Black Flagged Apex

by Steven Konkoly

  Graves watched Gupta’s eyes shift between the two screens in front of him. Aside from his fingers tapping at a thin silver wireless keyboard, nothing else moved. He sat locked into the chair, intensely focused on their mission, taking only a fraction of a second away from the task to deliver the occasional, well-deserved sarcastic comment. Normally, these comments would flow freely, but under pressure, Gupta became tolerable inside the cramped utility van. Blessed silence let Graves know that Gupta was ultra-focused.

  Graves noticed a change on one of the screens. Gupta’s fingers started typing before he could form the thought to speak.

  “What’s that?”

  “Working on it. We might have an encrypted transmission,” Gupta said.

  Their system continuously scoured the airwaves for encrypted and “in the clear” radio signals, processing each transmission’s electronic characteristics through protocols designed to detect an inbound covert operation. The system was intimately familiar with all of the “background” noise within a three-block radius of El Halal Market. Wireless routers, personal handheld radios, local police channels, cordless telephones, cell phone towers…all of it categorized by the antenna Grave’s had installed on the roof of the apartment building currently used by the FBI on Coney Island Avenue. The sensitive, multi-spectrum receiver had “listened” to the neighborhood for nearly twelve hours, passing information to the van. The data processed and catalogued by their software provided an intimate look at the area’s electronic signature. After twelve hours, any new transmissions stood out like a sore thumb. A previously undetected P25 encryption protocol suddenly appeared on his screen.

  “Market, this is Over Watch. Possible assault inbound. We are in the process of confirming,” Graves said.

  He received acknowledgements from the team in the market and Sayar. Fayed sat with Tariq Paracha in a stolen Honda Accord three blocks away from the market, waiting to play their role.

  Gupta furiously typed commands, trying to stay a few steps ahead of the incoming data analysis. He didn’t bother telling the computer to break the encryption code. The coroner would be zipping up body bags by the time their proprietary blunt-force crypto-hack program provided the intruder system’s encryption protocols. All he really needed was to determine locations, which would be simple. The system isolated the data layer used by the encrypted signal, and Gupta ordered the remote relays to repeatedly “ping” all users within that layer. As the new radios silently responded to his “ping” request, the digital street map of the neighborhood changed, and Graves stopped breathing. They would have seconds instead of minutes to make a difference.

  **

  Special Agent Shawn Barber stared out of the third-story bedroom window at the El Halal Market storefront. From his position in one of the apartment’s south-facing windows, he could see the sidewalks on both sides of the street. Several sodium vapor street lamps cast ample light onto the busy street, eliminating his need for the tripod-mounted night vision scope pushed into the corner next to him.

  His eyes flickered to the left, catching the faint outline of Special Agent Stephan Woods on the other side of the darkened room. The young agent sat forward in a folding chair, staring through the enormous night vision scope attached to his bolt-action Remington M40A1 .308 sniper rifle. The rifle, with its bipod extended, rested on a small table pushed against the wall under the other south-facing window.

  Barber’s weapon hung by a combat sling designed to keep the weapon diagonal across the front of his chest. His right hand rested on the rifle’s pistol grip, ready to release the safety and put the weapon into action in a moment’s notice. He heard talking from one of the rooms adjacent to the bedroom, but didn’t turn to look. The task force’s leadership team had occupied the rest of the apartment, setting up a disorganized gaggle of folding tables and chairs to hold up the computers that they seemed dependent upon to breathe. He had been with the FBI long enough to know a time when everything didn’t depend on internet protocols and email. A time when the job didn’t require four technicians to support every agent in the field.

  He had joined the bureau after returning from the first Gulf War. His Boston-based Marine Corps reserve unit had been activated in the fall of 1990, just a few months after he completed his bachelor’s degree at Stonehill College. As the platoon’s only “officially” trained sniper, Staff Sergeant Barber spent most of Operation Desert Storm attached to his battalion’s reconnaissance element, riding in an open HUMVEE well forward of the front lines. Upon returning to the States in April 1991, he applied for a job with the FBI, hitting the post-Vietnam federal retirement wave perfectly. He found himself back in Quantico, Virginia, just in time for an unmistakably miserable mid-Atlantic summer.

