Black Flagged Redux

by Steven Konkoly

  “This should be a quick operation. They’re already working on accessing the employee files. If we can get our hands on the right shipping manifest, we’ll be able to determine where the virus is headed. We don’t have the time to mess around with interagency politics on this. I’m technically working for the president of the United States now. Can you believe what Sanderson managed to pull off?”

  “Not really. I’m not jumping to make travel plans any time soon. I’ll let Sanderson test the waters first.”

  “I hear you there. Hey, I’m getting that impatient stare from Farrington. We need to be at the airport soon to catch a flight to Frankfurt. I’ll call you when we get there. I love you so much, Jess.”

  “I love you more than that. Hurry back. I don’t think Bert and Ernie here will last much longer,” she said, raising her voice.

  “You got that straight!” Munoz yelled from inside.

  “Take it easy on those guys. I owe them everything,” he said.

  “So do I, which is something I think we need to talk about when you get back. I don’t want to leave Sanderson’s program anymore. I think this is our home now,” she said.

  “You might be right. We’ll have to talk about this later. Love you.”

  “Love you more,” she said and hung up.

  “You can have the phone back!” she yelled.

  “Don’t push your luck, princess,” Munoz replied.

  Chapter 60

  11:25 AM

  FBI Headquarters

  Washington, D.C.

  Special Agent Ryan Sharpe sat facing Special Agent Frank Mendoza in the small reception office outside of the director’s conference room.

  “So, did you get me in trouble or something?” Mendoza said. “Because I just started my new job and I haven’t been there long enough to piss off the director yet.”

  “This might have something to do with Sanderson. That’s all I can say. Honestly though, I’m purely speculating. Sounds like you’ve hit the ground running in your new position. I’m hearing good things.”

  “It’s different than following the money trail, that’s for sure. The investigative focus is a lot broader, and field activities are a shit ton more intensive,” he said, and they both glanced up at Shelby’s secretary.

  “Sorry, Margaret,” Frank said.

  “You two aren’t the first potty mouthed FBI agents to sit in those chairs,” she said, without taking her eyes off the computer screen.

  “The financial background is indispensable, even if it’s only one aspect of our terrorism investigations. I used to think terror financing was the center of the universe,” Mendoza said.

  “Cut off the funding and there is no terrorism. At least not from extremist groups like Al Qaeda. The people don’t hold jobs here in the U.S., unless you count mosque employees or the rapidly expanding sea of Imams. Your average terrorist cell here couldn’t scrape up enough money on its own to buy the nails needed to fill a suicide vest.”

  “The director will see the two of you now,” Margaret interrupted.

  “Thank you,” Sharpe said.

  Mendoza and Sharpe stood up and walked toward the conference room door and opened it. Once inside, they each had silent doubts about their own immediate job security. Half of the conference table was occupied, which had taken Sharpe by surprise. He had been expecting another private visit with the director, possibly to thank Mendoza and himself for laying the groundwork that had led to Sanderson’s capture. Now that he saw the players seated around the conference room, he was no longer so optimistic.

  Keith Ward, director of the Domestic Terrorism Branch within the Terrorism Financing Operations Section was present, along with his former boss, Gregory Hill, who still commanded the Radical Fundamentalist Financial Investigative Unit. A past and present boss in the same room was never good news. Frank Mendoza’s direct supervisor within the International Terrorism Operations Section One sat at the table, next to the Counter-Terrorism Division’s director and assistant director. This put four assistant directors in the room, along with the executive assistant director for the National Security Branch and her associate executive assistant director. They all sat around Director Shelby at the far end of the conference table.

  “Agents Sharpe and Mendoza. Please take a seat,” Shelby said in a grim tone.

  Two seats, side by side, were offered to them on the right side of the table. The appropriate nods were exchanged between all of them, which made Sharpe feel a little better about the situation. He was pretty sure they’d be kept standing if they were to be fired, and he highly doubted anyone would smile or nod at them. As soon as they were seated, the video monitor on the wall opposite to them came to life. The assistant directors on the other side of the table swiveled their chairs to view the screen.

