Black Flagged Apex

by Steven Konkoly

  Sharpe’s earpiece emitted a soft electronic tone, which only he could hear. His touch phone vibrated at the same time.

  “Looks like you have a call,” Mendoza said.

  Sharpe pulled the phone out of his NCTC issued holster and read the screen. “Special Agent O’Reilly.” A green button on the screen said “Press to Accept.”

  “I just press the button on the screen?” Sharpe said.

  “Jesus. Haven’t you seen an iPhone before? How old is your daughter?”

  “Fourteen. She has my wife’s old phone,” Sharpe said.

  “Getting a little old for hand-me-down phones,” Mendoza said. “Better get that call,” he added.

  Sharpe pressed the button on the screen. “How can I help you, Dana?”

  “No. I don’t need anything. Just wanted to say hi,” she said, waving from her station fifteen feet away.

  “Are you kidding me?” he yelled across to her, attracting everyone’s attention.

  “You don’t need to speak that loudly. The earpiece is really sensitive,” she said.

  “I can hear you talking at your station,” he said, directing the comment at her crescent-shaped work area.

  “Frank, square her away. I need to speak with our new friends before they disappear,” he said, brushing past Mendoza.

  Stewart and Admiral DeSantos had started walking with an army colonel to the closest staircase, most likely with the intent of disappearing into the Defense Intelligence Agency’s office to discuss their apparent non-role in the task force. As far as he was concerned, Department of Defense (DoD) assets would be used as a last resort. He hadn’t been comfortable giving them full access to the NCTC watch floor and their data stream, but the order to fully integrate DoD assets had trickled down from the very top.

  Still, he needed to establish a few ground rules with Stewart and her minders. Director Shelby had given him a positive appraisal of the admiral, but was suspicious of the DIA’s involvement. Shelby was suspicious of everyone, which was probably why he had survived the administrative and political game at the bureau long enough to be named director. He had good reason to be wary of DeSantos.

  The SEAL admiral ran the Defense Intelligence Agency’s Strategic Services Branch (SSB), which was essentially a legalized, “on the books” version of Sanderson’s original Black Flag program. The SSB rose from the ashes of Sanderson’s disgraced Black Flag program, allowing the Department of Defense to retain their own field intelligence gathering capability. Strict legislative oversight ensured that the SSB would never morph back into the black hole of misappropriated funding and undocumented intelligence activity that defined the Black Flag program. Old habits died hard, and Shelby didn’t want Sanderson’s people infecting Task Force Scorpion. The director already suspected that Sanderson had some key allies inside the Beltway. Allies that appeared enthusiastic about his return.

  “Admiral DeSantos, Ms. Stewart, may I have a quick word with you in my office?” he said, before they started to ascend the stairs.

  “Absolutely. I wasn’t sure how you wanted to handle introductions, so we thought we’d sneak off and seek you out a little later when everything had settled down,” DeSantos said.

  “I appreciate your understanding of the situation, Admiral, but we need to go over a few things before the investigation starts to build momentum. My office is right here,” Sharpe said.

  He walked past the staircase to a wall of glass under the second-floor catwalk. The glass spanned the entire back wall of the room, only interrupted by four evenly spaced handles protruding gently from the shiny surface. Upon first glance, the handles looked misplaced, but as Sharpe approached the wall, the vague outlines of doors became apparent.

  The first level of the NCTC watch floor contained only four offices, two of which were permanently occupied by NCTC staff. The watch floor director, Karen Wilhelm, occupied one of these offices. She was directly supported by six watch floor supervisors, who maintained stations on the floor and alternated shifts to keep the floor running twenty-four hours a day. In reality, she was the only senior level NCTC employee that required an office here, however, Joel Garrity, NCTC director, also maintained a rarely used office.

