Black Flagged Apex

by Steven Konkoly

  He wasn’t on his way to Stewart’s office to put an end to Sanderson’s interference. His plan was to harness the power that Sanderson wielded to prevent the death of countless thousands. He’d tasted Sanderson’s world and wanted more. He had fought against these urges, knowing that they had no legitimate place in his law enforcement world, but the consequences of failure were too devastating. If stopping True America’s plot meant wrecking his own career, he would gladly make that sacrifice. He couldn’t make that decision for O’Reilly or Hesterman, so they would be excluded from the covert side of Task Force Scorpion, and he’d have to keep Mendoza in the dark as well. In the unlikely event that the Sanderson association blew up in his face, they would be protected from prosecution.

  He ascended the stairs and approached Callie Stewart’s assigned office. Before he reached the door, she stepped out onto the catwalk.

  “Is DeSantos in there?” he asked.

  “No. He’s been gone for several hours. Can I help you with something?”

  “Let’s step into your office. Close the door behind you, please,” he said.

  Once the door was shut, he sat in one of the faux brown leather chairs near the window. Stewart lowered herself into the adjoining chair.

  “From this point forward, we’re going to cut the bullshit. I know you have Estrada. Do you have the compound location?”

  “I just received the information,” she said, clasping her hands.

  “Were you planning to share this information with me?”

  “Well…it’s a little more complicated than that for us.”

  “Because you don’t want to tip Sanderson’s hand? That’s no longer a concern between us. I’m just going to assume that Sanderson holds a royal flush at all times. I’d like to speak with him for a moment, if you wouldn’t mind calling him for me,” he said.

  “It would be my pleasure,” Stewart said, standing up to walk over to the desk.

  “I’d like this to be a private call. Let’s use your cell phone,” Sharpe said.

  Stewart slowly dropped back into the leather chair, her facial expression showing no surprise at the request.

  “All communications leaving here are monitored by—”

  “Not buying it, Ms. Stewart. You’re good, but I’ve worked in counterintelligence for twenty years. I haven’t walked up those stairs once since you arrived, and the first time I decide to pay you a visit, at 1:30 in the morning, I’m intercepted at the door?”

  She dialed the number and waited a few seconds for Sanderson to answer.

  “Everything is fine, General. Special Agent Sharpe would like to speak with you.”

  She passed the phone to Sharpe.

  “Good morning, General. I was just talking to Ms. Stewart about how I’d like to proceed from this point forward. No more secrets. I need to know exactly what you know, as soon as you know it. I need to know what your operatives are doing before they do it. The flow of information at this point is a congested, one-way street.”

  “One-way street? You haven’t exactly rolled out the red carpet for Ms. Stewart. Information is flowing like mud from your end,” Sanderson countered.

  “Really? Maybe this would be a good time to reboot and debug the NCTC computer system. They’ll probably follow suit at the Newark field office. How would you feel about the information flow then? The cyber techs didn’t find any security breaches at the Newark field office, but I’m sure your people covered their tracks pretty well. Money buys the best talent, and from what I can tell, you have a lot of money at your disposal.”

  “I’m not sure sharing information would be in your best interest, as a government employee,” Sanderson replied.

  “Let me worry about that,” Sharpe said.

  “Once you stepped into this arrangement, you can’t just step out. We’re partners.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far. What kind of information did you manage to get from Estrada?” Sharpe asked.

  “Details about the compound. From what I can see, your people have the correct location. I assume that General Gordon’s Joint Special Operations Command will be given the task to take down the compound. Based on what Estrada disclosed, the FBI would be seriously outmatched and outgunned. Unfortunately for us, planning and intelligence gathering efforts for the operation will remain in-house with SOCOM. Aside from timeline and general information, we’ll be spectators. This is where your background will be critical to their success. We need to ensure that they either find—or are prepared to deal with—.50 caliber heavy machine guns. Estrada said they had three at their disposal, with armor-piercing ammunition. They also have some kind of armored vehicle, with a mounted MG42. It’s more of a body-shop project, but not something our Special Operations forces want to stumble upon. They also have a 60mm mortar with high-explosive ammunition. Have you ever come across evidence or rumors that True America was acquiring this stuff? We have to warn them somehow, and I’d rather do it in a way that doesn’t tip our hand.”

