OMEGA: A Black Flagged Thriller (The Black Flagged Series Book 5)

by Steven Konkoly

  “A little more,” said Farrington.

  Hoffman eased the throttle forward until it was a few inches forward of the straight-up position. The C-17 raced down the dark runway.

  “Speed?”

  “Passing one seventy. Rapidly increasing,” said Hoffman.

  “Tell me when it reaches two-twenty-five.”

  “Got it,” said Hoffman.

  A few seconds later, Hoffman announced the number. Farrington eased the stick back, feeling the aircraft leave the runway.

  “No shit,” said Farrington. “Is the altitude rising?”

  “We’re rising,” said Hoffman. “I can tell you that much.”

  “Just find the altimeter. It’ll be the one with the numbers going up. Hopefully.”

  By the time Hoffman found the digital altimeter display, they were five hundred feet and climbing over the Atlantic, headed almost due east. Now he had to figure out how to turn the craft around and head west. Given their miraculous escape, he was in no hurry to try.

  Chapter 56

  Allegheny Mountains, West Virginia

  Karl Berg took Sanderson’s call with trepidation. Deep down, he knew it was bad news. The timing was too close. The flight carrying his team had been an hour from landing at RAF Ascension, one of the most isolated islands on the planet. The perfect place to sweep your dirt under a deep blue rug. He and Bauer shared a concerned look as he put the phone to his ear.

  “Terrence?” said Berg.

  “You were right.”

  Sanderson sounded deflated.

  “Can I put you on speakerphone?” Berg requested. “Audra Bauer is with me. The rest of the team is working on putting this place back together. Rustic was a bit of an oversell.”

  “Sure,” said Sanderson.

  Berg set the phone on the table next to them.

  “General, what happened?” asked Bauer.

  “It’s not the Russians,” Sanderson stated. “Not in a big-picture way. The team was ambushed at the RAF airfield. Farrington, Hoffman, and Haddad are the only survivors.”

  “Shit,” muttered Berg, too stunned to conjure anything else.

  Despite hinting to Sanderson that Ascension Island would be the perfect place for an ambush, he truly didn’t think anything could happen there. It was a Royal Air Force base! An isolated one for sure, but still an official military installation. Berg had been far more concerned about what might happen when they reached Africa after splitting up on the ground into small groups.

  “How many did you lose, General?” Bauer asked.

  “That’s what I like about you, Bauer. None of that phony ‘sorry for your loss’ crap. Straight shooter to the end,” said Sanderson. “Seventeen. And you can call me Terrence.”

  “Well, I am sorry for the loss of your people, Terrence, and angered by their deaths,” said Bauer. “I assume the survivors are hiding out on the island? Not in RAF custody, I hope.”

  “You may not believe this, but they’re flying west toward Brazil,” said Sanderson. “In the same aircraft.”

  “Who’s flying?” asked Berg. “Not that it matters. I’m just glad they got out of there.”

  “It does kind of matter. Farrington is at the controls.”

  “Jesus,” said Berg. “He knows how to fly a C-17 Globemaster?”

  “He got it into the air and managed to turn it one hundred and eighty degrees. He’s not really keen on trying anything else. They plan on bailing out over Brazil after pointing the aircraft back out to sea.”

  “What happened to the pilots?” asked Bauer. “And I’m not implying anything with that question.”

  “The copilot was killed by a stray bullet. The pilot was killed by a CIA sniper.”

  “CIA?” said Bauer, giving Berg an unconvinced look.

  “I can’t confirm that the sniper, the fake SEALs, or the phony refueling crew were CIA, but the pilot told me he was contracted by the CIA to fly the mission. The flight was diverted to Guantanamo Bay after leaving MacDill Air Force Base. The four DEVGRU SEALs confirmed by General Gordon from SOCOM were replaced by an assassination team that turned on my people. Does the National Clandestine Service hire pilots to do this?” