Black Flagged Apex

by Steven Konkoly

  “The team in Atlanta failed,” Brown said.

  Greely could sense the apprehension in his voice. “What do you mean they failed? What the fuck is wrong with our people? I’m starting to wonder if you’ve been jerking me off with your reports of how well trained we are.”

  “Our people are extremely well trained, and I don’t appreciate the implication.”

  “Then how did Young manage to slip away from…how many of your people?”

  “Six. He had help. Skilled help. Two of my men were executed in Young’s hotel suite. The others were gunned down in the hallway and stairwell.”

  “Let me guess. More Arabs?”

  “No. A hotel security camera showed a man and a woman escorting Young through the lobby. The image is obscured by smoke, which wasn’t caused by a fire. Police found a spent smoke grenade in the stairwell. Flashbangs were used on the eighteenth floor. The crew that extracted Young was well equipped, well informed and highly skilled. I’m worried that we’ve attracted the wrong kind of attention from someone unexpected.”

  “Fuck!” Greely yelled, pounding the steering wheel. “We need to figure this out immediately. Benjamin Young can connect some dots that we can’t afford to have connected right now…or ever. We should have killed him weeks ago. Damn it! Fucking Mills didn’t want to cut off a big funding deal Young was working on. The son of a bitch has more money than Bill Gates, and now we’re looking at a serious security breach.”

  “I know. I have my eyes and ears on the ground in Atlanta. If he surfaces, I’ll put a bounty on his head,” Brown said.

  “He won’t surface. He’s a ghost now, just like Estrada. How is our insurance policy shaping up?”

  “We have two suitable options. The package will be in place within thirty-six hours.”

  “Make sure nothing goes wrong with this. If the government is somehow involved in Young’s disappearance, the success of our plan will depend upon it,” Greely said.

  “Understood. I’ll personally oversee the operation.”

  “Very well. Any word from the compound?”

  “Nothing yet. I just got off the phone with Bishop.”

  “All right. Keep me posted. I’m headed north for my forced vacation,” Greely said.

  “Don’t hurt yourself up there. I’ll be in touch with any developments.”

  Greely hit the steering wheel again. He considered calling Jason Carnes and pressing the case for further expediting laboratory operations, but he knew that the laboratory staff had their back up against the wall on this one. Carnes had made it perfectly clear that current timeline cutbacks might ultimately impact the virus’s efficacy. He needed to be patient and trust in Brown’s tactics. The compound, the attack earlier today and their insurance policy would combine to create a perfect storm in their favor. Even if Young spilled everything to his government captors, there would be no way they could recover quickly enough to stop their plot. He had to focus on the big picture. At this point, small setbacks were like roadkill on the highway—squishy little bumps that had no chance of slowing down his Chevy.

  Chapter 37

  11:58 PM

  True America Training Compound

  Hacker Valley, West Virginia

  Tyrell Bishop stood a few steps outside of the headquarters building and surveyed the compound. The full moon directly overhead cast a grayish-blue light on the silent facility, creating a monochromatic collage of shadows among the structures. He took in the crisp night air with a deep breath. Like always, the valley air was pristine, which added to the bittersweet taste in his mouth. He didn’t relish leaving the compound. The place had been his permanent home for the past two years, filling him with nothing but cherished memories. He looked up into the hills and pondered the impending attack, which Brown had assured him would come within the next forty-eight hours. A grin spread across his face. Bishop had no idea what they were up against, but Brown felt confident that they could repel any attack thrown at them by the FBI. The amount of firepower at his disposal could hold off a concentrated Taliban attack.

  He had removed their four M2 heavy-barrel .50-caliber machine guns from the armory and pre-positioned them in buildings near the fence line. Within minutes, he could put them into action against enemies coming from any direction. Brown had told him to expect a coordinated vehicle and helicopter assault, which was a favorite tactic of the feds. Idiots. By the time the vehicles traversed the road leading to the compound, True America would be ready for a fight. He was willing to bet that the FBI helicopter pilots had never come under heavy machine gun fire on a raid before. He couldn’t wait to see them turn tail and fly away when .50-caliber tracer rounds reached out to touch them. Without air support, he wondered if the ground forces would press the attack. He hoped so, since the compound held a few more surprises for them.