  “Your hand,” Sharpe corrected.

  “Our hand. This is our hand now. No going back at this point. Can you connect True America with heavy weapons purchases?”

  “I can connect them to a deceased arms dealer who specialized in hard to find, highly illegal weapons. He provided your organization with .50 caliber sniper rifles and a whole host of new weapons.”

  “Navarre. Perfect. He offered my operatives a whole host of crazy, very dangerous shit. Soviet bloc shoulder-fired surface-to-air missiles. I think you need to insist that your voice is heard. Once a decision is made to raid the compound, schedule a sit-down with your SOCOM liaison, Colonel Jeffrey Hanson. He’s a good soldier and will listen to what you have to say.”

  “What if they go completely behind our backs, or just announce the raid an hour or two in advance?” Sharpe asked.

  “We need to make sure that doesn’t happen. I have people on the inside that can warn us, and I’d recommend that you cozy up to Director Shelby. He was instrumental in planning the raid that landed over a hundred special operators at my camp in Argentina. Just be careful. He didn’t have much of a choice about my unit’s participation in Task Force Scorpion, and I suspect he’ll turn on me at the first opportunity and you too if he catches wind of this.”

  “My agents will need to be on-scene immediately to start processing evidence. As soon as the compound is declared clear, it’s back in my hands. I’ll make sure they don’t cut me out of the loop,” Sharpe said.

  “Sounds like a solid plan. In the interest of full disclosure, I’m working on something else that might interest you. Nothing actionable yet, but highly intriguing. After killing the Imam, Estrada’s next mission was to travel to Atlanta and assassinate a prominent D.C. lobbyist named Benjamin Young. Mr. Young’s wife and children live in Atlanta. He also maintains apartments in D.C. and Manhattan. Apparently, he’s not the most faithful husband, and he’s developed quite a drug habit. True America leadership wants him out of the picture, so he must be a critical liability. I’d like to know why. I’ll have people in Atlanta by midmorning to start surveillance. I’m hoping to take him off the streets before True America sends another team after him.”

  “I’ll steer clear of that one for now,” Sharpe said.

  “Good call. I’ll keep you apprised of any developments in Atlanta.”

  “All right and, General?”

  “Yes?”

  “You’re not going to screw me on this, right?”

  “Ryan, I give you my word that the only agenda item on my blackboard is to put an end to this terrorist plot. My operatives are loyal and share that single goal. You saw proof of that earlier this evening. The operatives assigned to the El Halal mission understood their odds. More importantly, they understood the importance of their mission to our country. Hundreds of thousands of American lives will be lost if we don’t stop True America. I debriefed Petrovich and Farrington after they returned from Monchegorsk. The video evidence and accounts of horror publicized by Re
uters do little justice to the tragedy that unfolded in that doomed city. Just one of those canisters could turn one of our cities inside out.”

  “You had people on the inside? In Monchegorsk?”

  “I had a small team penetrate the city on behalf of the CIA. The Russians are lying through their teeth about Monchegorsk, and they’re leveling the city to eradicate the population. You’ve seen the projected symptoms of the weaponized virus we’re facing. Temporal lobe damage to almost everyone infected. Symptom severity varying from fever with disorientation all the way to an uncontrollable murderous frenzy. My team said the streets were overrun with aggressive, zombie-like citizens. That’s why they are calling this the Zulu virus. If this virus is unleashed in a high-density population area here in the U.S., our own government’s options for dealing with the crisis would shrink rapidly. How do you effectively deal with a thirty to forty thousand person rampage in the suburbs?”

  “I guess you go Russian on them,” Sharpe said.

  “Exactly. My organization is willing to go as far as necessary to stop that from happening in the U.S.”

  “I wish we could do more, but my hands are tied here,” Sharpe said.

