Black Flagged Apex

by Steven Konkoly

  The recent slew of messages and activity gave him the sense that the timeline for their mission had been compressed. Two days ago, he had been instructed to retrieve an Internet document detailing several methods they might employ to deliver the virus at each target site. Over the past three weeks, they had familiarized themselves with the areas around each pump station, but beyond that, they knew very little about what they would find at each site. Specific details seemed nearly impossible to acquire. They had a black nylon gym bag filled with tools that they might need to access the water supply and would have to rely upon the use of generic schematics to determine the type of system they might find at the site. Once they agreed on the system, they could trace the right schematic to determine the easiest points of access to deliver the canister’s deadly contents into the water supply.

  He turned the car onto Old Drakeville Road and slowed. Old Drakeville Road was an unlit side road, and the service entrance came up quickly on the right side. He wasn’t sure they could easily see the Morris County Municipal Utility Authority sign in the dark. The sign had been difficult enough to find in broad daylight.

  “Watch for the sign,” he commanded.

  He had full faith in his brothers, but as soon as he received the attack order, he ceased to be their friend. He was their commander, to whom they had sworn their undying loyalty, and as such, he didn’t ask them to do things. He commanded them. A few tense moments passed as they cruised slower than the speed limit. Fortunately, Old Drakeville Road was a little used side road running roughly parallel to Howard Boulevard and providing access to several smaller businesses that were closed in the evening. They were lucky in this regard. The area along Howard Boulevard was packed with restaurants and retail outlets, all doing a brisk business. Interstate 80 was less than a full kilometer away providing them with a quick escape, if Allah willed it. Abdul was not afraid to die on this mission. He had long ago prepared himself for this eventuality. There was no uncertainty regarding his place alongside fallen brothers in paradise, where a blissful eternity awaited the faithful.

  “There it is!” Ibrahim Salih yelled, pointing toward a small, unlit sign partially obscured by thick bushes.

  Abdul Abusir applied the brake and took the turn slowly, feeling the crunch of the minivan’s suspension as they dropped off the well-maintained blacktop road onto an uneven gravel surface. Google Earth satellite photos showed him that the pump station was located roughly one hundred and fifty meters down the service road, which wound forty-five degrees to the right approximately two thirds of the way to the station. Allah had smiled upon him again. He would be able to use lights up until the turn, without alerting anyone at the station. They would cruise the last fifty meters of the road relying upon the ambient light provided by the station. They would emerge into the pump station’s parking lot without warning, achieving complete surprise. He couldn’t imagine that the Mount Arlington pump station would be more heavily guarded than the Morristown water complex. Even if there were three cars instead of one, they would cut through these infidel defenders with ease.

  “Prepare for heavy contact in the parking lot. When we start shooting, I want it to be over in seconds. A prolonged firefight will attract unwanted attention and alert any pump station duty personnel.”

  “Allahu Akbar. We cannot fail,” Fahid Atef said from the back seat.

  Abdul glanced back into the minivan’s darkened passenger compartment and saw Fahid cradle the shape of a compact AK-47 assault rifle. Upon returning his attention to the dusty gravel road, he heard Fahid retract and release the rifle’s bolt mechanism, seating a 7.62mm round in the weapon’s chamber. Fahid passed the rifle to Ibrahim in the front passenger seat and repeated the process with two more rifles. Whatever waited for them at the pump station didn’t stand a chance. He was excited to the point of delirium that their final mission was at hand.

  “Allahu Akbar!” he yelled.

  **

  Miguel Estrada watched the minivan turn off Old Drakeville Road onto the Mount Arlington pump station service road. Once the minivan’s taillights disappeared into the trees, he opened the driver’s door of the Explorer and stepped out into the cool air. The area was silent except for the distant symphony of spring peepers. He rested an arm on the open door and remained perfectly still.

  “Do we call it in now?” his partner asked.

  “Negative. We give this a minute or two,” he said.