  His favorite was their armored vehicle. Last year, several mechanics and body shop guys went to work on a Ford Bronco, turning it into a light armored vehicle. Fitted with steel plates on all sides and airless Michelin Tweel tires, the “Road Warrior” was impervious to small-arms fire. The Bronco’s rear compartment roof had been removed to provide a gunner’s stand for the fully restored German MG42 belt-fed machine gun attached to a swivel mount welded to the truck. Twin protective plates would give the gun operator added protection while mowing down feds with the same gun that had defended the beaches of Normandy. Road Warrior would emerge through the front gate to meet any vehicles that tried to deliver federal storm troopers to his doorstep.

  Even a long-distance standoff wasn’t a feasible option for Uncle Sam. Bishop’s arsenal consisted of nearly a dozen .50-caliber sniper rifles that could reach out and touch anyone hunkered down along the tree line. The furthest point from the fence was roughly 350 yards, easy pickings for one of his sharpshooters, not to mention the heavy machine guns. If the feds showed some tenacity and decided to stick around, he could always dust them off with “thumper.” Even the most highly disciplined storm troopers would scurry when he started to walk 60mm high-explosive rounds onto their position. The baseplate and tube could be set up in less than a minute, providing him with unmatched firepower. The mortar crew’s training consisted mostly of “dry fire” drills since ammunition was severely limited, but he felt confident that they could rain hell down on their enemies.

  If they failed to stop the feds, Brown had ordered him to retreat through the back fence using one of the compound’s ATVs. Brown made it clear that Bishop was too valuable to be captured and that he was needed to play a critical role in upcoming events. He could take the surviving camp regulars with him. They had enough four wheelers for about a dozen of them to escape if they doubled up.

  The new recruits would have to stay and fight it out, no matter what happened. He hoped it didn’t come to that, but Brown had made the options clear. If the feds turned the tide too quickly, Hacker Valley would vanish into obscurity, and there would be no point for him to remain behind. If they could repel the attack and force the government to come back with a bigger force, True America could turn this into another Waco, Texas. Greely’s spin-doctors in the media would make this a symbol of government oppression. Brown and the higher-ups had something massive planned for the upcoming days. Ongoing media coverage of the Hacker Valley siege would play right into that plan, so he was told. The key to that plan was holding the fort.

  Through the fence line, he could see that a faint mist had started to penetrate the valley, lightly touching the ground in a few patches to the south. He raised his night vision scope and scanned beyond the fence. The light cast by the moon turned the landscape into day, providing a crisp image across the clearing in every direction. They had some night vision equipped rifles, which would come in handy if the attack took place at night. He highly doubted they would attack under a full moon, on a clear night. Then again, he wasn’t facing military tacticians. Lawyers and accountants filled the ranks at the FBI. If he were in charge of the federal attack, he would hit the compound an ho
ur before full sunrise. The mist often transitioned into fog by then, stringing thick ribbons of smoky white clouds across the valley. Perfect cover to approach undetected.

  He was about to step down from the doorway and take a walk around the compound when an excited voice nearly scared him out of his clothes.

  “They’re coming! Ty! They’re coming.”

  He ran into the building and took the first door on his left, entering the control room. The small space housed a table with three monitors and a variety of communications equipment. Two of the monitors showed feeds from various cameras located throughout the compound and along the approach road. The third monitor displayed a virtual security window that relayed information from several dozen sensors placed in the forest surrounding the compound. Immediately upon entering, he could see that motion sensors along the approach road had been tripped.

  “Rewind the camera feed,” he ordered.

  The black-haired, bearded man seated at the table clicked the mouse a few times, and the digital feed sped back in time twenty seconds. As the image flashed on the screen, Bishop saw a massive convoy of vehicles enter the screen, headed backward toward Route 15.

