Trident's First Gleaming: A Special Operations Group Thriller by Stephen Templin Page A

Even so, he knew the power of his mind, and he willed himself to press on.
    Finally, he made it to the bottom of the mountain. A sting in his thigh reminded him of his wound. He found some cover behind a thick tree, leaned against it, and examined his wound. There wasn’t a lot of blood, but he had a Moby Dick-sized bruise that was swollen and tender, so he bandaged his leg with a simple first aid packet from his pocket.
    After bandaging his wound, he resumed walking until he spotted an Iranian-made Tira—Farsi for gazelle . The window was partially opened, so he reached in and unlocked the driver’s door. He climbed inside and re-locked the door, then opened his pocketknife and jammed the blade in the ignition as far as it would go. He angrily pounded the handle with the heel of his hand, driving the blade for the heart. Then, as if it were a key, he turned the handle. The Tira started.
    He peeled out on the loose gravel, heading back toward the city. The original plan was that the four of them would take the Switchblade Whisper directly to the yacht. Because that was also the most logical choice for Victor’s escape, Chris headed for the marina. Fury replaced his exhaustion, and he stomped the pedal and drove like a madman. Realizing he might draw unwanted attention, he eased off the gas.
    Stay in control. You don’t know for sure this is Victor’s fault, and even if it is, you can’t kill him in anger .
    When he arrived, he parked at the Syrian Yacht Club and stepped out into the dark silence. There was no sign of the van Jim Bob and Victor had used. The restaurant had closed, and there was only one light on in the office building. He’d have to sneak past the guard to reach the yacht.
    He crept up to the office and peered inside. The guard’s body lay face down in an inky puddle on the floor with a black spray of stains on the wall behind him. It was ghastly to look at, but the sight pulled at his eyes for attention. He turned away rather than treat the deceased as some kind of freak show.
    It had to be Victor.
    Then his heart sank. Part of him acknowledged that Hannah could’ve conspired with the bastard, but Chris didn’t want to believe that. She was his friend, and he cared about her—enough to leave his congregation to risk his life on this mission. Then again, maybe Hannah, Victor, and Jim Bob were all in on this together. Toxic fumes rose from his being, but he still wasn’t sure who to direct them at.
    When he reached the pier, he wasn’t shocked to find the yacht missing; what was a shock was the body floating on the dark bay under the moonlight. The ocean licked the sides of the pier as Chris proceeded to get a closer look. He was reluctant to identify the body, hoping it wasn’t hers, but he had to know for sure. He stepped forward close enough to recognize the corpse: Wolf. Chris wanted to puke, cry, and kill someone at the same time—the mix of emotions acidic on his tongue. He exhaled forcefully, trying to expel some of the poison.
    Who did this? Why?
    Chris needed answers. Wolf’s killer, or killers, could be anywhere. Whoever it was had to have a reason for killing Wolf and taking the Agency yacht. Chris went over what he knew in his head. The focus of their mission had been to recover the Switchblade Whisper, particularly the black box, and destroy what they couldn’t take with them. Mordet was also after the drone, and other enemies of America would probably be interested in acquiring it, too, if they knew about it. Then he remembered overhearing Victor’s cell phone conversation in what sounded like Chinese.
    Maybe Victor is working for them. If so, he could’ve already handed it off to the Chinese and escaped via the Agency yacht, but during Victor’s phone conversation, he’d said what sounded like the city of Ras al-Basit, which had a marina large enough to park a yacht. That was fifty klicks north. Realizing there was little more he could learn in Latakia, he decided to sail to