  “Your task force is doing exactly what it was designed to do and doing it exceptionally well. You just need the occasional boost from my group to fine-tune your efforts. Working together gives us the best chance to stop this threat.”

  “I’m not going to lie to you, General. Working with your group makes me nervous,” Sharpe admitted.

  He had to make sure this was clear to Sanderson. He wasn’t sure why, but he needed the general to acknowledge his concerns.

  “I won’t leave you hanging out to dry, Special Agent Sharpe. I consider you one of my own now,” Sanderson said.

  “All right. We’re unlikely partners in this mess. Speaking of which, I need to get back to the watch floor. I’m going to hand you off to Ms. Stewart.”

  “Good luck today, and welcome to the team.”

  Sharpe didn’t like the sound of Sanderson’s last comment. He handed the phone back to Stewart.

  “This doesn’t mean you get to hang out in my office and drink coffee,” he said to Stewart before departing. “We keep up the appearance that I can’t stand your presence here.”

  “Got it,” she said, taking the phone.

  “And have your people actively track O’Reilly’s computer activity. I can’t be the only one around here to suspect that our system has been hacked. She’s smarter than both of us combined and way craftier,” Sharpe said.

  “Is there any way to bring her on board?” Stewart said.

  “Absolutely not. The rest of my people are off limits. That’s non-negotiable. If this dangerous liaison detonates, I don’t want them exposed. This includes Mendoza.”

  Sharpe left her office and stepped onto the catwalk, glancing down at the watch floor. The activity level had diminished throughout the center, which was more a reflection of the late hour and the fact that they had been running nonstop for the last forty-eight hours. Most of the agency liaisons were holed up in their offices sleeping, leaving skeleton crews on the floor to monitor progress. His own crew had thinned tonight at O’Reilly’s request. She kept enough agents and analysts on the floor to process evidence and information gathered by the mobile investigative team in Brooklyn. She had sent at least half of them away to get rest once they had put the computers to work trying to identify the men and women captured or killed in the market raid.

  They had the location of True America’s militant training camp, which would effectively propel the investigation forward. He’d pass this information on to the White House situation room as soon as he stepped into his office and then place a call to Director Shelby. Actually, he’d reverse that order, he decided. Shelby would probably savor the chance to deliver this information. He’d at least give Shelby the option. Career management 101. It sounded petty and ridiculous, but little things like that mattered to the director.

  He imagined that this new information would trigger a string of early wake-up calls throughout D.C. He’d be lucky to grab an hour or two before the watch floor was back in full swing. Before all of that, he’d need to convince O’Reilly that he’d laid down the law with Stewart. O’Reilly hated Sanderson’s crew and represented the single greatest threat to unhitching Sanderson from the task force. He’d lie about Estrada, telling her that Stewart denied involvement. O’Reilly wouldn’t believe Stewart’s claim, but in the long run, it was a safer move for all of them.

  He’d have to maintain the same lie with Mendoza, which might be too big of a stretch. Mendoza had been present during Stewart’s confession that Sanderson’s people had abducted and absconded with the Imam right under the FBI’s watchful eyes. He knew that the El Halal Market operation and the early morning Bayonne raid had all fallen into their laps, compliments of General Sanderson. He’d have to gauge Mendoza’s reaction. If his friend pushed back too much, he might have to relent. He didn’t like running a web of conspiracy and lies within his own task force, but the stakes were too high to lose Sanderson’s support. He turned toward the staircase, ready to start spinning his own web upon reaching the watch floor.

  Chapter 27

  4:11 AM

  C-17 Globemaster III

  20,000 Feet over West Virginia

  Chief Petty Officer Steve Carroll checked the straps of his oxygen mask and adjusted his wide-lensed goggles one more time. He twisted around in the awkward parachute rig and scanned his team. Barely visible in the darkened cargo hold, he verified that all seven members of his reconnaissance team were up and checking each other’s gear. He abruptly spun his head around to face the impenetrable darkness beyond the open loading ramp. Barely discernible through the darkness was roughly two minutes of free fall. Invisible hands tugged on his gear, providing him with a final assurance that nothing would come loose during his descent. They were loaded down with an atypical assortment of weapons and sensors, all of which were needed to safely reach the ground.