  A map of Argentina appeared next to a satellite photo dated April 25th, 2007. It was a close up of Sanderson’s river valley compound and was centered on the road that ran parallel to the river. A lone helicopter sat on the road. Sharpe wasn’t sure what to make of the photograph. The picture had been taken today, during the daytime. Now Sanderson had a combat helicopter at his disposal?

  “At approximately 1:27 AM, Eastern Standard Time, a force of ten special operations helicopters landed nearly one hundred marines and SEALs at this compound in western Argentina, with the intent of putting an end to General Terrence Sanderson’s rapidly growing terrorist organization. Unfortunately, Sanderson had been tipped off, and the entire operation was a complete failure. The compound was empty. This is one of the helicopters that had to be left behind due to a mechanical failure. Likely related to a high velocity projectile. The whole thing was a set up from the start.”

  Sharpe shook his head with a look of disgust.

  “Special Agent Sharpe’s investigative efforts got us to the compound, only to be thwarted at the last minute.”

  “We’ll get another crack at Sanderson,” Sharpe said.

  “Unfortunately, this is only half of the story. At 12:49 Eastern Standard Time, completely unknown to me, a rogue Russian bioweapons expert was snatched from a Stockholm street by one of Sanderson’s foreign operations teams. The team, working on behalf of the CIA, left ten dead Russian Spetznaz operatives in its wake, along with two of their own. Apparently, everyone wanted to get their hands on this Russian scientist.”

  “What is the connection between the two locations?” Sharpe asked.

  “Sanderson is the connection…and he now works for the United States government.”

  “What?” Sharpe said. “He’s still at the top of our terrorist list.”

  “Not any more. His organization has been granted unlimited immunity from prosecution. Including, but not limited to all activities past and present. This extends to all personnel that have been involved in these activities.”

  “Petrovich and Farrington?” Sharpe said, incredulously.

  “We can’t touch any of them, and it’s quite possible that we will be working with some of them very shortly. Information acquired from the Russian scientist indicates the high possibility of an imminent WMD attack here in the United States. We’ll work with Homeland to coordinate a response. As it stands, the threat appears to be a genetically modified, weaponized form of encephalitis, primarily designed to be delivered into a municipal water supply. The effects of this virus have been confirmed by Sanderson’s team. Apparently, this scientist poisoned Monchegorsk, a city of 50,000 in northern Russia, before he was captured. Petrovich himself covertly entered the city and documented the effects. It’s a worst case scenario. Those that don’t die within the first week of exposure end up going aggressively insane from focalized temporal lobe damage.”

  “This is headed our way? Why am I the only one asking questions?” Sharpe said.

  “Everyone here has already received this briefing except for the two of you. This is definitely coming our way. We just don’t know how. The scientist, Anatoly Reznikov, was funded by Al Qaeda, or an organization very simila
r. He produced over sixty canisters of viral tablets, two of which were used by him in Monchegorsk. That leaves fifty-eight missing. Twenty-two of the canisters were originally slated for attacks on European cities, but all of the sites listed by Reznikov have been raided, yielding empty apartments previously occupied by Arabs…or people that looked like Arabs.

  “The CIA is investigating a German medical supply company in Frankfurt. The company was identified by Reznikov as a possible distribution point for the canisters. This is our only direct lead at the moment. There was something else mentioned, which is why the two of you are here.”

  Director Shelby nodded at Carol Whitman, head of the National Security Branch, who stood up to address them.

  “Reznikov told interrogators that he heard the Al Qaeda operatives mention a domestic terrorist group within the United States. This was a one-time conversation overheard by Reznikov in the laboratory. Unbeknownst to his benefactors, he speaks fluent Arabic. He told Sanderson’s team that Al Qaeda had arrived at some kind of agreement with American ultra-nationalists. We think Al Qaeda might have entered into some kind of partnership with one of our domestic terrorist groups, which is why we want to appoint the two of you to lead a task force with the express purpose of investigating this possibility. Do we have a domestic terror organization that would consider working with Al Qaeda? It sounds like an awful stretch,” she said.