  He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Abusir’s team had been slightly craftier than they had expected, almost evading his surveillance team in Parsippany. Estrada’s team had planted a GPS tracking device on the car Abusir had secretly kept in a storage facility on the outskirts of East Orange. They had discovered the car three months ago when surveillance teams started following Abusir’s group. In Parsippany, the team drove into a corporate parking garage and ditched their Nissan Sentra. The move had been planned in advance, since entry into the business park’s garage required a pass card. Estrada’s team covered both possible exits and waited. Ten minutes later, they spotted Abusir driving a dark blue Honda Odyssey minivan. He couldn’t express how relieved he had been to hear that they had reacquired Abusir. Losing him would have put Estrada in a tough situation.

  They had little doubt that Abusir’s group had been activated to carry out their mission, but knew nothing about their specific target selection. Figuring out Abusir’s target was critical to his organization’s plan. They had watched him investigate a pump station in Morristown, but nobody had been surprised when the terrorist cell passed on the opportunity. The pump station was located on a busy road, highly visible from every direction, with a police cruiser parked inside the gated facility.

  Estrada had put his money on the Mount Arlington pump station, after Abusir had conducted his own surveillance run down Old Drakeville Road two hours earlier. He had been so confident in his guess, that he had returned at dusk and backed the Explorer into a spot twenty feet into the trees and bushes, where he could observe the service road entrance without being detected by cars coming from either direction.

  “What are we waiting for? We need to call this in and get the fuck out of here,” his partner said.

  “Patience, my friend. Just another minute.”

  They had chosen Abusir’s cell for a reason. The Egyptian-born terrorist ran things differently than the other terrorist cells they had uncovered. He insisted that they all live separately and take daytime jobs. Many of the other cells lived together in the same apartment and did nothing but wait around and draw suspicion from the FBI. Most importantly, Abusir’s cell had not been detected by the FBI. Leadership had figured correctly that Abusir would take immediate action to preserve his cell when Ghazi Hamar didn’t show up for evening prayer.

  This had been important to leadership, since they had little intelligence regarding the interconnectivity between terrorist cells, or the FBI’s penetration of the tri-state area Al Qaeda network. They had determined that most of the cells were under routine twenty-four-hour surveillance, but they didn’t know if the greater network had been penetrated. They were almost certain that Abusir’s cell hadn’t been discovered, but they couldn’t take even the slightest chance. Once the FBI woke up to discover their handiwork throughout the tri-state area, any surviving cells under immediate surveillance would be locked down. They needed at least one cell to remain operational and receive Imam Muhammad’s inevitable orders. This was critical to a plan that had been set into motion nearly a year ago.

  Estrada’s thoughts were interrupted by staccato bursts of distant gunfire. No doubt he was hearing AK-47s. He knew their sound all too well. The automatic gunfire echoed through the trees, distinctive enough at this distance, but unlikely to attract any serious attention from someone waiting for a table outside of the Cracker Barrel back toward the highway on Howard Boulevard. He’d have to make sure the local authorities took notice.

  He reached into one of the pockets on his jacket and produced a disposable ce
ll phone, which he used to dial 911. The call was immediately connected.

  “I just heard automatic weapons fire coming from the Mount Arlington pump station! It sounded like a fucking invasion!” he yelled at the dispatcher.

  Within thirty seconds the call was complete, and he was headed back to Howard Boulevard. Both of his additional surveillance teams placed a similar call to 911. As he turned south toward the interstate, he dialed the News 12 New Jersey Tip Line, which would be the first of several calls placed to the media to make sure every American knew that their country was under attack again and that business as usual in Washington wouldn’t be enough to protect the public from their greatest fears. This would be the first step on a long, difficult journey to bring this once great nation back to a position of power and respect both here and abroad. Back to the True America our founding fathers had envisioned.