  “Stop it there. Play it forward.”

  Bishop counted the vehicles as they slowly passed the night vision equipped security camera. Eight vehicles inbound, carrying maybe fifty agents. The lead vehicle had been a stripped-down Humvee, probably from a West Virginia National Guard unit. This made sense since none of the vehicles displayed headlights. The Guard drivers could navigate the road with night vision and lead the feds along safely to their target. The convoy was more than twenty minutes out, giving him more than enough time to deploy the compound’s defenses. He wondered if they had him under some kind of long-range surveillance. He’d considered the possibility, but his array of motion sensors told him a different story. He’d overseen the placement of this array and had tested it from every direction. If working properly, nothing could get close enough to watch the compound without alerting him.

  Still, he didn’t want to completely spoil the surprise. He notified each of the barracks buildings with his radio and set them in motion. Within minutes, he’d have two heavy machine guns covering the approach road from the ground and the other two mounted in fixed rooftop positions. Located on opposite sides of the parade field, the rooftop guns could fire in any direction around the compound and would be their first line of defense against helicopters. Sniper positions on the rooftops and along the raised earthen barriers inside the fence could similarly fire in any direction, though he would concentrate their placement in the direction of the approach road.

  The recruits would man the entire fence line armed with a variety of automatic rifles, equipped with state-of-the-art optics. Once the heavy machine-gunners made contact, he’d deploy the Road Warrior if they pressed the attack forward. He really hoped they were stupid and stubborn enough to try to breach the fence line. He’d love nothing more than to see the entire group of FBI agents slaughtered as they crossed 350 yards of open field.

  He opened a tall metal cabinet pressed against the wall and grabbed his battle gear, which consisted of an AR-15 with 4X ACOG scope and a full tactical vest loaded down with spare magazines. He already wore his pistol in a drop-down tactical leg holster, along with a hand microphone-equipped command radio.

  “Stay on the command channel. If you see any movement on the forest sensors, aside from the approach road, you notify me immediately. Understood?”

  “I got your back, Ty. I wish I could be out there with you guys.”

  “You’ll get your turn, don’t worry. If we have a turkey shoot out there, I’ll send someone back so you can empty a few mags.”

  “Fuck yeah! Save some of those dirt bag pieces of shit for me,” he said, as Bishop disappeared.

  “All teams report when in position. I want everyone ready in three minutes,” he said into the hand mic.

  He had a dozen snipers, four heavy gun team leaders, Road Warrior and the mortar team on the command net. Things would get busy very quickly. The recruits would be led by his regulars, separated into groups of ten. If he needed to contact them, or vice versa, the request would be relayed through a different channel that was monitored by his second-in-command, who was sprinting down the hall toward him.

  Paul Thomas had been a competent soldier to have at his side for the past year. Wearing a Marine Corps-style “high and tight” haircut that matched his persona, the former Marine staff sergeant got things done around here. He considered Thomas to be an essential camp asset, which was more than he could say about many of the regulars that rotated through the compound.

  “Wake your ass up, marine. We have a whole invasion force coming down that road. Make sure the recruits get into position, and don’t leave my side. We may need to shift guys around pretty quickly.”

  “Roger that,” Thomas said.

  “I want to get down by the front gate to assess the situation firsthand,” Bishop said and started running south, in the direction of the front gate.

  On his way across the parade field, he saw activity on the rooftops designated to hold two of the heavy machine guns. These boys worked fast. Dark figures dashed in every direction, following orders barked by men and women who had been trained to lead freedom fighters into battle. The sound of equipment rattling sent a chill down his spine. He had never served in the military, but he imagined that this was exactly how it must have felt to be stationed in the Korengal Valley, at one of those hilltop firebases when the Taliban launched a surprise attack. The feeling nearly overwhelmed him as he reached one of the machine-gun positions established beside the gate. He had to stop and catch his breath, woozy from the excitement and adrenaline.

