Trident's First Gleaming

by Stephen Templin

  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.

  18

  _______

  Vehicles crept along Ataturk Boulevard, their headlights illuminating the trio as they walked down the street with their AKs. Chris could feel the rubberneckers’ eyes on him, and while he was used to working covertly, here he was out in the open on foreign soil. Although Turkey was an ally, the polis wouldn’t be too pleased about three Americans running around the streets carrying AK rifles. He gripped the rifle tighter in his sweat-dampened palms.

  Sonny used the lull in traffic to cross the boulevard. Hannah and Chris followed. In spite of the slowdown, the cars in one lane sped along as if they were oblivious to the situation or just didn’t care. After the trio dodged vehicles from both directions, they reached the other side. They passed between what looked like a broadcast studio building and a concert hall. The parking lots were empty, and only faint moonlight illuminated the crepuscular interiors of the buildings. Nearby, they found refuge in a cluster of evergreens. There they lay prone in a tight triangular defensive position covering the 360 degrees around them.

  Because most of his gear had been confiscated by the deputy ambassador and his boys, Chris felt impotent without it. He tried not to dwell on the seeming hopelessness of the situation. Instead, his brain simmered for solutions.

  He ejected the magazine from his AK and pressed down with his thumb on the top bullet of the magazine. He knew from the magazine’s size and shape that it could hold thirty rounds. His thumb sank deep in the magazine before he felt strong resistance. “I’m not injured, but I’ve only got half a magazine,” he whispered.

  “Same,” Sonny said.

  “I’m fine,” Hannah reported, “less than a full magazine.”

  “Reverend and Infidel,” Sonny said with a smile, guessing their identities. “Reverend’s shooting and his uncanny ability to find a way to win and Infidel’s rep as a top spook are legendary. Unit guys still talk about you two. In a good way.”

  Chris tested Sonny to see if he was who he said he was. “Two-Face must trust you a lot to give you the keys to the embassy.” Two-Face was in the Unit’s Bravo Squadron, so Chris purposefully gave the wrong squadron to see if Sonny would correct him. “Were you with him in Charlie Squadron?”

  “I served in Alpha Squadron, but Two-Face was in Bravo,” Sonny said. “They call me Mr. Sunshine.” He smiled in the moonlight. “Because of my cheerful disposition.”

  “Now that’s a name I recognize,” Chris said. “Not from your cheerful disposition but from how you terrorize terrorists.”

  “Two-Face and I were both Rangers,” Sonny said. “Finished Selection together and entered the Unit at the same time.”

  “Okay, boys. Enough chitchat. We need a phone,” Hannah said. “There’s an Agency station less than a klick from here. If I can call them, maybe they can help.”

  “The deputy ambassador confiscated my lock-picking tools,” Chris said, �
�but if you think it’s worth the risk of setting off an alarm, I can break a window to get us inside the concert hall to use a phone.”

  “Hopefully the fracas across the street will be enough to keep the neighborhood distracted,” Sonny said, “but a silent alarm will make for a long evening.”

  “It’s worth the risk to me,” Hannah said.

  Chris took them out of the trees and to the concert hall building, where he thrust the muzzle of his rifle into the nearest window, breaking it. No alarm sounded, but it was still possible the building had a silent alarm. He poked out the larger shards of glass before running his muzzle along the inside edges of the frame, clearing much of the remaining pieces. Finally, he maneuvered through the opening, trying not to touch the inside edges of the frame. Hannah and Sonny brought up the rear.

  No guards had arrived. Yet.

  Chris traversed the hall quickly until he found an office area. He motioned to one of the phones. “Knock yourself out.”

  Hannah laid her AK across the desk, sat down, and made a call while Chris and Sonny stood guard.

  Within minutes, Hannah turned to Chris, covered the mouthpiece on the phone, and said, “I’m getting the chief on the line now.” She waited for a moment before she spoke into the receiver: “Yes, sir. Our embassy in Ankara has been overrun by Syrian terrorists.” Then she paused. “I don’t know if the ambassador was in the compound or not,” she said. “I don’t know if the deputy ambassador actually made it out alive or not. I don’t know if anyone made it out alive other than us.” After another pause she said, “Yes, I’m still with Chris, and we have another person with us who works for the government, but what does that have to do with the embassy being overrun? There is sensitive equipment in an SUV parked inside the embassy that the terrorists can use to launch cyber attacks against the US!”