  Chapter 10

  9:11 PM

  National Counterterrorism Center (NCTC)

  McLean, Virginia

  Sharpe sat in a chair next to Special Agent Hesterman, vying for room to examine his screen. Even with three wide-screen monitors at the station, there was little room for him to see around Hesterman. He wasn’t even sure how O’Reilly could see the screens through the massive agent. He must have been a linebacker at Michigan.

  “Eric, can you shift about thirty feet to the left? I can’t see the screen on the right.”

  O’Reilly immediately laughed. “How do you think I feel?”

  “I feel like I’m being harassed again,” Hesterman said, staring intently at the screen.

  “Bring it up with the director if you’re not happy. I hear he’s looking for an agent-intern to work out of his office. Be a great career move,” Sharpe said.

  “Shit. I’d rather lick one of these crime scenes clean than hang out in his office for the day,” Hesterman said.

  “Speaking of crime scenes. Anything new with any of the addresses?”

  “Well, I might have something. One of the new addresses is different. It’s a small apartment with only one occupant listed on the lease, and Mr. Abdul Mohammed Abusir was not found with his brains adorning the walls.”

  “That makes two missing terrorist cells,” O’Reilly stated.

  “And still no sign of the virus canisters. Wonderful,” Sharpe muttered.

  “Whoever hit Al Qaeda didn’t leave a trace, beyond Mr. Grimes removing his mask in front of our cameras,” O’Reilly said.

  “Still no sign of Grimes?”

  “Negative. We’re watching his house and the Best Buy in Union, New Jersey. I think half of the customers in the Union store right now are federal employees. The phone tap on his house hasn’t produced anything useful. His wife has placed several worried calls to friends and family, but nothing that would indicate that she knows his current location. We’re checking out anyone she called for a possible connection to True America,” O’Reilly said.

  “This is not good. Shelby’s been all over me to make some progress here. If we don’t shake something loose soon, I might consider…”

  One of the screens at the workstation suddenly displayed an incoming high-level alert, which stopped him from completing his sentence. The appearance of the message coincided with the buzzing of the NCTC mobile phone on his hip. He could hear several nearby phones buzzing, especially O’Reilly’s, which was sitting on the workstation desk. Oddly enough, the buzzing was almost equally as annoying as the ring tones he had forbidden within the watch floor. Another damn “emergency alert,” the thirtieth of the day that the White House situation room had relayed, containing information they already knew or didn’t need to know. At least they were actively participating, instead of simply demanding updates all day.

  “It’s started!” yelled one of the NCTC analysts at a nearby station.

  “Homeland Security just received an alert from the Morris County Sheriff’s Department. The pump station at Mount Arlington was attacked by three suspects at roughly 8:45 PM. The suspects killed two Mount Arlington police officers stationed in the parking lot and one Morris County SWAT officer before they were gunned down and killed by SWAT. Two Morris County Utilities technicians were found shot inside the pump station. They found three of the canisters at the scene.”

  The room burst into a hectic cacophony of questions and phone calls as Sharpe read the rest of the report.

  “The canisters were empty. Jesus,” he said, turning around to face the Homeland Security station. “The canisters are empty!” he said to Salvador Guerrero, Homeland’s NCTC liaison.

  “They know. Everyone’s already moving on this. DHS, FEMA, Homeland…everyone,” Guerrero said.

  “Eric, inform Agent Moriarty immediately. I want one of our investigative teams out there as soon as possible. Dana, put me in touch with whoever is in charge at the scene. We need to make sure they know this is our show. They’ve lost officers, and emotions will be running high. I need them to preserve the evidence for our own crime scene techs.”

  He reread the dispatch on the screen, but didn’t see any reference to the suspects’ physical characteristics. O’Reilly spun her chair to face Sharpe.

  “I have Lieutenant David McKay on the line. You can pick up the call on your phone,” she said and spun back around.

  He took his phone out of the holster on his belt and pressed the green button to accept the transferred call.

