BLACK
FLAGGED
A Novel by Steven Konkoly
Copyright Information
Copyright 2011 by Steven Konkoly. All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author, except where permitted by law, or in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, contact [email protected].
About the author
Steven Konkoly graduated from the United States Naval Academy and served for eight years in various roles within the Navy and Marine Corps. He currently lives with his family in southern Maine, where he works for a major pharmaceutical company.
He published his first novel, The Jakarta Pandemic, in 2010. An excerpt from this apocalyptic thriller can be found at the end of this book, along with an excerpt from the next book in his Black Flagged series.
Please visit Steven’s blog for updates and information regarding all of his works.
www.stevenkonkoly.com
Acknowledgments
I now see that the acknowledgments will grow with each novel, which is a good thing. First, let me start out with the all of the readers that voiced support for my first novel, The Jakarta Pandemic. Your encouragement and interaction has been genuinely appreciated over the past year, and I encourage readers of Black Flagged to reach out with the same enthusiasm.
So, here we go…
To my wife, the first reader, who devoured the novel without taking a break. I figured this was a good sign, especially since this is not her typical genre. She actually beat me to the end, and demanded that I finish the last few chapters. If you don’t like the ending, you can blame her for rushing me.
To my writing group, who warmly welcomed me into their world, and endured Black Flagged’s opening chapter violence way better than I expected. After reading several other submissions within the group, I thought I might need to tone down my material for our gatherings. I couldn’t have been more mistaken. I’ve gained valuable insight about my own book, and have been exposed to the talents of new writers in a wide spectrum of genres. Joe, thank you for introducing me to this group…and for your continuous critiques and suggestions throughout the process of writing both books.
To my pre-readers…most of whom volunteered, some of whom I didn’t know before writing The Jakarta Pandemic. Bill, for the valuable guidance regarding the structure of the entire series, and for some spot on advice about Daniel Petrovich, Black Flagged’s main character; Trent, for once again going above and beyond the call of duty. I couldn’t ask for more…a marked up manuscript and plot pacing suggestions for the book’s big twist. As a D.C. resident, he also helped me to structure some of the local scenes; Joe H., who probably made my editor’s life easier. Based on his straightforward critique of my last novel, and his frequent interaction among reviewers of The Jakarta Pandemic, I didn’t hesitate to take him up on his offer to pre-read Black Flagged. His “right between the eyes” style of critique has been essential to the fine tuning of several aspects, and his ability to take in the bigger picture…while still catching typos and grammar errors is enviable. Finally, Bruce, for catching some really elusive typos, and keeping the Portland references accurate.
To Felicia A. Sullivan, editor extraordinaire. I’ll just thank you in advance for the professionalism you put into expertly editing Black Flagged, and the enthusiasm you’ll bring to promoting it. I still can’t thank you enough for the extra mile you walked for The Jakarta Pandemic. At some point, we’ll collaborate within your favorite genre to create the ultimate post-apocalyptic novel. It’ll rock the genre, I guarantee.
Finally, to Jeroen ten Berge, for knocking it out of the park with his cover design. He really captured the essence of Black Flagged with his bold vision.
Dedication
To my wife and children, who are my constant motivation, and graciously put up with the time and energy that I devote to writing.
Cast of Characters
Serbian Paramilitary
Srecko Hadzic - Leader of the “Panthers,” a quasi-organized crime network and Serbian ultra-nationalist paramilitary group serving Slobodan Milosevic’s regime.
Pavle Hadzic - Hadzic’s handicapped brother.
Radovan Grahovac - Hadzic’s “right-hand” man and chief-of-security.
Marko Resja (aka Daniel Petrovich) - Midlevel soldier and undercover U.S. operative.
Mirko Jovic - Leader of “White Eagles,” a rival paramilitary group.
Goran Lujic - “White Eagles” enforcer.
FBI
Director - Benjamin Shelby
Executive Assistant Director, Fred Carroll - National Security Branch
Associate Director, Sandra Delgado - National Security Branch
Special Agent-in-Charge Ryan Sharpe - Task Force HYRDA’s investigative leader.
Special Agent Frank Mendoza - Sharpe’s second-in-command.
Special Agent Heather Olson - Primary investigator, HYDRA murders.
Special Agent Dana O’Reilly - Lead data analyst, HYDRA.
Special Agent Justin Edwards - Lead investigator for Mohammed Ghani murder scene.
Special Agent Keith Weber - Communications section-head, HYDRA.
Special Agent Gregory Carlisle - Lead Interrogator, HYDRA murders.
CIA
Audra Bauer - Director, Counter-Terrorism Center, National Clandestine Service.
Karl Berg - Assistant Director, Counter-Terrorism Center, National Clandestine Service.
Randy Keller - CIA Liaison to Task Force HYDRA
Black Flag Operatives
Daniel Petrovich - Former Black Flag Operative
General Terrence Sanderson - Created original Black Flag program.
James Parker - Sanderson’s “right-hand” man
Colonel Richard Farrington - Compartmentalized Information Section (CIS), Pentagon.
Jeffrey Munoz - Suspect in the shooting of Umar Salah.