  “I’d start with True America. They have the most extensive physical network, and wouldn’t have any religious objections to using Al Qaeda to achieve their goals. We haven’t scratched the surface of their network, but they’re rumored to have penetrated every level and walk of life in the U.S. We can start by focusing on known members employed in the Public Works sector, specifically anything having to do with state or local water systems. We might get lucky.”

  “If this shipment is inbound or already here, we’ll concentrate on known fundamentalist cells near the True America members you initially identify. They’ll have to come together at some point,” Mendoza said.

  “I assume that the canisters will be shipped to the Al Qaeda operatives. They wouldn’t trust anyone outside of their own network to receive the bioweapon. If the CIA can get a shipping manifest soon, we might be able to intercept the shipments and roll up Al Qaeda operations in the U.S. before they make a handoff,” Sharpe said.

  “Sounds like we picked the right people to head this team. Pick your personnel from both sides. Finance and Operations. This has the highest priority, as agreed by everyone in the room. The task force will fall under the direct control of Carol Whitman. Any questions?”

  “You mentioned that we might be working with Sanderson’s people?”

  “I was hoping you had forgotten that comment,” Shelby said.

  “It’s hard to forget considering what he did two years ago,” Sharpe said.

  “Sanderson has operatives trained specifically to penetrate Arab fundamentalist groups like Al Qaeda. Arab-Americans capable of complete immersion…”

  “It’s too late to try and insert a deep cover operative,” Mendoza said.

  “I understand that, but they could be used to interface with True America. Possibly mimic one of the Al Qaeda cells. Our capacity to do this is extremely limited,” Shelby said.

  “Sanderson’s people aren’t exactly the kind you can restrain. We’ll have to weigh this option carefully,” Sharpe said.

  “Maybe a little less restraint is necessary in the face of this kind of threat. This is ordered by the president, so let’s figure out how to use them constructively. If you start to lose control of them, Carol needs to know immediately. I need to know. Don’t think this isn’t distasteful for me. We won’t be parading them around headquarters or any of the field offices. This will be the most secretive aspect of the task force. Are we clear on that?”

  Everyone sounded their agreement.

  “Let’s get the ball rolling. This is a twenty-four seven investigation, starting right now. Sharpe and Mendoza, start assembling your team,” Shelby said.

  “Forward your requests to Assistant Executive Director Gilmore. They’ll be processed immediately. I expect this task force to be up and running by tomorrow morning,” Carol Whitman said.

  “That’ll be all for now. Good luck, Agents. You’re going to need it,” Director Shelby said.

  Mendoza and Sharpe left the conference room and didn’t say a word until they were far outside of the executive wing of the J. Edgar Hoover Building.

  “Looks like we’re going to be up all night piecing this together,” Mendoza said.

  “I’m looking forward to it. We’ll have to buy another leather chair for you. I foresee many long nights ahead of us,” Sharpe said.

  “I’ll see about dragging a couch into your office. Damn, Sherry’s gonna kill me. I’m supposed to be on a trip to the Mayan Riviera in two weeks,” Mendoza said.

  “Hope you bought trip insurance,” Sharpe said and slapped him on the back.

  “I always do,” Mendoza replied.

  Chapter 61

  5:35 PM

  Nuequen Province

  Western Argentina

  General Terrence Sanderson stared out at the HH-60H Rescue Hawk sitting in the middle of the dirt road outside of his headquarters lodge. The matte black helicopter was shadowed from the setting sun by the pines blanketing the foothills to the west. The grounding of this helicopter had pushed the president over the edge. Most of Sanderson’s plan had been a bluff, with the exception of his threat to expose the helicopter and video evidence of the raid. Even that had been a bluff on many levels, since it would have achieved nothing for his organization. The helicopter was his trophy for now, until the U.S. government figured out how to insert a team to repair it. He imagined they would fly out using the same route and land it on one of their radar invisible destroyers. What a pain in the ass that would be for the U.S. Navy.