  “Lieutenant McKay, this is Ryan Sharpe with the FBI. I’m in charge of the task force responsible for finding the rest of the canisters and preventing more attacks. I’m really sorry for the loss of your men. I can’t imagine how devastating this will be to the families involved. Let me know if there is anything I can do in the future to make sure they’re taken care of. This is technically a federal operation, and I want to make sure they get the proper recognition. I don’t know what to say beyond that,” Sharpe said.

  “Thank you, Agent Sharpe. I’ll take you up on that offer if necessary, and I appreciate the fact that you didn’t start off the conversation telling me how I’m no longer in charge here.”

  “I can’t tell you how relieved I was to hear that we had a lieutenant on scene. I can’t go into details, but I need the scene preserved. I’m sending one of our crime scene units and several investigators out to the pump station. Right now I need to know if the suspects looked Arab.”

  “The only way these three could look more Arab was if they had wrapped towels around their heads. They look like standins for the 9/11 hijackers. Why wouldn’t they look Arab?”

  “I can’t talk about that right now. Thank you, Lieutenant. I wish we could have headed off this attack. I feel terrible for the families of the men lost tonight.”

  “Men and women. One of the Mount Arlington officers was married with three kids. She and her partner were riddled with bullets sitting in their cruiser. Fucking savages,” McKay said.

  “Savages indeed. It’s going to be a long night. Thank you in advance for the hospitality out there. I wish it were under better circumstances.”

  “Me too. I’ll keep an eye out for your people.”

  The call disconnected, and Sharpe patted Hesterman’s right shoulder.

  “How are we doing?”

  “Moriarty is assembling the team as we speak. She hopes to have them out there before 10:30. She’s keeping Demir in Newark to continue working Al Qaeda.”

  “Good. Mount Arlington might generate a lead, but it will likely direct us right back to Newark. I still haven’t heard a word from Justice about getting people inside the mosque. My biggest concern right now is that this attack may have just made our jobs even more difficult. There’s no way the White House will be able to contain this. They’ll have to declare Morris County a disaster area and go door to door to keep people from drinking the water. I don’t know how they’re going to figure that out.”

  “Kind of makes our job not seem so bad,” O’Reilly said.

  “Except we’ll be the ones that get blamed for not stopping the at
tack, or any future attacks,” he said.

  Salvador Guerrero had managed to sneak beside them unnoticed. His voice startled Sharpe.

  “They can shove the blame right up the administration’s ass. One car with two officers guarding the pump station? What the fuck do they expect?”

  “They’re looking at too many points of vulnerability to guard. Water towers. Pipelines. Some towns have multiple pump stations. Every law enforcement officer in America would be occupied. The president activated the National Guard and Army Reserve, but the attack came too fast,” Sharpe said.

  “They could have directed state and local authorities to properly defend these sites while the Guard and Reserves mobilized. Wait until you see what happens next. Once this hits the media, they’ll start stationing infantry platoons at each site. Standby for operation knee jerk. This is going to be a complete fiasco by the time we wake up tomorrow.”

  “Who said we’d be going to sleep?” Sharpe said.

  “Good point. Let me know if there’s anything I can do on my end. The best we can do is figure out how to stop the next imminent attack. There’s still one more terrorist cell missing,” Guerrero said.

  “We’re still missing fifty-five canisters. I hate to say it, but one missing Al Qaeda cell is the least of our problems,” Sharpe said.

  “True. But I get the feeling we’ll have some time before we have to worry about the majority of those canisters. The cell that hit Mount Arlington either panicked and struck early, or was given last minute orders based on the near elimination of the entire network. My money is on the latter option. The remaining cell could be out there right now casing their target…or targets.”

  “Hopefully, we’ll get something from Mount Arlington that will put the last Al Qaeda cell out of business, so we can concentrate on the extent of True America’s involvement,” Sharpe said.

  “You know that group better than anyone in this room. If True America is involved, we have an even bigger problem. Only God himself knows what they might have planned for those canisters.”