Black Flagged

by Konkoly, Steven; A. Sullivan, Felicia

  They had arrived on O Street at 11:30, to begin what could potentially be a long evening for both of them. One at a time, they walked onto O Street from opposite ends, and slipped into their concealed locations without a sound. Satisfied that neither of them had tripped any alarms or raised any attention, they settled in to observe the street, which had been nearly devoid of passenger traffic since their arrival. They watched a drunken couple stumble off 34th Street, and stop to grope each other for several minutes within ten feet of Petrovich, until the college students decided to take their activities indoors just a few houses down from the target house. They would wait until Keller arrived, if he showed, which Farrington estimated could happen at any time after midnight, based on the neurotoxin profile.

  Parker sat in General Sanderson’s Toyota 4Runner a few blocks away, in one of the few legal parking spaces he could find at this time of night big enough to accommodate the SUV. He would spring into action once their quarry entered the safe house. A few blocks closer to M Street, his area contained more activity, and he settled into one of the back seats behind tinted glass to avoid unwanted attention by police patrols or concerned citizens. He closely monitored General Sanderson’s direct frequency on one of his radios. The general would provide them early warning of law enforcement activity when O Street exploded, and coordinate the sensitive timing of their mission. Petrovich had less than two minutes to eliminate Keller and his handler. Anything beyond that would draw unacceptable law enforcement complications.

  Petrovich shifted to his left knee and checked his weapon. He had opted to keep the MP-9 submachine gun, due to its easy concealment and effective silencer, which he screwed onto the weapon once he established his over-watch position. He had five spare magazines for the MP-9, each holding thirty rounds, attached to a light utility vest hidden under his dark blue nylon windbreaker. A compact semi-automatic pistol rested in a concealed holster near the small of his back, with three spare magazines stuffed into the front pockets of his jeans.

  Earlier, he removed a pouch carrying several grenades of different varieties from his backpack, and attached it to the front right side of his belt. Daniel felt confident that he carried enough firepower to overcome any resistance offered by two CIA desk types. He loosened his throat microphone slightly, bothered by the constrictive feeling of the communications rig, but impressed by its sleek design and technological advantage. He would not have to fumble with a microphone headset, which tended to be a problem in the heat of battle.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  12:30 AM

  FBI Headquarters, Washington D.C.

  “We’re tracking him, sir. He’s moving slowly…probably on foot, down 33rd St, NW, between N and O,” said Agent Fayad.

  “I knew it. I bet there’s a CIA front down there. Keep tracking him,” he said, and whipped out his phone to make a call.

  “O’Reilly, where are you?” he spoke into the cell.

  “Sir, we’re on our way down to the parking garage. We grabbed some surveillance gear. We should be on the road in five to ten minutes,” she said.

  “Excellent. Head to Georgetown. 34th Street off of M. I’ll give you instructions when you get there.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  12:33 AM

  Georgetown, Washington D.C.

  Petrovich’s earpiece came to life.

  “Movement. One pedestrian from the south, exiting 33rd. Caucasian male. Stand by, I can’t make an ID yet.”

  Petrovich acquired the man with his own eyes, and squinted for details. The area was still too dark for a positive identification. It didn’t really matter. If the man turned into the target building, they would pounce.

  “Can you ID him?” said Petrovich into the microphone attached to his head set.

  “Negative. Not enough light. Switching to night vision,” said Farrington.

  “Don’t bother. We’ll wait and see what he does,” Petrovich said, readying himself to hop through the bushes and over the waist high fence.

  The figure moved briskly down the opposite side of the street, and pulled out what looked like a cell phone to Petrovich. Then everything moved too quickly. The man sped toward the gate, and was at the front door before Farrington hissed something in the radio circuit. Daniel heard the gate squeak on its hinges, as he made a split second calculation, and realized that they would never make it across in time to grab Keller. He had expected more of a delay entering the safe house. A new plan formed in the same span of time, and he told Farrington to hold his position. Farrington had to ease himself back down the brick wall he had just scaled like a cat, careful not to make a sound.

  Petrovich’s instincts were right, and Keller entered the brownstone’s vestibule as soon as he arrived at the door. Someone had opened it for him, which meant that a camera was likely monitoring the front door. If they had made a run to grab Keller, they would have likely failed, and given the building’s occupants enough warning to fortify against an assault. They would have to do this the hard way, which was Petrovich’s specialty.

  Daniel pulled a black ski mask out of his backpack and pulled it tight over his head, adjusting the eye holes. He issued orders for a forced entry, and set his watch to chronograph. They would have a very limited amount of time once the explosive charges detonated, turning this quiet neighborhood into downtown Fallujah. Farrington would cover the street from the brownstone’s entrance, and serve as back up if Petrovich needed help inside. Parker would position his car one block over, ready to pick them up on whichever entrance to O Street wasn’t blocked by police. He waited roughly one minute, then gave the signal to move. He saw Farrington sprinting across the street ahead of him, and briefly gave the man credit for his physical capabilities. He just hoped the colonel would hold up under the stress of the next few minutes. Petrovich reached the iron gate first, and swung it open for Farrington, who entered and took a position on the steps, away from the door, and out of Daniel’s way.