  Even today Garrity wouldn’t spend much of his time on the floor. For the most part, his center would continue with business as usual. Hundreds of offices and cubicles forming the rest of NCTC would have no direct involvement in Task Force Scorpion’s desperate mission. Garrity’s watch floor had been essentially commandeered to house the multi-agency task force, which was neither unusual nor unwelcome for Garrity. Upon their arrival, he’d admitted to Sharpe that they needed to host more operations like this to justify the continued existence of their high-tech center. For most of the year, he said the watch floor served as one of the most expensive offices in the country, with most of the analysts and techs working on tasks that could just as easily be accomplished in the cubicle blocks of the main building.

  The third office was reserved for the president or members of the National Security Council. This room remained locked and empty most of the year, since visits to the watch floor by anyone from this senior group seemed limited to the occasional speaking event that needed a high-tech background to impress upon the world that the United States took terrorism seriously.

  That left one office for the task force leader, which could be reconfigured in any way to accommodate the person who would briefly occupy the space. He had asked that the office be configured for two people—himself and Mendoza, though he suspected that Mendoza would spend most of his time on the floor managing the task force. He felt that it was important for Mendoza to share the office. Though Sharpe was technically the task force leader, they had been called in together to form the task force, and Sharpe wouldn’t have been the least bit surprised if Shelby had given command of Scorpion to Mendoza. Mendoza had recently been promoted to a position within the Terrorist Operations Division that clearly outranked Sharpe’s sidelined assignment to the Domestic Terrorism Branch, but the FBI still informally followed a set of antiquated rules that often rewarded seniority and favors over performance. He wanted to send a clear message to the task force that Mendoza was just as much in command of Task Force Scorpion as himself.

  He swiped his NCTC key card over a faint blue light that materialized in the glass by the handle as he neared. The light turned green, and he pulled the door open for his visitors, who filed inside the office and stood to the right of the door as he entered. Sharpe moved past them and pressed a button on his desk, which brightened the lighting in the room, while simultaneously clouding the windows. Stewart noticed the change, glancing furtively at the windows while raising an approving eyebrow.

  “I bet you don’t have anything like that back in Argentina,” Sharpe said, wondering how she would respond.

  “It turned out to be a little more rustic than I had anticipated. This is more my style,” she replied, smiling.

  He eyed Stewart for a brief second, before the admiral could introduce them. Callie Stewart returned his gaze with deep brown eyes that blazed with warmth and intelligence. He had expected the same cold, emotionless stare perfected by the rest of Sanderson’s rogues’ gallery. The interrogation videos and surveillance shots collected two years ago still haunted him. Munoz never changed his expression once during his short stint in captivity. Images of Farrington and Petrovich proved even more disturbing, betraying no emotional response to murders committed minutes before.

  Despite her slightly disarming smile, he suspected she was just as lethal and unreadable as the rest of Sanderson’s crew. He could tell by the cut of her suit and the way she carried herself that she had an athletic, well-toned physique. Her blond hair was cropped just above the light blue, starched collar protruding from her gray blazer. Instead of suit pants, she wore a conservative length matching skirt. She was by far the most sharply dressed, attractive woman on the watch floor. He surmised it to be a carefully crafted look. She was already turning heads on the
watch floor. He’d have to keep a close watch on her to figure out exactly why Sanderson had sent her. He still didn’t buy off on Sanderson’s sudden goodwill mission.

  “Agent Sharpe, this is Callie Stewart. Former Marine Corps counterintelligence officer. She’ll serve as our direct liaison to assets provided by General Terrence Sanderson. I’ve already gone over the ground rules,” DeSantos said.

  “Welcome aboard, Ms. Stewart,” he said, extending his hand. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to go over them again. Please take a seat.”

  Stewart spoke as she moved one of the chairs closer to Sharpe’s desk. “I completely understand, Agent Sharpe. My role is limited to interaction between your task force and the operatives assigned to work with Special Agent Kerem Demir.”

  “Perfect. Everyone is extremely impressed with your team…”

  “Thank you, sir. They’re capable of undercov—”

  “And everyone is extremely wary of exactly how this will work.”