  Barber took in the entire scene on Coney Island Avenue. Every minute, no fewer than a dozen cars passed the market, coming from either direction. The stoplight at the intersection of Foster and Coney Island didn’t seem to have the slightest impact on the traffic. Pedestrian traffic in the immediate vicinity had lightened significantly from rush hour. The bus stop directly across from the apartment had stopped disgorging riders, which eased the flow of pedestrians wandering the streets. Occasionally, one or two passengers would loiter at the stop and board an outbound bus. Still, he counted eight civilians within the designated engagement zone.

  He stifled a yawn, turning it into an arm stretch. Just as his arms extended outward, his radio crackled and came to life.

  “Two cars approaching. Weapons visible. Right in front of the market!”

  The transmission was followed by Supervisory Special Agent Katsoulis’s voice and the sound of panicked footsteps rushing into the bedroom.

  “Unit transmitting. Identify yourself.”

  Barber didn’t have time to fully process Katsoulis’s request. By the time he had shouldered his weapon and kneeled, bracing the rifle’s vertical grip against the windowsill, it didn’t matter who had given the warning. He watched the street over the scope, not wanting to limit his situational awareness, and saw the attack unfold. The maneuver was brilliant.

  A northbound SUV veered left, crossing the median and jumping the curb in front of the El Halal Market. The massive vehicle struck a fire hydrant and smashed into the far right corner of the market, sending a thick column of water skyward. The sharp, staccato crackling of automatic weapons fire immediately filled the street. As the market’s front window collapsed and cascaded onto the sidewalk, a white delivery van screeched to a halt in the southbound lane, directly in front of the door to the market. Several figures burst from the van, rushing through the parked cars and cascading water toward the market’s front entrance.

  Barber needed to make it difficult for anyone to enter the store, so he decided against taking any individually aimed shots. He placed the 4X ACOG scope’s illuminated green arrow just forward of the doorway and started firing methodically. He never heard the single boom from Wood’s .308 rifle, which took down the first man in line to enter the market. The rest of True America’s assault team passed through his scope’s field of vision, braving the rapid, semiautomatic fire from his MK14 Enhanced Battle Rifle.

  By the time the remaining men disappeared into the El Halal Market, two more attackers had been stopped, their bodies crumpled in the doorway. He had no idea how many had made it inside and didn’t have time to think about it. Glass rained down upon his head, trickling through his open collar, which meant that the men in the SUV had turned their attention to their sniper nest. There was nothing he could do for the operatives in the market, so he quickly inserted a new twenty-round magazine into his rifle and went to work on the attackers using the SUV as cover.

  He heard the supersonic crack of Wood’s .308 high-grain boat-tail hollow-point (BTHP) round and saw one of the shooters snap backward, tumbling uncontrollably onto the pavement. Through the thick downpour of water, Barber sighted in on a man near the back of the SUV and depressed the trigger twice. The black-clad, masked commando spun in place, fl
inging his compact rifle out of Barber’s view before dropping to one knee. A third 7.62mm round from the EBR passed through the man’s head and shattered the rear compartment window. Another boom from Wood’s rifle echoed through the room, but Barber never saw the result. He scanned the front of the SUV, which was barely visible through the mist created by the geyser of water shooting two stories high. The wind brought most of the water down on the roof of the building.

  A head appeared over the hood of the SUV, followed by a blazing assault rifle. Several rounds from the rifle struck the apartment wall, passing through. Screams erupted from behind him, never breaking his concentration. He steadied the green reticle arrow on the head, conscious of the fact that the man’s rifle continued to pour rounds into his position. He applied even pressure to the trigger and was rewarded by the rifle’s kick. The head and rifle quickly disappeared.

  “That’s a kill!” Woods yelled.

