing in the doorway until Chris’s taxi pulled away.

  He considered himself unworthy to be treated so kindly. As a SEAL, he worked on Sundays, deceived and killed people, but that was all part of the job, and he didn’t feel guilt over it. While in the Teams, he’d never gotten any tattoos and never drank. But he’d swore like a sailor and had sex with a number of women. In the Teams, the guys teased him about his high moral standards, but compared to Reverend and Mrs. Luther, he felt as far from the Lord as angels could fly.

  It was reassuring to know that, in spite of all the darkness on the earth, there were still places where the sun shined. Although he felt sadness at leaving, he also felt a calm peace that what he was doing was right.

  The taxi driver dropped him off at the La Quinta Inn. Inside, people were eating their continental breakfasts, checking out, and hurrying to catch their rides. Hannah was nowhere in sight.

  Chris hadn’t eaten, and he didn’t know when he’d find another chance to eat, so he grabbed some breakfast, sat down in the back of the lobby, and ate—keeping his eye on the entrances and exits.

  Always know your escape routes. Stay away from the windows in case a car bomb goes off.

  His old mindset was coming back to him already.

  He finished eating and looked at his watch: 0658. Only two minutes. Maybe I have the wrong hotel. He checked the sheet of paper. The hotel was right. Maybe I remembered the wrong time.

  Then Hannah arrived at his table. “I’m happy you showed,” she said with that twinkle in her eye. “The taxi is on its way.”

  A fresh burst of oxygen filled his lungs. “I was worried I had the wrong time.”

  The cab took them to the Dallas-Fort Worth airport, where they caught their flight to DC. As tempted as he was to engage Hannah while he had her alone, after such a busy night preparing for the trip and being unable to sleep, Chris needed a nap. Besides, he didn’t know when he’d have another opportunity to sleep.

  His eyes grew heavier as he tried to relax, his body more and more lethargic. He had only one more thought, a remembrance of a Proverb, before he drifted off.

  Be not afraid of sudden fear.

  5

  _______

  Chris woke up at 1335 as they touched down at Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport. He followed Hannah to the short-term parking lot, where they located her yellow Mustang convertible, and twenty minutes later, they arrived at the CIA headquarters in Langley. It wasn’t Chris’s first visit, but he couldn’t help spending a moment to get an overview of the layout. The front building was unchanged from the last time he’d been there, the original concrete structure still in place. The glass and steel New Headquarters Building, however, lay to the west. Conversations inside couldn’t vibrate the specialized glass, thwarting outsiders from eavesdropping with laser microphones.

  Hannah parked in a side lot. She didn’t lead him through the front entrance, where the CIA seal was inlaid in the granite floor and a marble Memorial Wall stood with 103 stars carved into it.

  Instead, she led him to a side entrance, where she showed the guard her ID, handed him her car keys, and signed in. Hannah gave Chris a temporary badge. He put it on and followed her through a maze of halls. Hannah worked for Special Operations Group (SOG), which conducted high-threat military and intelligence operations that the US government might deny knowledge of, such as when SEAL Team Six had raided bin Laden’s headquarters. SOG also utilized Army Delta Force operators and others. When Chris and his teammates had rescued Young, they’d been working with Hannah under SOG.

  It was a world in which Chris had once been comfortable, but now he experienced reverse culture shock. He’d expected becoming a pastor was going to be different—attending religious classes at Harvard, praying often, reading the Bible daily, attending frequent church meetings, maintaining high moral standards, and so on—so he
’d experienced little shock in the transition from SEAL to pastor. He hadn’t expected returning to the world of black ops would feel like a new experience, but he felt like an alien landing on a new planet. Even the pace of walking was faster than he remembered. He increased his speed to keep up with Hannah. They reached a room with an armed guard posted at the door. Hannah showed the guard her ID, and he opened the door for her.

  Inside was a conference room with a feast laid out on the table. A slightly overweight man in his fifties wearing a suit jacket, slacks, and cowboy boots greeted Chris. “Howdy, Chris. Welcome to the family.” His fatherly voice rose and fell with a slow sweetness like molasses. “I’m Jim Bob Louve.”

  Chris held out his hand to shake Jim Bob’s, but Jim Bob hugged him instead. The overabundance of affection caught Chris off guard.

  “Thought you might be famished, and since I was having a late lunch,” Jim Bob said, “well, please, sit down and join me.”

  Chris thanked him and took a seat at the table with Hannah. Another man already sat across from them looking at papers in a file.

  Jim Bob seated himself at the head of the table. “Help yourself,” he said.

  The other man continued to look at his papers rather than grab some lunch, but Jim Bob and Hannah reached for plates. Chris put fried chicken, cornbread, coleslaw, black-eyed peas, and fried okra on his—southern cooking was one of his favorites. He waited for Jim Bob to eat first.

  “Don’t be shy, dig in,” Jim Bob said. “Oh, I almost forgot. Where are my manners? Chris, this is Victor.” His hand gestured toward the quiet man, who glanced up from his papers. Victor had that thousand-yard stare like so many combat veterans Chris had known. “Victor was a case officer like me. Until we made the switch to SOG.”

  Chris nodded.

  “You worked for SEAL Team Six in Iraq, didn’t you?” Victor asked.

  “I’m not aware of any such unit,” Chris replied. Maybe SEAL Team Six was public knowledge now and had a history of working with the Agency, but Chris wasn’t used to casually discussing such things with strangers, and Victor was already rubbing Chris’s rhubarb. Maybe he was testing Chris to see if he had loose lips.