Others
Jessica Petrovich - Daniel Petrovich’s wife.
Julio Mendez - Janitorial Custodian, Pentagon.
Darryl Jackson - Executive, Brown River Security Corporation.
Jeremy Cummings - Team leader, Brown River Security Corporation.
Derren McKie - National Security Agency employee and former Black Flag operative
BLACK FLAGGED ��� “Classification given to an agent or intelligence officer who is to be interrogated and summarily killed if apprehended.”
BLACK OUT
April 8, 1999
2:35 P.M.
A few miles outside of Vizic, Serbia
Marko Resja peered cautiously over the top of the jagged stone wall, scanning the lodge’s distant front porch with powerful binoculars. Through the driving downpour, he counted four men, which was a good thing. With the entire external security team in one place, he should have no trouble approaching unseen.
He lowered himself to the spongy, pine needle covered ground, and leaned back against a sharp granite chunk that formed part of the estate’s perimeter wall. Created by haphazardly dumping large uneven rocks around the lodge on all sides, the utilitarian border marked the divide between hastily cleared land and the impenetrable Fruska Gora National Forest.
Marko had arrived at the stone wall one hour earlier, hampered by the same relentless rainfall that had kept NATO aircraft at bay for more than a week. Concealed in the dense pine foliage behind the jagged barrier, he could hear the distant roar of high altitude jets through the unremitting storm. He guessed the NATO pilots were testing Belgrade’s air defens
e network from a safe distance, impatient for the weather to clear over the northern Balkan Peninsula.
He stared out into the wavering pine forest before turning his attention back to the lodge. The two-story, modern stone and beam structure looked sturdy enough to withstand an artillery attack. A similarly constructed, one-story garage stood between him and the house, partially obscuring his view of the main structure.
Srecko Hadzic, ruthless leader of the paramilitary Serbian Panther crime syndicate, had built the lodge for the sole purpose of hiding his brother, Pavle, from prying eyes. Rumors of NATO commando teams operating within Serbian borders had taken root among upper level leadership, raising paranoia to near panic levels, and Hadzic feared Pavle’s capture more than his own at this point. Unfortunately for Hadzic, the Vizic compound was one of the worst kept secrets in Belgrade.
He took one more look over the top of the wall, just to make sure all four men were still on the porch. He spotted the bright orange glow of cigarettes through the nearly impenetrable rain squall. He didn’t expect any of them to emerge from their cozy shelter, but he had to keep in mind that these men were all current or former Serbian Special Operations types, and despite the overindulgences often associated with paramilitary security details, all of these men had been hand-picked for their competence. Three more had accompanied Radovan Grahovac, Hadzic’s Chief-of-Security, into the lodge to meet with Pavle.
They had all arrived dressed in civilian clothes, which suggested that the crew might head north for a night of prostitutes and drinking along the banks of the Danube River in Novi Sad. Despite their casual dress, however, each man carried a compact assault rifle, and a pistol. Under normal circumstances, this was not a crew he would cross. Today, Marko would make a notable exception.
Satisfied that all four men were still in the same place, he picked up a long, thick black nylon duffel bag and ran to a position along the wall that was completely obscured from the porch by the garage. He knew from two previous reconnaissance trips that Radovan didn’t stay more than ten minutes, which meant he was already running out of time.
From his new vantage point, he glanced over the wall, and saw one of two dark blue Range Rovers that had arrived at Pavle’s hideaway a few minutes ago, depositing Radovan and his heavily armed security detail. The other Range Rover was parked several meters behind the first, hidden from his view by the garage.
He kneeled low and wrestled a Serbian-made light machine gun out of the soaked nylon bag, extending the weapon’s foldable shoulder stock. He placed the weapon against the wall and reached back into the bag for one of two detachable ammunition drums. He swiftly attached one of the seventy-five round drums to the weapon and placed the second in a hip satchel.
Beyond the high capacity ammunition drums, he had four standard thirty-round magazines velcroed into quick-access pouches on his combat vest, nestled among four stun grenades. He screwed a large silencer to the machine gun’s barrel, and chambered a round with the weapon’s charging lever. The final item he took from the bag was a gray, aluminum ice climbing axe, which he attached low on the side of his vest. He was ready.
He gripped the sturdy assault weapon with his left hand and hopped over the rock wall, using his right hand for leverage. After splashing down in ankle-high mud, he slogged through the torrential rain to reach the left back corner of the garage. From that spot, he’d be able to see the four men leave the porch, which was critical to his plan.
Marko arrived at the corner, careful not to expose himself. He checked all of his gear one more time, wishing he could check the computer and satellite phone in his waterproof backpack, but just as quickly dismissing the idea as last minute paranoia. He knew the electronics rig worked, and that it would give him a secure satellite connection for both the satellite phone and his computer. He had assembled and tested it nearly a dozen times within the last twenty-four hours. He might not even need it, but he wasn’t about to take any chances, and neither was General Sanderson.
The rain intensified for a minute, as sheets of water pummeled the side of the garage. Despite having been exposed to the frigid early spring rain for nearly two hours, he wasn’t cold. Under his paramilitary camouflage outfit, he wore a waterproof, insulated one-piece jumpsuit. Certainly not standard issue for elite Serbian commandos, or even the most pampered members of Hadzic’s paramilitary forces.
