Black Flagged Apex

by Steven Konkoly

  Shelby found it curious that nobody stepped in to correct General Gordon’s use of the term “True America.”

  “Can we use armed drones during the attack?” asked Robert Copley, CIA director.

  “We had a discussion about this earlier, Robert, and decided against deploying the drones in U.S. airspace. Even for surveillance. We feel that this is a slippery slope,” the national security advisor answered.

  Copley did his best to conceal a look that expressed Shelby’s first thought. They had no problem using Tier One Special Forces operators on U.S. soil, but a Predator armed drone was somehow out of the question. Politics.

  “I want to minimize collateral damage to the compound infrastructure. We need to preserve as much evidence as possible for the FBI. How close can we bring the FBI mobile task force to the compound before the raid? I want them on-scene immediately. The attempt at Fort Meade couldn’t be an isolated event.”

  “Undercover Delta operators infiltrated the surrounding towns and suspect an active network of informants. I don’t recommend any ground vehicle activity in the area prior to the attack. I’d keep them on Interstate 79 and time their arrival at the Route 15 exit for midnight. A convoy of government vehicles traveling through some of the towns along Route 15 might raise the alarm. It’ll take them about an hour, maybe less, to arrive at the compound from that location. I have a two-vehicle Delta team that can escort them. They might need the help, since the road from Route 15 to the compound looks dicey,” General Gordon said.

  “Can we put them in support helicopters and land them directly at the compound?” Shelby asked.

  “Sure, if you can get them over to Dover Air Force Base by 2200 hours,” the general replied.

  “I can have them at Dover by 1900,” Shelby said.

  “Then I can arrange to have them dropped at the site once my people have declared it clear of hazards.”

  “Excellent. I’ll be in my office down here for a few hours. Frederick, will you join me?” the president asked.

  Shit. Maybe he had looked too eager when the president slammed his fists onto the table. Shelby really hoped he wasn’t that easy to read. He followed the president and Jacob Remy into the president’s private office. Once seated, the office windows obscured at the press of a button. He was finally on the inside after all of his years of service. He just hoped he hadn’t been brought in here for an ass chewing. The president didn’t waste any time getting down to business.

  “How far along has Sharpe come to connecting the attacks to True America?”

  Shelby started to think carefully about his choice of words, but decided to trust his gut instinct and forget politics.

  “We know this is True America, but to be completely honest, we don’t have a solid case yet. I was hoping that one of the men killed near Fort Meade would be wearing a True America T-shirt, but no such luck. They’ve covered their tracks pretty well up to this point. I’m hoping that the compound raid will break this wide open.”

  “What if it doesn’t?” Jacob Remy asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “What if we go in there, and at the end of the day, we don’t gather any more evidence connecting this to True America?”

  “We’ll make the connection,” Shelby said. “Their plot is too complicated to cover up completely. We have our best interrogators working on the three terrorists captured in Brooklyn. The compound raid will break the back of their organization. We’ll roll up the entire group with the evidence uncovered in this raid. You heard the general’s surveillance report: over a hundred terrorists on-site. We’re going to catch them right in the middle of planning their next phase of attacks. The timing couldn’t be better.”

  “I share your optimism, Frederick. Unfortunately, Jacob is skeptical. He thinks this is a conspiracy involving all True America leadership, and they’ve planned this for years to coincide with the upcoming election.”

  “I’d be lying if I told you the thought hadn’t crossed my mind.”

  “Make sure Sharpe’s task force gets everything it needs to make this connection, and stand by to dismantle True America when the connection is made. We may have to wait until the timing is right, but we’ll take them down. As far as I’m concerned, True America is the most dangerous terrorist organization that has ever walked on U.S. soil, and I intend to remove that threat.”

  “I’ll make sure Sharpe has every resource at his disposal, and I’ll make sure to consult with you about the possibility of a wider response to the evidence uncovered at the compound.”

  Message received.

  “Perfect. Until then, I want Sharpe to focus all of his efforts on safeguarding America.”

  “Understood, Mr. President.”

  “Thank you, Frederick. I’ll see you later tonight.”

  With those words, Frederick Shelby was dismissed after a not-so-subtle warning to suppress any connections his task force made between the current terrorist plot and True America. He left the office with a glimmer of hope. Despite the warning, he sensed that the two men wanted nothing more than to crush True America. They just wanted to control the timing for political reasons. Shelby could live with that, as long as it didn’t interfere with Sharpe’s investigation. He was far from being a political pawn, but he’d learned long ago that positions of great power in Washington, D.C., always required you to sell a small portion of your soul to stay in the game. Powerbrokers ran afoul when they sold too much of their soul to the wrong person, ending up beholden to the Beltway devils. Forced to leverage the rest of their soul in a desperate, yet futile bid to keep a seat at one of the big tables. Shelby planned to be at the table until the day he died, with his soul mostly intact.

