Black Flagged

by Konkoly, Steven; A. Sullivan, Felicia

  A fourth picture showed Zorana Sekulic five years into her assignment. Every trace of Nicole Erak’s essence had been erased. They had kept her in place too long, and it had killed her long before Marko Resja came along with Lujic’s axe. He wondered if death hadn’t been the best thing for her in the long run. Nicole had drawn some bad cards in life. She was raised by abusive parents, in a household that survived from week to week, never rising far above the poverty line. CIA psychological interviews and polygraph results suggested sexual abuse, which she successfully refuted on further polygraphs, but Berg never believed the results. He was convinced that she had either beaten the machine, or that the memories had been buried.

  Winning a full scholarship to Loyola was one of the first good cards she pulled from the deck. Attracting the attention of a CIA recruiter was another ace, and by the time the CIA asked her to report to Langley, she held a royal flush. Unfortunately, she had to draw new cards at the CIA, and she drew the worst cards possible. The CIA was desperate to unravel the mess developing in the Balkans, and Nicole’s skill sets made her the perfect match for the job.

  Based on the inconsistencies with her psych profile, they should have known better than to send her at these men, and then to keep her there for six years. But what choice did the CIA have? Her situation was unique, and it provided the most useful information to come out of Serbia in decades. Nobody at Langley was willing to admit it, but they would have kept her there indefinitely if the situation hadn’t imploded with NATO’s involvement.

  He closed Nicole’s file, perfectly aware that opening it might have triggered an alert in someone’s email box back in Langley. It didn’t matter. He had no intention of using official channels to take care of things. Plenty of people owed Berg serious favors in this town, and he planned to cash in on a few of them. He navigated to the CIA’s file on General Sanderson, scanning it for a piece of information he had come across earlier. He found the name, James Parker, quickly, and memorized several pieces of information that would give his friends a head start on finding Daniel Petrovich. He quickly closed down the computer, leaving the room as he found it.

  Standing in the hallway, he pulled out his cell phone and placed a call to the National Security Agency. The call didn’t last very long, but it set in motion a series of highly illegal surveillance protocols designed to find and track Parker. The second call would have to wait, but not for very long.

  He had plans for Daniel Petrovich, or whoever he currently claimed to be. Berg would make sure he didn’t live for very long. If possible, he’d be there to kill Resja himself. He had no idea how Petrovich had become Marko Resja, and he didn’t really care. It had something to do with Black Flag, but that wasn’t his problem. He had searched the CIA’s files on Sanderson, and found not a single mention of the General’s secret program. He’d let the FBI decipher Black Flag, while he focused on Petrovich. Under the right circumstances, he might learn more about the clandestine program than Keller or the FBI combined. He was pretty sure the right circumstances would involve the purchase of a climbing axe from the REI store in Bailey’s Crossing, Virginia.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  5:25 PM

  Brown River Security Corporation, Fredericksburg, Virginia

  Darryl Jackson hung up the phone and contemplated his situation. He didn’t like it, but he owed Karl Berg more than a weekend favor. He owed Berg his life. Four years earlier, Jackson and a small crew of Brown River paramilitary contractors found themselves fighting for their lives in a small wadi outside of Sorubi, Afghanistan, when Berg reached down from the sky to save him.

  While conducting a site reconnaissance along highway A1, on behalf of the newly arrived U.S. Central Command forces, his convoy of two Land Rovers stumbled into a platoon sized group of Taliban militants, who had just broken camp to move further south toward the safety of the Taliban controlled mountains near Khowst. Within minutes, Jackson had lost both vehicles and half of his eight man contingent. With his satellite phone destroyed in one of the mangled SUVs, Jackson was on his own until someone at Brown River’s operations center back in Kabul declared them missing.