  In the seconds that followed, a vicious firefight erupted in the darkened market below them, drowned out by the ringing in Barber’s ears. Repeated muzzle flashes punctuated the gray fountain of water pouring down onto the sidewalk, competing with the red and blue strobe lights from the FBI SWAT team screeching into position on the street directly in front of the market.

  **

  The market went dark, and Abraham Sayar dove to the floor with his teacup still clenched in his left hand. His right hand already held his pistol. Naturally right handed, he relegated the busy work to his less coordinated hand while “on the job,” keeping his dominant hand free to react. This simple, disciplined act would save his team from a quick demise. Dozens of bullets slapped into the posters behind his seat before he hit the ground, showered in shards of glass from the market’s front window. Automatic gunfire shattered the market, filling the aisles with a volume of incoming rounds that Sayar had never experienced before. Concentrated, extended bursts snapped overhead and tore through foreign-labeled packaging, exploding the dried contents. He heard a muffled scream from the back of the market, which sounded like Diyah Castillo. The screech of tires took him out of reaction mode and put him on the offensive. They were up against two vehicles on Coney Island Avenue. The first vehicle had been True America’s “shock and awe” attempt. The second would contain the breach team.

  He unconsciously released the teacup and gripped the pistol with two hands, quickly rolling through the freshly broken glass to a position directly in front of the market’s entrance. A cold mist from the fire hydrant’s spray hit his face, as blurred figures appeared on the sidewalk. He aimed at the first figure’s head and started to pull the trigger, but the man dropped to the ground. The next darkened mass spun in the doorway, punctured by bullets from an unseen shooter. A man in street clothes wearing body armor and a ski mask burst through the door, shoulder firing a drum-fed Saiga shotgun into the market. Lying well below the Saiga’s twelve-gauge shot pattern, Sayar fired a single .40 caliber round from his Glock through the intruder’s forehead and searched for another target past the descending body. The lifeless body slumped to the left, pinning the door against the wall.

  He watched another body awkwardly fall into the threshold, the victim of FBI sharpshooters. Before he could mentally celebrate, another heavily armed commando jumped through the doorway, dropping to the floor a few feet in front of Sayar. From a prone position, he fired an extended burst from his G36C assault rifle at the area around Sayar’s table. The man realized his mistake halfway through the burst and swung the rifle in Sayar’s direction. The Israeli-born operative stopped the rifle with his left hand and placed the Glock against the side of the man’s head, blasting his brains onto the wall next to the door.

  An explosion from the rear of the market told him that their ordeal was far from finished. Another team had been detected in one of the homes across the alleyway. He reached forward to grab the semiautomatic shotgun that had fallen against the blood-splattered door, still hearing gunfire on Coney Island Avenue. He’d have to rely on the FBI to finish the job out there.

  He holstered the pistol and shouldered the massive shotgun before moving deeper into the market. In a low crouch, he made it a third of the way through the maze of merchandise before the shooting started. Unable to positively identify anyone through the smoke caused by the blast, he held his fire for a few seconds…until automatic weapons fire and shotgun blasts dominated the store. He couldn’t imagine that any of his team had survived. The door leading upstairs was open, which meant that Abdul had joined the fight. Two gaping holes and several smaller splinter marks in the door gave Sayar the impression that he hadn’t lasted very long.

  He lined up the nearest shadow detectable through the smoke and put the shotgun into action, pulling the trigger repeatedly as he moved swiftly toward the back of the market. He expended the fifteen remaining twelve-gauge shells within a few seconds, abruptly stopping the assault team’s momentum into the market. Grunts and screams erupted during his sudden charge, as a wall of double ought buckshot blanketed the narrow confines of the storage area, ripping through half of the True America commandos. Return fire followed immediately, barely giving Sayar enough time to reach the cashier counter. He saw a dark red, football-sized smear on a calendar tacked to the wall behind Diyah’s stool. The operative was nowhere in sight.

  He caught movement in his peripheral vision and hurled himself over the counter. Before he could clear the white Formica barrier, an automatic weapon sent several bullets in his direction. The counter disintegrated around him, and he felt his left knee explode, followed by a similar pain in his right ankle. He crashed into a stack of VHS tapes and toppled a recycling bin as his momentum slammed him down to the littered floor.