  A police siren sounded.

  “What does my location have to do with the embassy?” Hannah asked.

  The siren became louder.

  “No, I will not be put on hold!” Hannah slammed down the phone.

  The sound of the siren became stationary in the direction of the embassy. From the same direction, someone shouted in Turkish over a PA speaker—probably a Turkish cop. An AK rattled, and the shouting stopped. Then the siren ceased. Engines started and vehicles seemed to be rolling away.

  “Maybe the tangos are moving out,” Chris said.

  Sonny held out his ring of keys. “Good. Because I’m guessing we’re not getting any Agency help on this one.” He turned to Hannah, and she shook her head. “So if the ragheads bug out, the compound will be clear for us to access the TOC. One of these keys should let us inside.” The TOC building was the Tactical Operating Center for the embassy compound. “We might find your weapons, ammo, and GPS tracker there. Hopefully some goodies for me, too.”

  “We’d better hurry,” Hannah said. “Police will be swarming the embassy any minute, and we can’t let the tangos get away with the Switchblade Whisper.”

  Chris opened the nearest window and climbed out. It was standard operating procedure not to travel the same path twice. No point in giving the enemy a chance to lay a booby trap or ambush, waiting for a SEAL’s return. “It’ll take time if we travel south around the German embassy,” Chris said. “After the attack on the US Embassy, all the embassies in the area are probably on alert, and the Germans won’t be pleased to see us armed with AKs near their compound.”

  “But if we enter from the north, we risk bumping into the main force of the tangos or arriving police,” Hannah said.

  “We’ll just have to take the same route back,” Sonny said.

  Chris and Hannah nodded in agreement. So much for SOP.

  After crossing the boulevard, Chris climbed over the same spiked fence. I hope we’re not walking into an ambush. When his feet touched the ground inside the embassy and no booby traps went boom, he thanked God. He probably should’ve felt the danger of their situation more, but his body was weary, and his nerves were numb. He covered the area with his AK while Hannah and Sonny climbed over. Maybe his opponents were waiting for them to join him in their kill zone before they launched their ambush. Hannah and Sonny arrived, but there was no ambush.

  19

  _______

  All over the fence now, Chris led them across the compound in search of the TOC. Car tires burned like misshapen donuts from Hell, long, flaming tongues tasting the paint of the vehicles as smoky flames gutted the interiors, casting impish shadows in the parking lot. Beyond the broken windows of the main building, the flaming interior raged from hot white in the center to burning yellow, fiery orange, and caldron red before fading into the black abyss of night. Except for the fires, the compound was eerily quiet. Chris led them across the compound in search of the TOC.

  He stopped in front of the steel door of a small building that was separated from the others and hadn’t been burned—most likely the TOC. Sonny tried his master key, but it didn’t work. He kicked the door under the doorknob and reinforced lock. The door opened a crack. Sonny stepped to the side, and Chris took a kick at it. With a loud thud, the door budged open more, but it was still locked. “My turn,” Hannah said. When her kick struck the steel, it sounded like thunder. The door flew open, taking it off one of the hinges. It dangled on the remaining hinge like scrap metal. Chris had known she had it in her; even so, it was heart-juddering to behold. He held back a chuckle as Sonny stood slack-jawed, staring at her. Hannah walked through the door as if she’d done nothing special.

  “United States Government!” she shouted when inside. “We’re here to help!”

  “Damn, she’s hot,” Sonny said.

  The trio proceeded through the building methodically clearing their way with their AKs. In one room, video of the compound streamed live on a panel of monitors. Beyond the surveillance room, they reached the armory, where Chris and Hannah found their weapons and ammo.