  Jackson’s team retreated to the cover of a dried up river bed and set up a perimeter to hold the Taliban at bay. Jackson’s highly trained team had already inflicted serious casualties on the Taliban force, and he hoped that the Taliban leadership in the group would decide against suffering further unnecessary losses. Minutes later, a suicide attack on his position scrapped any hopes that the enraged hornet’s nest of Muslim extremists would abandon their quarry.

  The attack broke through his perimeter, killing one more member of his team, but the wave of militants suffered enough casualties to cause a temporary withdrawal to the cover of Jackson’s disabled Land Rovers. He counted at least twenty Taliban in the vicinity of the trucks, who had now started an organized volley of rocket propelled grenades. A smaller group moved along Jackson’s left flank. Everyone in his team was wounded at this point, and when he caught sight of the flanking movement, he knew they wouldn’t last another five minutes. Then he heard a familiar buzzing sound.

  He could barely lift his head high enough to scan the entire expanse of blue, as bullets snapped past his head. He heard a muffled scream and a curse, turning to see a member of his team grimace while pressing a blood soaked hand down on his thigh. In his peripheral vision, Jackson caught a glimpse of something moving in the sky. The buzzing sound returned. A Predator drone. One of his men yelled something encouraging, and pointed to the drone, but Jackson wasn’t optimistic. To him, the Predator drone simply meant that their deaths would be watched live by a crew in Nevada.

  Jackson wasn’t completely correct about the location of the crew. The RQ-1 Predator drone circling overhead was indeed controlled by an Air Force officer at an undisclosed location in Nevada, but the video feed had the undivided attention of CIA officers in the Counter Terrorism Center at Langley, who had requisitioned the flight to assess reports of an Al Qaeda way station operating outside of Sorubi. Osama Bin Laden’s location remained a mystery, though there was little doubt that he would seek refuge in the mountains near Khowst. Electronic intercepts suggested that he had not reached this destination, and the CIA was very interested in any possible points of refuge along his projected escape route.

  Berg watched the attack unfold from the drone’s cameras, and an argument developed within the operations center about whether to render assistance to the civilian team on the ground. The drone carried two Hellfire air-to-ground missiles, which could easily turn the tide against the militants, but several of the officers within the center wanted to save the missiles for high value targets at the suspected Al Qaeda rest stop. Berg quickly ended the argument. As Deputy Assistant of the Counter Terrorism Center, the Predator flight was under his control, and he had no intention of abandoning the men on the ground. He relayed orders to the controllers in Nevada.

  Thousands of miles away, Jackson took a grazing hit to his right shoulder, which caused him to hug the ground, at a time they couldn’t afford. Three guns were barely keeping the Taliban from organizing another rush of the shallow wadi. Just as Jackson said a prayer and lifted his body up to continue firing, he was hit with a concussion that snapped his head backward and slid him down the side of the river bed. A second shockwave fired through his small group, rolling Jackson onto his back. Jackson still held his rifle tight, and waited for bearded heads to appear over the river bank’s edge to finish them, but nothing materialized.

  He painfully scooted through the loose gravel to continue firing at the Taliban positions, but the scene in front of him had been altered by forty pounds of high explosive charge. The shattered Land Rover hulks now sat thirty feet closer to Jackson, completely engulfed in flames. To his left, the Taliban flanking movement had been obliterated by another strike, which left a charred dead zone among the low rocks.

  Nothing moved. Jackson scanned the sky above, but couldn’t find their savior. He swore an oath to find
the man responsible for diverting the Predator drone, knowing that the defense of paramilitary contractors was a low priority on the military’s list of uses for expensive Hellfire missiles. He finally met Berg two years later at Brown River’s headquarters in Fredericksburg, Virginia, and they had since become inseparable.

  Darryl Jackson spun his chair around and opened a file cabinet drawer. He thumbed through the red files, pulling the one with the appropriate rosters. He needed to assemble a uniquely loyal team of highly capable special operators, and have them standing by inside of D.C. within an hour, which would be a miracle during rush hour.