  He heard repeated pistol shots and looked up to see Diyah Castillo sitting low against the wall a few feet away, firing her pistol through the opening in the counter. Her face looked ashen. She stared blankly down the sight of the Glock, firing slow, methodical shots. The drywall around her exploded, as True America’s commandos started to take better-aimed shots from the storeroom. She didn’t flinch as the rounds hit the wall next to her head.

  He reached out and grabbed her bloodied left arm, yanking her toward him as several bullets struck the space she had just previously occupied. Her right arm remained extended, and she continued to fire. A ski mask and assault rifle appeared above the counter, the barrel pointed right at his head. Before the muzzle could flash, ending Sayar’s life, Diyah’s pistol roared, sending a .40 caliber hollow-point round through the rifle’s EOTech sight. A massive dark splash hit the wall behind the commando’s head.

  He had managed to bring his own weapon up over Diyah’s left shoulder when he saw more movement over the counter. Too many of them, he thought, as the slide on Diyah’s Glock locked back. Her pistol was empty, and there was no way she would be able to reload it. Her left arm had been destroyed. He raised his own pistol, thinking that this was the end. He hoped their sacrifice would give Sanderson what he needed to stop True America. Before he could pull the trigger, bursts of rifle fire erupted from the front of the market. He was faintly aware of the blue and red light dancing on the market’s surfaces and the sound of yelling. The words “clear” and “FBI” rang in his ears.

  **

  Aleem Fayed sprinted down the poorly lit, uneven sidewalk, keeping his suppressed MP-9 submachine gun as low as possible. Tariq followed a few steps behind. He couldn’t believe their luck, given the fact that the True America operatives had nearly achieved a complete surprise attack. Their radio discipline had kept the impending assault from detection until the very last moment, when the final order had been given from the vehicle they were rapidly approaching. One brief radio transmission had given their electronic warfare team everything they needed.

  Tariq and Aleem had been parked just around the block when the attack order had been transmitted. The close proximity of True America’s command vehicle put them within striking distance. When the location of the transmitted order popped up on their m
obile tablet, they hadn’t wasted a second talking about options. They bolted out of their car, leaving the keys in the ignition.

  The occupants of this vehicle had been the true purpose of the entire operation. The FBI might capture some of the True America shooters alive in the market, but Sanderson was more interested in getting his hands on someone higher up in the leadership structure. Given the training level of the True America operatives, Sanderson highly suspected the existence of a substantial training compound. If they could discover the location of True America’s militant training center, the FBI should be able to rapidly unravel True America’s plot. Aleem intended to be the one to deliver this information to the FBI.

  The two operatives slowed to a quick walk, raising their weapons to a ready position. Tariq’s MP-9 had been fitted with an underslung Taser, which would be critical to taking one of the men alive. It would be Aleem’s job to identify the leader and kill the rest. They had exhaustingly practiced this abduction technique at the Argentina compound, to the point where they could take down a four-man security team, removing the high-value target within seconds. As they weaved through the thick tree trunks between the parked cars and sidewalk, he could see that they were dealing with two men in an Explorer parked three cars down. The sound of automatic gunfire echoed off the brownstone houses, hitting his ears from every direction.

  The driver raised a handheld radio to his ear for a few seconds, before lowering it and shaking his head quickly. The Explorer’s brake lights illuminated, followed by the sound of the vehicle’s ignition turning over.

  “Driver is our target,” Aleem said.

  Tariq sprinted forward, clearing the trees, while Aleem slipped between two parked cars and approached from the street. As he passed the rear of the Explorer, he barely caught the white reverse light in his peripheral vision. If the car was in gear, this could get complicated when Tariq’s Taser pushed 50,000 volts of electricity through the driver’s body. If his foot was on the accelerator, they’d have a major problem. It was too late to stop Tariq. He just hoped his partner detected the white reverse lights. Based on Tariq’s wide angle of approach, he wasn’t hopeful.