The Paths of Destiny

September 13, 2000:

Following Robin Coyne’s rescue, we continued our classroom instruction. This lasted for another three weeks.

After receiving a Completion Certificate — and a well-deserved weekend Liberty — we reported to the SPJ Basic Training Facility located at RAF Uxbridge.

We were there for three weeks of field training. It was, basically, a cliff notes version of field operations and observing the vets out in the field.

Finally, it was time to graduate.

The graduation would be a small, private affair. We were told we’d be allowed to invite up to three guests, and full dress uniform required for those of us graduating. Graduation ceremonies would be held in a small hall in Chelsea instead of Headquarters. We were to be there at eight that night — an hour before the start — so the form of the graduation could be gone over and have a brief meet-and-greet with the honored guests.

Drayton, Doc and Nighthawk, I later discovered, had decided to go out for dinner first. They didn’t leave the restaurant in time and wound up arriving late. They claimed they weren’t familiar with London traffic and opted to take the bus instead.

I found that rather interesting since Doc had previous experience driving in the City. As a former forensics specialist for Scotland Yard, surely, he would’ve known his way around to reach the various crime scenes as part of his job description. Maybe, I’m assuming forensics procedures at Scotland Yard are like those in my native US.

Coming from the opposite direction, also late, was a member of a different class whom we had seen around campus, Logan Blackeagle.

They subsequently teamed up.

Myself, I’d been spending the past couple of hours with Ted Westbury, my old friend and former Peacekeeper CO. He took me out for a pre-celebratory dinner. Therefore, I happened to be at the Chelsea Hall on time and outside preparing to have a smoke when things hit the fan.

By 8:15, the bus had dropped my friends and Blackeagle off a block away from the hall. As they hurried down the road to the hall, they noticed something strange. They expected to see at least some people milling around; they were surprised that no one was in sight. They weren’t sure if it was one final test or if something was wrong.

The car park was half-full of cars, as expected. Drayton and crew recognized most of them. All Organization or rent-a-limo vehicles from the usual firm. Since the first hour was strictly rehearsal and last-minute stuff, none of the civilian guests would’ve arrived. However, the ones supposed to be there were pretty high-power SPJ Brass, including the Director himself. His personal car, doubling as his official one, was there.

The hall was roughly twice as long as it was wide. Small foyer for intake, long room with a dais at one end. Chairs in the main body of the hall. Kitchen with a pass-through on the right side as one goes in. Dressing and waiting rooms were behind the dais. Overhanging porch over foyer. Used for church functions ordinarily shared by several parishes, rented out on occasion.

The entryways consisted of a foyer, kitchen receiving, which was halfway along the right side, and waiting rooms in the rear. If one tried opening the doors, they would all be locked, and obviously, a key would be needed to gain entry.

By the time the others arrived outside the hall, I was stepping out for a cigarette. I was getting restless with all the waiting around. Ted had disappeared on me. No doubt, to chat with some of the brass he knew personally.

I stepped out back and noticed a parked van not far from the door. I didn’t think anything of it and proceeded to grab my cigarettes from my uniform pants pocket.

Being in SPJ issued full-dress uniform meant I had no place to hide my paintball gun without leaving a noticeable bulge. The only items that might prove useful to me, should things go wrong, were my cell phone, my lighter and my belt.

As I stated, I was about to get my cigarettes when Jasmine popped up in front of me, hands on her hips and one foot slightly in front of the other.

“I wouldn’t light that up right now, Robert.”

“Why ever not, Jasmine?” I asked, hand halfway to my pocket.

“Look at the van again,” she nodded her head in the vehicle’s direction. “Why would a van be here at this time of night? Do you see anyone expecting a delivery?”

While Jasmine had been admonishing me, in her own way, for not noticing the obvious, I took another look at the van. The driver was the only one in the van. Looking away from me, thankfully. The van’s side door was still open, revealing an empty interior. Instinct told me the other occupants were in the building.

“Crap,” I said running back inside. “Thanks Jasmine, for saving my bacon. Again. I owe you one.”

“You owe me twenty,” she answered with a smile as she faded away. “But who’s counting?”

Upon my approach, close to the main hall, I heard gruff raised voices. Slowing, I reached the closest entry and peeked. There were several men inside; all wearing fatigues and carrying German-made Heckler & Koch UMP45 submachine guns. The uninvited guests were rounding up everyone toward the center of the room and securing them.

Before I could do anything, I heard voices and footsteps coming from behind me. I was close to the stage, having entered, cautiously through a side door near the stage and, luckily, out of view of the rest of the room. I ducked behind the curtains without being seen.