  Their target was a rogue freelance operative that posed a significant threat to U.S. security, and Berg felt certain that this operative would arrive in the D.C. area tonight. He wanted the Brown River team to capture or kill the operative as soon as he surfaced. It was clear the Berg didn’t want the team to attract any attention, and Jackson didn’t even bother to ask if the mission was authorized. Berg said the rogue agent was black flagged, and that was all Jackson needed to hear. He turned back to his desk and picked up the phone to start making calls.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  6:40 PM

  Marriot Inn and Conference Center, College Park, Maryland

  Daniel threw his duffel bag on the floor of the hotel room and emptied the contents of two retail bags onto the foot of the bed. A dark green backpack, several prepaid cell phones, a GPS receiver, hair dye, power bars, two knives, and three local maps - all purchased with cash - formed a pile on the thick down-feather comforter. He worked for several minutes to activate the untraceable phones and the GPS receiver, placing all of the product packaging back in the large REI bag for disposal in another location.

  He grabbed one of the spring-loaded Gerber knives, and effortlessly flicked open the black stainless steel serrated blade. The four-inch blade had a dual edge, perfect for close quarters combat. He moved the knife back and forth, trying several grips before returning the blade back into the aluminum handle. Satisfied, he slipped the blade into the back left pocket of his brown khaki pants.

  The second knife had a smaller, one-sided blade, and had been designed for concealment. A much thinner knife, he hid this in his front pocket after he repeated the same grip and slice test. Both knives were well balanced, and would serve him well, if the need arose. He genuinely hoped it didn’t, because he hated the dynamics of edged combat.

  A knife fight meant one thing: everyone involved would get cut. The trick? At the end of the fight, you wanted to be the one with the smallest cuts. Daniel would feel infinitely more comfortable with a pistol, and hoped that Parker intended to equip him with one, whenever he decided to reconnect with General Sanderson.

  His escape from Parker had been easy enough, and gave him the breathing room he needed to fully assess his situation. Parker had stared at him with disbelief as he opened the back door and retrieved his duffel bag. At that point, Daniel expected a fight, but Parker was clearly stunned at the unexpected audacity. Parker looked dumbstruck as Daniel sprinted through traffic on the Baltimore Washington Parkway. Parker tried to force his way over, but must have thought better of it. He really had no options to pursue. The next exit sat at least thirty minutes away in the heavy traffic, and Parker couldn’t afford to attract the wrong kind of attention. He imagined that Parker’s next phone call had been a tough one.

  It took Petrovich about fifteen minutes to navigate his way to a rental car agency in Laurel, Maryland, and another ten minutes to drive away under one of his three remaining false identities. He disposed of two sets of driver’s licenses, passports and canceled credit cards at a Starbucks just off Route One in College Park. Christopher Stevens, owner of a nondescript Toyota Camry previously stored in New Hampshire; and David Harrell, Massachusetts resident, simply ceased to exist soon after Daniel took a test sip of a steaming hot, grande cappuccino with an extra espresso shot.

  He rented the car and took the hotel room under the name Scott Barber, an untraceable New Jersey resident, leaving him with two more clean ID packages. Once he left the hotel room tonight, he was unlikely to return, and would be forced to dispose of Barber’s ID pack. He was running out of identities, but suspected that General Sanderson could help him with this problem. General Sanderson assured him that his role wouldn’t extend past tomorrow evening, so he shouldn’t need another hotel room.

  Daniel turned his attention to the maps and started to unfold them. He needed to quickly familiarize himself with the details of D.C.‘s mass transit system, and stick close to locations that offered him rapid escape options beyond the rental car. His starting point was the Metro rail map and familiarizing himself with the different lines and timetables. With trains running frequently in both directions at every station, this would be his most likely primary emergency escape system. This system would attract the least attention, and provided the most anonymous method of travel. He made a mental note to drive over to the Metro station near the University to buy a pass that would allow him unhindered access to the railway.