Nothing in Marko’s equipment load-out was standard Serbian issue, which distressed him, though it should have comforted him. As an American deep cover operative, he hadn’t fired or handled a weapon less than twenty years old since his arrival in Serbia two years ago. The model he held in his hand came fresh off the Zastava Arms assembly line, compliments of General Sanderson, but it felt alien to him. Instinctively, he knew everything he carried was superior to the ancient hardware handed down to him by senior members of the Panthers, who passed their equipment down to make room for newer toys. Still, it felt strangely uncomfortable.
He peeked around the corner of the garage and saw one of the men throw a lit cigarette out into the front yard. Another man talked excitedly into a small handheld radio and rapidly nodded his head. Showtime.
Marko released the weapon’s safety, and pulled a rain soaked black ski mask down over his head. He peered cautiously around the corner, watching the men scramble off the porch. When they vanished from his sight, he moved rapidly down the unobserved side of the garage to the front corner and risked another peek. Everything looked just like he had expected. The lead SUV was already loaded with Radovan and the three men who accompanied him inside the lodge. The four commandos from the porch jogged toward the rear SUV.
He’d witnessed the same scene several dozen times before. Radovan always insisted that the team assigned to the rear vehicle wait for all of the members of the lead car to get situated. When he’d first seen this, he thought it might be for security reasons, but he���d learned firsthand that this was simply another one of Radovan’s psychotic quirks. He also knew that all four members of the rear security team, anxious to get out of the rain, would be so preoccupied watching the lead SUV that he could engage them completely undetected.
He pushed these thoughts aside, and instantly engaged a near trance-like mindset. He stepped out into the open and lowered his body into a tensed semi-crouch, aiming at the last man in the group. Through the Aimpoint sight, he placed the red dot on the man’s upper back, just below the nape of his neck, and squeezed the trigger for a controlled burst. The weapon kicked considerably, but he kept it under control, and repeated the process for the remaining three guards. He sprinted for the back of the empty SUV and reached it before the last guard hit the ground. None of them had a chance to react. If anything, a couple of them might have felt a warm, chunky spray. Less than five seconds had elapsed.
A quick glance back confirmed that all four members of Radovan’s rear security team were dead, and Marko moved forward along the right side of the rear SUV, focused on Radovan’s vehicle.
**
Radovan sat impatiently in the front passenger seat of his Range Rover, listening to the rain hammering the truck’s thick metal roof. He hated these trips, and absolutely despised handing their hard earned cash over to Hadzic’s “gang-banger worshiping” brother, Pavle. Radovan was a committed ultra-nationalist, and had no tolerance for the newly arrived American “gangsta” music that had penetrated the Belgrade club scene. When Radovan hit the town, which he frequently did, Belgrade went hip-hop free. Nobody risked incurring the security chief’s wrath.
“Why the fuck are we not out of here already?” he yelled at the rain blurred windshield.
Directly behind him, one of the commandos shifted uncomfortably. Here we go again. He turned his head back over his right shoulder, equally annoyed with his infantile boss, and the idiots in the other Range Rover. Through the wide back window of the Range Rover’s gate, he noted a figure sliding down the right side of the rear SUV, but never had a chance to form much more of an impression about t
he situation. Several steel jacketed bullets ripped through his skull, and the cabin of the SUV erupted in chaos.
Radovan was immediately hit by two of the bullets that passed unhindered through the commando’s throat. One struck him in the upper left shoulder, where it stayed, and the other ricocheted off the metal head rest post, and grazed the right side of his neck. The windshield in front of Radovan crumbled from the second bullet, and he instinctively grabbed for the short-barreled assault rifle that rested between his right leg and the door. Before his hand completed the twelve-inch journey, the front passenger door erupted in a fusillade of torn plastic, metal fragments, and safety glass.
His hand never touched the rifle. He felt incredible surges of pain at multiple points throughout his body, but remained conscious for a few seconds, vaguely aware that a figure moved across the front of the SUV, firing continuously into the vehicle. His head was violently snapped backward and to the left, leaving him with a view of a shattered body in the seat behind the driver. He tried to call out to the man, but couldn’t form the words. He watched as a dark red stain splattered the bodyguard’s window, and a red mist aerosolized the rear cargo compartment. This was the last thing Radovan would ever see.
Against all odds, the driver, Jorji, survived the seemingly endless hail of bullets. He was hit several times, but knew that he was not critically wounded. When the first bullets passed through the car, Jorji twisted his body to the right, pressing down on the center console, trying to present the lowest possible target to his attackers. This was not the first time he had been attacked in a vehicle, and his previous experience kept him alive a little longer than the rest of the Range Rover’s occupants.
Several bullets pierced the back of his seat, and tore into the top left side of his body, causing mostly superficial damage, but shredding muscle and tendon from his left hip all the way up to his shoulder. The extensive muscle damage along his entire left side kept him locked in place over the center console, with his face nearly buried in Radovan’s lap. No matter how hard he tried, he could not sit up, which was another reason that he was still alive.
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