  Stewart’s expression changed slightly. He couldn’t tell much from the shift, but she certainly didn’t appreciate being interrupted with a vague accusation.

  “Understandable. This is untested ground for both of our organizations, and given the history between Sanderson and Task Force Hydra, I can’t imagine this sits well with anyone here. We’re onboard to augment your street-level investigative and intelligence gathering capabilities. The team we have provided to the mobile task force is impressive on many levels. Please don’t let your reservations sideline them. Get them out on the streets. Get them into that mosque and—”

  “I can’t put your people into that mosque. I can’t put anyone in that mosque right now, especially operatives that I am not yet comfortable with. Your people are part of an official law enforcement operation targeting Islamic extremists in the area. We’ll work on getting a warrant that could enable this, but I wouldn’t raise your hopes too high. Welcome to my world, Ms. Stewart. As much as I’d like to march into Hamid Muhammed’s mosque and tear the place apart looking for him, we have laws to obey and procedures to follow. I get the distinct feeling that General Sanderson doesn’t place very much emphasis on these concepts.”

  She regarded him carefully and he could sense that she would restrain her response.

  “It’s a different world for us, yes,” she conceded, “but we’ll play by your rules.”

  “As long as your people understand that, this joint venture should be a success. I have a few more ground rules for you. No weapons of any kind.”

  “For me or the field team?” she immediately responded.

  “For either.”

  “That’s unacceptable for the field team. If they’re put into harm’s way, they need to be able to defend themselves.”

  “This is non-negotiable. I have agents on this task force that have been shot by Sanderson’s people. If we use your operatives, their involvement will be strictly limited to undercover work alongside real law enforcement agents. My agents will ensure their safety, and if they can’t…then your people will not be utilized.”

  “I’ll have to speak with Sayar about this. He’s the team leader, so this will be his call,” Stewart said.

  Dressed to blend in with the local Arab immigrant population, Abraham Sayar and three operatives from Sanderson’s Middle East team sat ignored in a corner office at the Newark Field Office, having tried unsuccessfully to interject themselves into Task Force Scorpion’s Mobile Investigative Team. So far, Special Agent Kerem Demir had been highly impressed with their potential for undercover work, expressing an early interest in deploying them near Hamid Abdul Muhammad’s mosque to start working the locals, but his enthusiasm had apparently been quelled by someone higher up in the food chain. Sayar suspected that the task force’s commander, Special Agent-in-Charge Moriarty, didn’t share in Demir’s excitement. She had read him the same ground rules upon their arrival at the field office from Newark Liberty International Airport.

  “As long as he understands that it’s not his call to procure weapons for this operation. If they are found with any weapons, they will be arrested,” Sharpe said.

  “Even if they have legal permits to carry the weapons?” Stewart said.

  “I’m well aware of your organization’s seemingly epic ability to procure documents, but that isn’t the point. If I say they don’t carry weapons, then they don’t carry weapons. Period. If I banned a special agent from carrying a weapon on an operation, then the same rules would apply,” Sharpe said.

  “I know your back is up against the wall on this. I saw the looks cast in my direction and yours when I walked onto the watch floor. Everyone will be keeping a close eye on how you handle the rogues. I get it. Will you at least promise to personally review the roles our operatives may be assigned, and see if carrying a weapon can be allowed? Just keep the option open. My people can be very discreet.”

  “I’ll consider this request. Either myself or Special Agent Mendoza will review the circumstances surrounding their field deployments and make the call. You’ve been awfully quiet, Admiral. What do you think?”

  “I think Ms. Stewart’s suggestion makes sense. No weapons as a general rule. Each field situation could be proactively reviewed and the policy reassessed. I do think they should at least be allowed to carry discreet knives at all times in the field. A knife can be a great equalizer for an undercover operative if a situation takes an unexpected turn.”

  “I’ve seen firsthand what Sanderson’s people can do with knives. No weapons unless approved by Agent Mendoza or me,” Sharpe said.

