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

Ras al-Basit.
    Chris’s eyes skimmed the docks, looking for an easy boat to break into.
    There. Just down the pier.
    He quietly made his way onto the yacht then checked to see if it had fuel. The tank was three-quarters full. That would work. He hotwired it quickly and sailed north with his lights off, following the coast.
    The night air and rocking of the sea calmed him. But after ten klicks, another boat came in his direction from the north. He changed course to head farther out to sea, but the boat shifted direction toward him. He had a better view of it now, and it was roughly the same size as Chris’s. As it got closer, he identified it as one of the Zhuk-class patrol boats that Syria had acquired from Russia. It moved closer. His first inclination was to try and outrun it, but even if his boat was faster, he couldn’t outrun their bullets. “Stop!” a voice called out on a megaphone.
    Chris slowed the yacht to a stop and touched his right hip, feeling his shirt covering the concealed pistol, but he also remembered his role as a minister.
    I can shoot it out now, or I can try to talk my way out of this. I’ve already shed a lot of blood. God, help me, please. He raised his arms in surrender, hoping to talk his way out. The patrol boat pulled up beside the yacht. A uniformed machine gunner on the bow aimed his weapon at Chris, as did another man carrying an AK-47. The stern machine gun was unmanned, and in the pilothouse, dim lights illuminated the pilot.
    The man with the AK ordered the machine gunner to hang out bumpers to protect the boats from damaging each other. As the gunner abandoned his gun, Chris thought shooting them might actually be the better option. The man with the AK motioned to Chris. “Come here!”
    Chris slowly walked to midship.
    The gunner barely finished hanging the last bumper before the two vessels came together. “Tie up the boat and then tie him up!” AK commanded. The gunner proceeded to secure the patrol boat to the yacht, and AK motioned for Chris to board his boat. “What are you doing out here by yourself on this yacht so late at night?!
    Chris hopped from his yacht onto the patrol boat. The man with the AK aggressively walked toward him. Chris proceeded cautiously with his hands up.
    AK closed the gap between them. “Why don’t you answer me? Are you deaf?” He shouted the last bit, shoving the gun toward Chris’s chest.
    Chris didn’t enjoy killing, but he didn’t want to be tortured and hung from a tree for the whole world to see, either. In the absence of divine intervention, Chris chose frogman intervention. He dropped his hands from the surrender position and his left hand slapped the AK away. Meanwhile, his right hand drew the pistol. He fired low from the hip, so he wouldn’t shoot his other arm before he could pull it out of the way. Two shots struck AK in the lower gut, and he fell on his back.
    The gunner turned and ran for his weapon.
    Now Chris had both hands on his pistol as he placed his sights on the gunner’s back and blasted him twice before he could reach the machine gun. The gunner’s back arched as he fell forward.
    Then Chris hurried to the pilothouse and threw open the door. The pilot chattered frantically into the radio, but Chris popped him in the head, ending the transmission. On his way off the patrol boat, he administered the coups de grace for the gunner and AK. He’d wanted to avoid a fight, but they hadn’t left him a choice.
    He returned to his yacht and sailed north. He wasn’t a random killing machine, and he didn’t carry the emotional baggage of being one. It was part of his job—a necessary evil. He didn’t have the luxury of carrying that baggage while simultaneously trying to help Hannah and Jim Bob. Although he attempted to stay positive about the situation, the light in his heart dimmed.
    Over an hour later, when Chris arrived at the Ras al-Basit Marina, the darkness in the sky had surrendered to the morning light. There were