  The machine gun was almost fully assembled on its tripod, which had been jammed against the two-foot-high berm. When in position, the barrel would clear the top of the raised earth by a few inches, giving the gunners cover from return fire. He doubted there would be any accurate return fire. With two or three .50 cals pouring hot steel into their vehicles, options would be limited for the agents that managed to crawl out of the wreckage. They could either hug the ground or kiss their asses goodbye.

  **

  Chief Petty Officer Carroll stared through the lens of his AN/PED-1 Lightweight Laser Designator/Rangefinder (LLDR) and depressed the trigger, firing an invisible, pulsed laser beam at the side of an ammunition can that had been placed next to a sandbag emplacement on the roof of one of the buildings. Within milliseconds, the Joint Fire Support Console connected to the LLDR had calculated the range and elevation to the ammunition can, comparing the data to the GPS signal provided by the chief’s sophisticated communications rig. By the time he had released the trigger, the compact JFSC screen presented him with a muted orange, digital readout of the ammunition can’s coordinates, which he quickly highlighted and transmitted, along with a brief target description, to the E-8C JSTARS aircraft circling far overhead. A similar process was conducted by DEVGRU teams in three other locations around the compound, aided by laser pointers from at least a dozen weapons aimed into the compound.

  Within seconds, precise coordinates for all of the compound’s heavy weapons and the single armored vehicle had been relayed by the SEALS to the JSTARS aircraft, where computers eliminated duplicate coordinates and packaged the data for transmission to Gunslinger Three One, a three-gun firing section provided by Fox Battery, 2nd Battalion, 10th Marine Artillery Regiment. The section had been delivered by three Marine CH-53E Super Stallion helicopters, under the cover of darkness, to a remote forest clearing located eighteen miles north of the compound. Their M777A2 Howitzers would fire six M982 155mm high-explosive Excalibur rounds in support of the mission. The Excalibur round was an extended-range GPS-guided munition, with a circle error probable (CEP) of less than five meters, allowing for near pinpoint battlefield accuracy. He had to give the Joint Special Operations Command planners some credit for creativity. The use of battlefield artillery against terro
rist forces on U.S. soil had never crossed his mind. Then again, he had never foreseen the authorization to use Tier One Special Operations assets either.

  He waited for the final list of targets to arrive, which appeared on his console a few seconds later. The list looked good. Four gun emplacements and one armored vehicle. He typed additional instructions for their “fire mission” on the small keyboard attached to the JFSC and transmitted the data.

  He diverted his attention from the screen and glanced through the lens at the bright green image centered on one of the rooftops. One of the men picked up the ammunition can and placed it inside of the sandbag emplacement. The three-man crew had attached the heavy machine gun to a fixed mounting bracket and was in the process of loading the weapon. Panning out, Carroll took in a wider view of the compound. Personnel scrambled in every direction, with the majority of the terrorists manning positions toward the front gate. Suspected sharpshooters armed with optics-equipped .50-caliber sniper rifles started to take positions on several of the rooftops. Lasers calibrated to a frequency only visible to friendly night vision equipment reached out from the tree line and marked the shooters, guiding sniper teams from 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta and the Naval Special Warfare Development Group to their highest priority targets.

  The plan remained intact, as far as Chief Carroll could tell. The fake video transmitted from the JSTARS aircraft to the compound’s security feed had catapulted the sleepy camp into action. Unknown to camp personnel, JSTARS technicians had completely hijacked the compound’s security systems, disabling the motion sensors and using the camp’s own cameras for close-up surveillance. The compound’s commander had reacted in accordance with the battlefield intelligence presented by his hijacked sensors and deployed a majority of the camp’s defenders to repel nonexistent vehicles approaching from the southern access road. Carroll’s surveillance of the compound was interrupted by a low volume tone in his right earpiece, indicating that JSTARS had sent him an update. His JFSC console relayed fire mission data from the artillery battery.