  **

  Claire McHatten was a light sleeper, especially when agents occupied her “house” after hours. She never asked questions, and never expressed her opinion about certain senior CIA officials’ specific “use” of the house late in the evening, but she was glad that the wall separating her brownstone from the safe house was both sound and blast proof. She didn’t care to hear the noises that might emanate from some of the female “guests” that frequented the location.

  Tonight she didn’t have to worry about women of questionable repute entering her house, but she still slept uneasily with Berg next door. Langley wasn’t that far away, and she was convinced that he was up to something. Or maybe not. Spies were spies, and even when they no longer served in the field, they liked to play the game, and think they still had it in them to work their magic. She could certainly understand how they felt, though most of this emotion had been washed out of her system over the past twenty years sitting behind her desk next door.

  She had served with her husband in Eastern Europe for eight years at the height of the cold war, stationed for most of it at the U.S. Embassy in Warsaw, Poland. They ran a highly successful husband and wife operation until her husband was brutally murdered in 1985, on a train destined for Czechoslovakia. He had left Poland to meet with CIA operatives in Prague, who had just begun to foster and support a grassroots solidarity movement. Claire and her husband were at least a year ahead of their CIA counterparts in Czechoslovakia, and they had planned to discuss ways to accelerate the Czech movement. One of the countries’ governments, if not both, didn’t want the meeting to take place. Her husband was killed during a prolonged stop at the Czech/Polish border, and neither country accepted responsibility for investigating the murder.

  Devastated, Claire returned to the U.S., unsure of how to proceed with her life. She accepted what was supposed to be a temporary position at the safe house, but settled into a quiet life, and never left. After ten years on the job, the CIA signed an open-ended lease to have her live in the attached brownstone. Ten
years after that, she was an enigma to most agents who crossed the safe house’s threshold, and most agents figured she was a stuffy, miserable wife for some aging member of the wealthy Georgetown elite. Few would ever suspect that she was the building’s guardian and keeper nearly twenty-four hours a day, 365 days a year.

  She was specially attuned to her “house,” and when the gate squeaked the first time, she figured it was Keller, and eased back to sleep. When the gate squeaked again, a few minutes later, Claire became a little more alert. In fact, she found her arms covered in goose bumps. Something wasn’t right. She glanced at the digital clock on her nightstand. 12:35. She never saw 12:36. A low pitched alarm sounded throughout her home, and she sprang into action to defend her “house.”

  **

  Petrovich focused on the door as thermite charges burned through the locks and hinges at 2,500 Celsius, on four points along the outer vestibule door. The thermite was overkill for this door, but he didn’t want to waste any time. The charges burned for five seconds, turning any solid metal components in their path into molten liquid, and igniting the door. Daniel kicked the solid wood into the vestibule, and started the chronometer on his watch.

  He immediately set to work on the second door, placing small plastic explosive charges where he would logically expect to find hinges. The door obviously opened inward, as no hinges were visible, and this was good, since the door would blow inward. He set a larger charge around the door handle, and attached wires to each package. The wires led to a small black device that he dug out of the backpack, which lay open at his feet. He grabbed the backpack and evacuated the porch.

  “Move,” he whispered, and pushed Farrington off the porch.

  Huddled against the front of the house with Farrington, Daniel rapidly squeezed the “clacker,” catapulting the serene, multi-million dollar neighborhood into a war zone. The simultaneous detonation of four compact charges blew wood and brick fragments onto the parked cars in front of the house, and activated every car alarm within a one block radius. It also removed the door cleanly. Daniel mounted the stairs and rushed through the dust and floating debris, and saw that the twisted door had simply fallen inward. He was glad it hadn’t launched back into the house and damaged the secretary’s desk.

  Petrovich sprinted through the heated smoke, searching for the front desk. He found it at the back of the room. His attention was drawn to a single burning stack of yellow Post-Its in the center of the desk. Everything else had been knocked clear by the concussion wave generated by the C-4 and sat scattered in disarray behind the desk. Petrovich noticed several other small fires throughout the room, but they didn’t concern him. He should be out of this structure before any of the fires become consequential, and couldn’t afford even the simplest distraction that didn’t impact his overall success.

  Although less than fifteen seconds had elapsed, he would likely need every second to accomplish this mission and escape to see Jessica again. He methodically searched the back of the desk and found what he was looking for. A bank of three hidden buttons. Now he was really in business.

  Daniel reached into the black military style pouch attached to his belt and removed a “special.” He didn’t need to visually confirm what he held. He knew the feel of the three types of grenades in the pouch, and hoped he wouldn’t have to search for the round, smooth type. He pulled the pin on the grenade and released the trigger handle. In one expertly timed motion, he pressed all three buttons and sprinted to the staircase, casually tossing the grenade with his left hand, in an arch toward the door at the top of the stairs. His timing was perfect.

  **

  Berg slowly got up from one of the dining room chairs when the alarm sounded. Keller had just arrived, and was drinking a glass of water across from him at the dining table. He thought Keller would need more than a glass of water after the attack on the Pentagon, but didn’t want to risk an interaction with the toxin that was likely still present in his body. He couldn’t believe the raw nerve of the Black Flag group.