  “Understood,” Stewart said.

  “The second ground rule regards communications. All contact with the outside is subject to strict monitoring. No exceptions. I assume they confiscated your cell phone upon checkin and transferred all of your contacts to the new phone?”

  “Yes. That was very nice of them,” she said.

  “If you want to talk to Sanderson or your field team, you’ll have to route through a special channel that has been created just for you. One of my agents will monitor all of your calls. You’ll pass no operational information to Sanderson. He’s not part of the task force. Special Agent Demir will pass information to your field team, so there really isn’t a need for you to do that either,” he said.

  “That’s fine. I may check in once or twice with Sanderson, but I’ll probably do this via email, which should make it even easier for your techs to monitor. As for the field team, Sayar is in charge of executing whatever tasks they are given. If he’s not getting the information he needs, he’ll let me know, and I’ll bring it up with you or Agent Mendoza,” she said.

  “Why exactly are you here?” Sharpe said.

  “Because someone at a much higher pay grade than either of us thinks that Sanderson’s assets could prove decisive to the task force’s success. I’m here to make sure they’re employed at these decisive moments.”

  “Which brings me to ground rule number three. I don’t want you walking the floor and sticking your nose into everyone’s business. These people still see you as an agent of the enemy, presidential pardon aside. Barely two years ago, Sanderson crippled the most promising counterterrorist investigation in FBI history, severely injuring dozens of FBI agents and police officers in the process. On top of that, his agents ruthlessly killed an off-duty police officer, several civilian military contractors and a loyal DIA employee in the process of accomplishing Sanderson’s mission, which turned out to be little more than a cover up of information,” he said, turning to DeSantos.

  “The less time you spend out there, the better. You can access all posted workflow from the Department of Defense’s office on the second level. I expect you to stay close to that office. If we need your expertise in a planning session, I’ll teleconference you into the meeting. I need to keep the task force focused on the investigation, and your presence here is already enough of a distraction. Stay out of sight.”

  “I hope to find bathrooms on the second floor, wh
ere I will be sequestered. I don’t want to have to use the office waste can out of desperation. I’ve used worse in the field, but this is such a nice place,” she said.

  Admiral DeSantos stifled a laugh, but couldn’t suppress a sly smile.

  “Figures. All of the women assigned to my task force are professional comedians.”

  “I thought they beat that out of probationary agents in Quantico,” Stewart said.

  “And I thought the same about the Marine Corps,” he said.

  “Some personality traits can’t be removed, no matter how hard they try. I won’t get in your way here. If it makes a difference to your team, you can let them know that I joined Sanderson’s crew four months ago as a consultant. I’ve spent about three weeks at his compound, where his planning staff brought me up to speed on their capabilities, and I briefly joined teams in the field to make a firsthand assessment. I was contacted yesterday regarding this assignment.”

  “Where do you currently work? I didn’t see that in your background,” Sharpe asked.

  “A small think tank right here in D.C. That’s all I can say,” she said.

  “Great. More secrets. Are we clear on the ground rules?”

  “Crystal clear, Agent Sharpe.”

  “Perfect. Admiral DeSantos, will you be staying with us for the duration?”

  “Negative. Colonel Hanson, the Special Operations liaison, will remain on-site to represent the Department of Defense. I’ll get her settled in upstairs before I leave. I’ll be back and forth as my schedule permits,” he said.

  “Very well. I’ll get to work on a snack station with coffee for you on the second floor. Toilets are up there, to the right of the staircase you were about to use,” Sharpe said.

  Stewart nodded and smiled, before following DeSantos out of the office. Sharpe was surprised that she agreed to his stipulations so easily. He had expected more resistance to this demand. In truth, the entire conversation had played out more smoothly than he had envisioned. He had secretly hoped that she would refuse to abide by his rules, giving him solid ground to remove her from NCTC. Instead, she had been agreeable, almost pleasant even.