  Chris was infectiously upbeat to reunite with his old friends: HK416 and Glock 19. Feelings of power and safety rushed through him once again, that spiritual connection energizing him. He took care of his weapons, and they took care of him. His firearms instructor, Ron Hickok, had once confided that he had a similar feeling for his firearms, and he’d said it was a necessary bond to achieve a level of shooting that transcended the capability of the individual and the weapon as separate entities.

  Next to his weapon, he found his lighter among other items. He didn’t smoke, but he carried the lighter as a memento from darker days and a survival tool.

  Chris liberated his ammo along with extra from the diplomatic security’s cache. Hannah did likewise. Sonny inspected an M4 rifle and compact .45 pistol. He took them and laid down his AK with a look of scorn.

  “Commie piece of shit, anyway,” he grumbled.

  They grabbed assorted grenades, breaching explosives, holsters, rifle slings, backpacks, energy gels, and more. Hannah found the most important pieces of gear—the two GPS trackers. She kept hers and tossed Chris the one he’d taken from Jim Bob and Victor. On a nearby table, they also located Jim Bob’s laptop and Victor’s cell phone.

  “I’ll take you two as far as the gate,” Sonny said.

  “You’re not coming with us?” Chris asked.

  “Your mission isn’t my mission, and I need to get back to the Unit.”

  Chris tried to enlist his aid. “You saw what Hannah and I are up against. That same threat is on its way to America.”

  “Wish I could help. I’ll tell JSOC what you’re doing and see if they can provide assistance.”

  Chris didn’t expect to be able to change Sonny’s mind. If the roles were reversed, Chris would do the same. “Okay.”

  They finished gearing up, and true to his word, Sonny walked with them to the gate. In front of it, there were two bloody bodies—Salt-n-Pepper and Two-Face. Chris crouched down to check their vital signs: “They’re dead.” Chris looked up at Sonny, but his eyes remained on Two-Face, his expression unreadable.


  Wailing sirens from a fleet of police cars sounded in the distance.

  “Hannah and I can’t stick around here any longer,” Chris said. “I’m sorry about Two-Face.”

  Sonny didn’t flinch.

  “Sonny, you going to be okay?” Hannah asked.

  “Do I look like I’m eating an ice cream sandwich?”

  Hannah hushed; the sirens became louder.

  “The three of us are going to find the pieces of shit who did this,” Sonny said. His voice was calm. “And I’ll go Guantanamo on them with a butcher knife and a brown rat.”

  Chris knew the pain of losing friends in combat, but everyone grieved differently, and they grieved differently for different comrades. Some looked to Heaven for help, some drank, some immersed themselves deeper in their work, and some vowed revenge. For the loss of Two-Face, Sonny’s way of grieving was clear.

  20

  _______

  Assuming the point position, Chris jogged north through the city on foot, trying to create distance between his team and the embassy before the police arrived. He ran through a stretch of trees off Balli, the one-way road that ran south, to conceal their movement. Soon sirens came their way. The flashing lights of patrol cars lit up an area seventy-five meters ahead of Chris’s position. Before the patrol cars turned the corner, Chris dropped to the ground behind a tree. He looked back at Hannah and Sonny. They shadowed his movements, hiding on the ground behind trees. During the day, it would be easier for the police to spot their hasty attempt at concealment. Chris hoped the night would hide their sins.

  Some people had better senses than others: sight, hearing, taste, smell, and touch. Similarly, Ron Hickok said that some people had a better sixth sense than others. On a number of occasions since childhood, when Chris sensed someone was watching him, he turned around to check, discovering his sense to be accurate. On occasion, he looked at someone who turned around to catch his gaze. If a Turkish cop was one of those with a heightened sixth sense, he wouldn’t have to see Chris and his teammates to sense they were there. Chris flushed all thoughts from his mind except for one: I am tree roots. He imagined the stillness of wood and felt the richness of the soil against his bark as he became one with the earth. He became so engrossed in his transformation that the growing intensity of the police lights and sirens disconnected from him. The lights flashed brighter, and the sirens blared louder—wrestling with his concentration and threatening to expose him. Chris clung to his metamorphosis. The patrol cars passed.