Once safe, I used my cell phone to send a “mayday” text to Nighthawk, the only classmate whose number I could remember. In my rush to get it out, I typed out the letters M-A-D-A.

Message sent, I sat on my haunches, thinking of the best way to handle the situation without getting myself killed. I just hoped my friends were near enough to help before these intruders killed one of their hostages and/or me.

Unbeknownst to me, the others had already determined something was wrong. They’d discovered two of the terrorists casually chatting with each other in the foyer. One wore fatigues and carried a sub-machine gun while smoking a cigarette. The other wore a tuxedo and, per Drayton, Blackeagle saw the slight bulge of a handgun on him.

Blackeagle wanted to attack. But, was convinced to wait by Nighthawk and Drayton.

Eventually, they decided to check around the back. They didn’t see the van, I found out later. My guess is the driver decided to hide the van, or he didn’t want to wait around. Regardless, he was out of the picture and left the terrorists unable to make a fast get away.

While in the back, Blackeagle found a guard hiding outside and took him out before he could raise the alarm.

The crew realized, like I did, time was limited for taking out these terrorists before the civilian guests arrived. If that happened, and the terrorists managed to gain more hostages…

Let’s just say it wouldn’t be pretty.

Whatever we needed to do, it had to be done quickly. Didn’t have to be pretty. So long as the situation was dealt with before those civilians arrived.

Nighthawk made a mirror-on-a-stick, while Blackeagle handled the guard. She used a compact mirror and a car antenna. The only car with a detachable antenna — to use as a stick — belonged to Section Leader Chickering.

Nighthawk, once her makeshift tool was completed, climbed a ladder on the back of the building and used the mirror-on-a-stick to check out the roof. Seeing the coast was clear, she made her way to the only skylight. From her vantage point, she looked down into the hall, determined the location of the hostages and the strength of the terrorists.

Just as Nighthawk returned to the ground to formulate a plan with the rest of the group, she received my text. Puzzled at seeing “MADA” on her screen, she showed it to the rest of the group. None of them knew what I was trying to say. Before Nighthawk could send me a text back to clarify, Blackeagle realized I had sent out a “Mayday” message.

Knowing the terrorists within the hall were aware, armed and dangerous, it was a foregone conclusion the task at hand wouldn’t be easy. However, all the hostages were well trained individuals and could help.

From my observations, I determined the number of hostages and their state of health. However, as far as I knew, the others didn’t know. From my perspective, they may believe the hostages could be dead. I didn’t know they’d already determined the hostages’ condition until after the incident.

Meanwhile, time was running short as the group entered the back door. They divided and proceeded to take out the terrorists. At one point Nighthawk freed a man lying tied on the floor - the man promptly scooped up a gun and tossed it to her, thus allowing her to use it. We found out later, that the man who had tossed Nighthawk the gun was the Senior Director, Charles duBois!!!

In all the confusion, I’d forgotten my friends didn’t know I hid behind the curtains. My fault, since I failed to inform them.

“Hold your fire, Blackeagle!” Drayton’s shouted as I joined the fray. “That’s Parker! He’s with us!”

At the time, I had no idea where Blackeagle got the handgun. In retrospect, he must have obtained it when taking out the guard out back.

Regardless, Blackeagle had it pointed straight at me.

His face had a look I thought was distinctive to Navy SEALs. Impassive. No emotion, whatsoever.

Nearly fouling myself, I just stood there before Blackeagle turned his attention toward another terrorist.

It was obvious to me, Blackeagle was the mysterious SEAL Ted wanted me to keep an eye on. Since he was my first assignment upon my re-entry into the UNO, I’d been unable to do anything about it. Now that he’d been identified, I vowed to carry out that task better than before.

My momentary distraction nearly got me killed, anyway.

“Robert!” Jasmine called out. “Behind you!”

I barely turned around in time to raise my right arm to deflect the knife coming toward me. The gash from the resulting action narrowly missed a main artery. It was enough to take out any effective use of the arm until I could get medical attention.

I may have avoided the knife, but I didn’t avoid the follow-up punch to the face that came afterwards. Dazed from the blow, I swung out wildly with my left fist. By pure luck, I took out my would-be killer with a single blow to his nose. I felt it break, quite satisfactorily I might add, under the pressure of my driving fist.

Moments later, all the terrorists were done for. Most of them committed suicide when captured. Later reports revealed they had bitten down on cyanide filled hollowed out teeth. The ones that didn’t commit suicide, were killed by some of our fellow trainees sympathetic to our cause. Or out of self-preservation.

When asked, I identified one of the surviving terrorists. With no way to prove anything, she was placed under SPJ observation.