  He opened a large road map of the greater D.C. Metro area, and placed it on the surface of the oversized desk. The smaller Metro map followed, smoothed over the road map. He would study both maps simultaneously, doing his best to orient the locations of major roads, Beltway exits and Metro stops. He didn’t have as much time as he would like for the task, but it would be enough.

  Before he began, he needed to make a long overdue phone call to Jess. He had left a brief message on her office voicemail, which outlined his need to take a last minute business trip to meet with a representative from one of Zenith Semiconductors��� largest overseas clients. He left few details beyond that. The less she knew the better. Still, he needed to contact her soon.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  7:45 PM

  CIA Headquarters, McLean, Virginia

  Berg sat impatiently inside his office at Langley, waiting for word from his contact at Fort Meade. Cell phone intercepts and electronic cross references had provided enough information to direct the Brown River team to Silver Spring, Maryland, but this was the narrowest geographic corridor the NSA intercept protocols could provide, given the limited amount of cell phone traffic generated by Sanderson’s crew.

  Sanderson’s people were on the move, and it would take some luck to find them. For Berg, luck came in the form of a highly placed friend at the National Security Agency, with just enough salt and authority to illegally co-opt one of the nation’s most sensitive electronic eavesdropping systems. So sensitive, that the mere mention of the name “Munoz” and “safe house” in the same conversation, on the same phone, triggered a “high probable” alert, and gave Berg the confidence to move the Brown River team to Silver Spring.

  His cell phone rang, and he answered it immediately, recognizing the Fort Meade number.

  “Berg.”

  “I have a confirmed location of interest. Marriott Inn and Conference Center, College Park.”

  “College Park? What happened to Silver Spring?” said Berg.

  “Different cell phones. This is the one you’re looking for. Call to a hardline in Portland, Maine. Listen to the tag words. Zenith, Jessica, Danny, Sanderson. We got lucky with the location. He used the words hotel and conference center. Fucked up big time. Cell node for the call is right next to the Marriott Inn and Conference Center in College Park. Do you need the address?”

  “No. I have it up on the computer already.”

  “Karl, I need to pull the plug on this thing. I’m working well past my usual hour, and I’m going to start drawing attention from the nighttime duty section. It’s a lot easier to pull this kind of shit during the day. They’ve got nothing better to do than keep an eye on the system right now.”

  “I know, Pete. Just a little longer. I promise.”

  “I can’t be in here past eight.”

  “Thanks, Pete. I owe you big time.”

  “You said it. Not me.”

  Berg immediately
placed a call to the leader of the Brown River team, who detached one of the two vehicles to the hotel in College Park. The team had everything they could need to identify Petrovich, but it would still prove difficult. He hoped to narrow things down for them before they arrived at the hotel, which was no more than a ten minute drive from Silver Spring.

  Fifteen minutes later, Berg was ready to drive out to the Marriott himself to strangle the night manager, who had been extremely uncooperative. Of course, Berg had absolutely no legal authority to compel any information from the woman, but the fact that she had thoroughly dismissed him and threatened to call the police didn’t sit well with the senior CIA officer. He felt helpless sitting at his desk. Fortunately, the hotel parking lot had only one point of access from the hotel, and the Brown River team was deployed to cover the approach with optics that would make identification easier. They were already busy scouring hotel guests leaving the hotel.

  Two minutes after his NSA friend���s 8 PM deadline, Berg’s phone rang, and he snatched it off the desk.

  “Tell me you have something, Pete?” he said.

  “This must be your lucky day. I just got a nice intercept. Your target at the hotel just received directions to a Silver Spring address. One minute ago. 8800 Lanier Drive, Apartment 4B. Good luck, Karl.”

  “I can’t tell you how much this helps. Thanks for hanging in a little longer. Drinks are on me,” said Berg.

  “For the whole month,” Pete said, and the line went dead.