  Chapter 34

  5:49 PM

  I-95 South

  Laurel, Maryland

  Darryl Jackson sat in sluggish traffic that would only get worse as he approached the entrance to the D.C. Beltway. Once on the beltway, he could get out of his car and have a picnic on the roof of his Suburban at this time of the evening. He’d left his house yesterday, immediately after hearing the news of the Mount Arlington attack, and filled his SUV with bottled water and microwaveable meals purchased from the Wegmans Supermarket. He arrived in Princeton for a late lunch with Liz, after which he helped to move the water and supplies into her dorm room.

  Sensing her nervousness about the Mount Arlington attack, or possibly the fact that he had shown up unannounced with enough food and water to last her a month, he decided to stay in a nearby hotel for the night. She begrudgingly ate pizza with him in the hotel lobby, before finally convincing him that she was fine. Finding himself unconvinced the next morning, he managed to linger around long enough to feed her lunch before departing too late to dodge D.C. traffic. By the time he said goodbye, he finally realized that he was much more nervous about Liz’s situation than Liz herself.

  The traffic crawled to a stop, and he grimaced. He’d be lucky to get home by nine o’clock. His cell phone rang, and he snatched it off the passenger seat. Cheryl. She was the other half of the nervous party.

  “Hi, honey.”

  “Where are you? I thought you’d be here by now,” she said.

  He detected a thin layer of panic in her voice, which was unusual for his wife. “I’m stuck in traffic north of D.C. Just south of Laurel. I had lunch with Liz.”

  “Laurel? Jesus. Did you hear what happened? It happened right in Laurel!”

  “What’s going on, hon? What happened in Laurel?”

  “They tried to attack a water pipeline in Laurel. Local police shot and killed the suspects. A police officer was killed. It was pure random luck that they even found these guys,” Cheryl said.

  “Honey, slow down. Who did this? What happened exactly?”

  “Terrorists tried to drill into one of the water mains leading to Fort Meade. They were in the middle of a forest south of the town. The police stopped the attack, but now they’re saying there’s absolutely no way to safeguard the public wat
er system. They can’t guard hundreds of thousands of miles of water main pipe. Some towns are talking about shutting down the water supplies,” Cheryl said.

  “Who are they? You can boil the water. This is crazy. When did the attack take place?”

  “Some time in the middle of the afternoon. The White House has made a statement, but they didn’t give any useful details. They can attack us anywhere, Darryl. Are you sure Liz will be all right?”

  “She’s doing way better than we are. I’ll give her a quick call to update her on the situation and make sure she understands what to do. Karl assured me that the virus would be killed by the boiling process. Can you head to Wegmans and try to stock up on bottled water? Just to make our lives easier, until they can start testing the water.”

  “They can’t test the water if the terrorists are picking random locations along the pipeline. They could tap into a water main running through the woods behind our house, poison the entire subdivision. They’d have to test the water at every tap, continuously throughout the day. That’s what they just said.”

  “Who are they? Who is saying this?”

  “I’m hearing it on Fox, CNN. It doesn’t matter, they’re all saying the same thing—drink bottled water,” she said.

  “Then you better get over and buy some, even if you have to wait in line until I get back. Head over to Costco instead. They have a full warehouse-sized aisle devoted to bottled water. Bring your phone. I should be home by nine. We’ll be fine, honey. I’ll call the kids. I love you.”

  “I love you too. All right, I’m heading back out. Tell Liz and Emily that I’ll talk to them later tonight. And tell them to be careful. No showers, no cafeteria drinks, nothing,” Cheryl said.

  “I’m on it. Give me a call from Costco with a situation report,” he said, realizing he had just slipped into operational mode.

  “Yes, sir. Call you soon,” she responded, playing right along.

  He hung up and stared to his left, across the jammed highway. A few miles east of here, those bastards had tried to poison the National Security Agency, along with thousands of nearby citizens. The location of the attack couldn’t be a coincidence. He wondered what their bigger game would be. Taking out the NSA, or at least disrupting it had to play into their complicated plot. Berg had been light on the conspiracy details, but had told him enough to know that there was a major terrorist operation in the works. Maybe the government had the situation under control. How else could they have stopped this attack? Maybe they were in the process of similar raids across the country. After calling his children, he’d give Berg another call. He had to know what they were up against.

  He turned his attention back to the creeping traffic and tuned the radio to an AM news station to get some background information before starting his calls. Unfortunately, most of the chatter relayed useless theories and guesswork designed to panic the population. He quickly gained the sense that details were scarce and the government wanted to keep it that way.

  Chapter 35

  8:22 PM

  Ritz Carlton Hotel-Buckhead

  Atlanta, Georgia

  Daniel stood to greet his guest. He wished their first meeting could be under different circumstances, given the debt he owed the young man. He took Enrique Melendez’s hand and pulled him in for a man hug and a pat on the back, which was a stretch for Daniel. He’d never been an expressive kind of guy. He glanced briefly at Jessica over Melendez’s shoulder, noting that she remained focused on the Cosmopolitan in her hand, still paying little attention to the man sitting next to her at the bar.

  Jessica had kept the seat available for Benjamin Young’s arrival, which had been no easy feat on a Friday night in Buckhead. The swank Lobby Bar at the Ritz Carlton proved to be a popular destination for the affluent, after work crowd, which hung around sipping cocktails well past the dinner hour. Gradually, the expensive suits and slacks surrendered to country club chic, replete with muted pastel blazers, tailored dress shirts, tight cocktail dresses, and more wheat-toned gabardine than he’d ever seen in one place.