  His satellite phone rang inside the lodge, and he opened the screen door to walk back inside. The plate of cookies still sat on the table, with one missing upon their return to the compound. He had found his note turned over, with a scrawled message at the top:

  Expect resume shortly, LCDR Daly.

  Parker knew Daly well from his time in the SEALs and said he’d make an excellent addition to their training or headquarters staff. He could possibly serve as a recruiter for more direct action operators. Now that Sanderson’s people could come and go as they pleased, he was only limited by his imagination. He might even consider moving the training compound, though he was very comfortable on señor Galenden’s property. He picked up the phone, recognizing the number.

  “Bob’s Used Helicopters…lightly flown and gently landed,” he answered.

  “Clever. I was going to wait a little while to get back in touch, but apparently we’ll be working together, effective immediately.”

  “I heard the news about an hour ago. The rest of my group is on their way to catch the next available flights to Germany. Including the four already in Europe, that’ll give them fourteen operatives to shake things loose over there. What a day this has been. I can’t thank you enough for all of your help over the past couple of years. I’ll buy you a proper drink when I get back to the States.”

  “I’ll take you up on that. Until then, I’m working on a plan to find your organization a permanent home…or at least an official slot on someone’s organizational chart.”

  “Don’t do anything that’s going to jeopardize your career. You’ve done enough for me already,” Sanderson said.

  “This is different. There’s some serious talk about permanently assigning Special Operations assets to our spook friends. Langley has their own people, but the group is fairly small and highly compartmentalized. The National Clandestine Service has started to informally ask the Pentagon for help. Naturally, there’s a lot of resistance from SOCOM. They don’t like to give up operational control of their units, especially to the CIA…the two barely function together as it is. This might
be a nice fit for you, and a chance to expand the program.”

  “This sounds exactly like the service we’re already providing,” Sanderson said.

  “My thoughts exactly, and SOCOM wouldn’t have to give up control of any assets. If things go well in Europe, you might just slide into this role without any help from your fan club in D.C.”

  “Thank you again for everything. I’ll never forget this.”

  “It was my pleasure, though your number one fan didn’t look very happy. I’d think twice about accepting an invitation to the J. Edgar Hoover Building.”

  “I’ll stick to videoconferences for now,” Sanderson said.

  “Sounds like a wise plan. Rotor failure on that helicopter, eh?”

  “.50 caliber rotor failure,” Sanderson said.

  “Works every time. I’ll be in touch shortly with more details. You might consider acquiring some more satellite phones. You’re going to be a busy man.”

  “Already in progress. I’ll have a mobile communications suite here by midday tomorrow. Full satellite coverage, high speed bandwidth…the works. No need to keep this place a secret any more. Just keep me posted if anyone has a change of heart over there,” Sanderson said.

  “I will. Just make sure you take a lot of pictures of that helicopter. I’d like to see one with you in the pilot’s seat. I’ll pass it on to remind everyone.”

  “Take care, my friend. Thanks again for betting on an old horse,” Sanderson said.

  “I only bet on winners. See you shortly.”

  Sanderson hung up and walked into the kitchen to find a strong drink. He stopped halfway, with a better plan already forming. There was no sense in drinking alone, when it was clearly time for a celebration at the compound. He just wished everyone could be here for it.

  Chapter 62

  10:18 PM

  Falls Church, Virginia

  Karl Berg started to fade away into a long overdue slumber. He’d finally been ordered by Audra to catch a few hours of uninterrupted sleep before Europe awoke. His alarm was set for 1:00 AM, which gave him a few hours to enter a deep restful sleep. Petrovich’s team would still be on the road, which was the only reason he had been allowed to leave. A few of the offices adjacent to the Operations Center had been converted to sleeping quarters for duty personnel. He needed more than a few broken hours of institutional sleep on a thin mattress more suitable for a state penitentiary inmate.