  The jumpmaster located to his left wore an oxygen mask and an oversized headset. Like the rest of the Naval Special Warfare Development Group (DEVGRU) commandos in the oversized cargo bay, he had been breathing compressed oxygen since the flight departed Dover Air Force Base less than an hour earlier. Having just arrived at 20,000 feet, they were in no immediate danger of hypoxia, but mission planners had made it clear to the flight crew and DEVGRU personnel that no unnecessary risks would be taken en route to the objective. Even the ramp had been lowered immediately after take-off, to ensure that a midflight malfunction could not keep his team from jumping.

  Carroll felt two solid slaps on his right shoulder, signifying that the final equipment check for his team was finished. He extended his right hand and gave the jumpmaster the thumbs-up sign. The Air Force technical sergeant had given them their one-minute warning less than thirty seconds earlier. The red indicator lights on each side of the ramp flashed twice, prompting the jumpmaster to yell, “Thirty seconds!”

  Time seemed to stand still. He was glad time wasn’t measured standing at the edge of these ramps. After what seemed to be an eternity, the indicator lights turned green, and his team stepped forward in unison. He walked off the edge of the ramp and hit the turbulence caused by the C17’s four Pratt and Whitney turbofan engines. The turbulence was expected and short lived as he quickly fell away from the aircraft. The air tore at his suit and equipment as his body approached terminal velocity, fighting to destabilize his “spread stable position.” Several seconds later, his body position stabilized, and he knew he had achieved his terminal velocity.

  He was now in complete control of his free fall. Without changing the position of his upper arm, he hinged his left elbow and examined the illuminated navigation board attached to his left forearm. He would use the information provided by the GPS receiver to guide his team to a position over their drop zone. Examining the rudimentary display, he decided to guide them north. By altering their body pos
itions, they could affect a small degree of lateral movement, which was usually enough to compensate for any distance error caused by the jump.

  He pointed his head north and locked his arms alongside his body, while simultaneously bringing his legs closer together. The new body position had an immediate effect, and he rocketed downward. Though nearly imperceptible to Carroll, his body made lateral gains north as most of his momentum carried him vertically down. He held the position for ten seconds and went back into “spread stable” to check the effect of his maneuver. He was relieved to see that they were in a much better position to hit the drop zone when they deployed their parachutes at 2,000 feet. He might even consider a lower deployment altitude given their current position relative to the wide clearing they had chosen. 1,500 feet would give them ninety seconds of glide time to make any final adjustments. His altimeter had been set to warn him at both altitudes.

  He altered the position of his arms and deflected enough air to spin his body one hundred and eighty degrees. He now faced his team’s formation. He counted seven dark gray shapes packed tightly together in front of him, bobbing and shifting as each commando continuously made small adjustments to stay within arm’s reach of each other. He considered one more northerly adjustment, but decided against it. He had traded fall time for accuracy by shaping his body like a bullet in a “tracking” position for ten seconds. By decreasing his stability and eliminating a significant portion of the drag on his body, he nearly doubled the speed of their descent. They were rapidly approaching 5,000 feet and needed to prepare for parachute deployment.

  He gave the hand signal to open their formation and watched as the team started to separate. Less than twenty seconds until they reached 1,500 feet. He stared below and saw a few distant lights to the south. The area that contained their drop zone and surveillance target gave him nothing. Black emptiness stared back at him. He watched his altimeter and took one more look at their formation. Plenty of distance between jumpers. He saw each of the three muted flashes provided by his altimeter and knew they had reached 2,000 feet. He quickly confirmed the altitude and watched the digital readout pass 1,600 feet. He reached down with his right hand and pulled his ripcord right before the altimeter flashed again. He knew that the entire team would follow his lead and deploy their parachutes less than a second later.