  Young arrived at 7:45, and Jessica lifted her Chanel 2.55 black lambskin bag from the seat as he approached the bar. He took the bait and ordered a scotch served neat, cordially confirming with her that the seat was still available. Daniel had noticed that Young’s eyes had followed the handbag. He was impeccably dressed in an expensively cut navy blue suit, with white dress shirt and gray tie. It was easy to tell that he appreciated fine goods and the people that chose them. A faded pink pocket square peeked out of his jacket’s left breast pocket at the requisite half-inch height. Thick brown hair, tan skin, chiseled features, blue eyes—he looked like a Brooks Brothers model.

  He took notice of Jessica immediately, but didn’t initiate any contact. Likewise, Jessica didn’t invite any additional attention at first, wanting to let his situation simmer for a little longer. As the eight o’clock hour passed, and Young started to fidget, she began to exchange glances with him. His “date” hadn’t arrived, which heightened his anxiety. He touched his nose several times, indicating his need for a little nose candy booster.

  Daniel was amazed to see how quickly Benjamin Young unraveled, as the prospect of being stood up by a prostitute became more likely.

  “Good to see you again, my friend,” he said, releasing Melendez and putting a hand on the chair meant for him.

  He had selected a table at the back of the lobby, giving away two of the four chairs to an ever-expanding group of well-groomed men at the table next to them. The remaining chairs were arranged behind the table to give them both a full view of the Lobby Bar, which would be a necessity given the number of people pouring into the tight room. By 7:55, it had become standing room only, and he couldn’t keep an eye on Jessica without moving his head in an obvious manner. Given the recent arrival of two men, who had taken an obvious interest in Benjamin Young, he couldn’t afford to tip his hand here in the bar.

  “Likewise. Young’s eight o’clock appointment is taking a nap in the parking garage. We’re clear for at least three hours. Here’s her phone,” Melendez said.

  The stocky Latino took his seat and casually scanned the room, signaling for the cocktail waitress two tables away. Daniel’s anxiety level dropped a few notches with Melendez at the table. He’d been nervous using Jessica like this. True America wanted Benjamin Young off the street sooner than later, a fact reinforced by the quick replacement of the original assassination team. The two men standing at the end of the wide, mahogany bar gave away their intentions as soon as they arrived. Sipping club sodas, the two had spent the last twenty-five minutes stealing impatient glances at Young.

  Their tradecraft skills were nonexistent, which signified that they were either operating well out of their comfort zone or that they had never been trained for the more subtle aspects of their work. Either scenario worried Daniel. A combination of the two terrified him. There was little doubt that “Ben and Jerry” had been given orders to kill the man sitting less than six inches from Jessica. The hazard lay in their interpretation of the orders and their professionalism. Had they read the situation correctly and realized that he’d be headed up to his room shortly? Would they panic when his escort failed to show and try to kill him in the bar? Daniel wished Jessica would double her efforts. Based on the increasing severity of their facial expressions, he calculated that Ben and Jerry would make a bad decision within the next ten minutes, maybe sooner.

  He saw Jessica lean over and say something to Young. Finally. She could read the situation better than any of them. If he knew Jessica, they’d be out of there shortly. Daniel smiled and faked a quiet laugh, turning to Melendez.

  “Time to send Young a text from Natasha’s phone. Type this…ready?”

  Melendez pulled the phone out of his blazer and held it under the table. “Shoot.”

  “Something came up. Sorry. Will call later,” Daniel dictated.

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it. The message should frustrate
him enough to turn all of his attention to Jess.”

  “Sending,” Melendez said.

  Daniel watched Young shake his head upon reading the message. Jessica immediately leaned in and said something, which caused Young to put the phone down on the bar and engage her in conversation. It looked like their mark had conveniently forgotten all about Natasha. Jessica could have that effect on men. He noticed that she had started to touch the bottom of her nose like Young. She was definitely expediting the process. Daniel took a sip of his vodka martini and shifted his gaze to Ben and Jerry, who looked even edgier than before. The mystery text had probably shaved three minutes off their bad decision timeline.

  “She’d better hurry this up,” Petrovich said.

  “You got that right. Those two look ready to start shooting,” Melendez said.

  “If this gets out of hand, grab Young and get him out of the hotel,” Daniel said.

  “What about you?”

  “I have Jessica.”

  “Got it,” Melendez said.

  “We’ll get a real drink when this is over. I owe you my firstborn. I’ll never forget what the two of you did for her,” Daniel said.

  “As long as the kid comes with a return option. Fucking scary concept, the two of you having kids,” Melendez said, and they both laughed for real, though it was short lived.

  Jessica moved her purse, and Benjamin Young put his cell phone away. A few seconds later, Jessica swirled her index finger around the rim of her half-finished cosmopolitan and removed the maraschino cherry inside. She slipped the cherry in her mouth, sensuously pulling the stainless steel pick clear of her lips.