  Keller stared off at an original piece of Revolutionary War art hanging on the wall, as Berg glanced at him slightly annoyed. Keller must have left one of the doors ajar. He couldn’t really blame the agent, but now he’d probably have to listen to one of Ms. Claire’s lectures about security. He begrudgingly walked toward the hallway door when the entire building seemed to shake on its foundation and the lights flickered, causing both of them to sprint into the hallway. Neither of them was armed.

  “Keller, check the front windows. I’ll call-”

  “First priority is securing this door!” a voice screamed from the front of the hallway, and Claire appeared from the conference room doorway.

  She held two weapons, a semi-automatic shotgun fitted with an ammunition drum, and an MP-5 submachine gun. She tossed the MP-5 and two spare magazines at Keller, who was already sprinting toward the door leading to the stairway. Berg followed in disbelief, and they all heard a buzzing sound.

  “Help me with the door!” she screamed, just as Berg was knocked off his feet by another blast.

  **

  The grenade sailed up the staircase in a perfect trajectory and detonated less than one foot from the door. The “special” was a unique device used to achieve maximum distraction and confusion during a hostage rescue operation. It would first send a concussive shockwave in every direction, followed immediately by a two millisecond delayed flash of blinding light. All of this was topped off by a controversial third stage. A small white phosphorous charge simultaneously exploded with the flash, sending specks of smoldering material in a spectacular shower throughout a fifteen foot radius. The pieces of white phosphorous were no larger than a grain of rice, but they ignited whatever they touched, and even the most steadfast opponent couldn’t ignore the fact that they were on fire.

  In this case, the shock wave created by the initial blast flung the door wide open, knocking Keller flat on his back and saving him from a direct shower of white phosphorus. Still, he caught fire in several places, mainly his trousers and shoes. Blinded by the flash, he was temporarily unaware that his Brooks Brothers suit had ignited.

  Claire was jammed back against the conference room doorframe, but was spared the effects of the flash and white phosphorous that had been funneled straight through the open door. She quickly regained her senses and leveled the shotgun at the opening, preparing herself to open fire down the staircase at the slightest sound.

  Berg remained lying on the floor, stunned by the blinding flash and concussion. Still far enough away from the door when the grenade exploded, he didn’t get hit with any of the burning fragments. Hazy vision returned, and he saw the open doorway to the stairwell, which caused him to panic and scramble out of sight into the kitchen doorway. He barely had time to register Keller’s body directly in front of the burning door frame, but it was long enough for him to realize he’d have to go back out there immediately. Keller had caught fire.

  **

  A shower of smoking fragments hit the bottom of the staircase a few feet from Daniel Petrovich. Some bounced off the walls and bannister, hissing, while others adhered to whatever they hit. Regardless of how the pieces of white phosphorous behaved in those first few seconds, without fail, they all set fire to their final resting place. Daniel rounded the corner of the burning bannister, leveling the MP-9 toward the open door at the top of the staircase, aiming down the sight as he took the stairs in a rapid, controlled manner. He kept his focus on the hazy opening and any threat that might appear as he mounted the stairs. If he had glanced around, or expanded his field of vision, he might have been slightly unnerved to realize that the entire staircase was tightly sprinkled with over a hundred tiny, dancing fires. Growing fires. For now, all he registered was a growing sensation of heat.

  He���d reached a point halfway up the stairs when he heard a female voice yell a command.

  “Get Keller out of there! I’ll cover the staircase.”

  He processed the possibilities, a
nd continued up the stairs. Anyone who appeared at the top of the stairs would be killed immediately. Barely a second after he heard the brusque voice, he saw a shotgun barrel appear from the right side of the door. By the orientation of the gun, he could tell that it was braced straight against someone’s shoulder, and that their head should appear…now. Through the thickening smoke, he saw the faintest trace of a head appear at the door frame, and fired a quick, tightly aimed burst where he knew the rest of the head would emerge within a fraction of a second.

  **

  Claire watched Berg sprint over to Keller, and decided it was time to earn the paycheck she had been collecting for nearly twenty years. She wasn’t afraid to face down the enemy at the bottom of the stairs, but she did have some concern that another grenade like the last one might explode in her face. She could see Keller’s clothes starting to catch fire, and could not imagine the horror of taking a burst of those fragments to her face. Because of this trepidation, and the fact that at 53 years of age, she didn’t move as fast as she did as a field agent in her thirties, she hesitated at the doorway, and it saved her life.

  She heard a sudden snap as she started to move into the doorway, and the wooden frame directly in front of her face splintered. She knew what had happened before the bullets’ sonic trail slightly changed the air pressure around her eye cavities, and their loud crack penetrated her ear drums. One of the bullets had missed hitting the far side of her face by less than three millimeters. Though the threat of these bullets had long passed, Claire reacted instinctively and pulled her body back. Still, she persisted in her mission, and forced the shotgun around the corner, squeezing the trigger until she thought her hand might break. Eight deafening blasts roared into the opening.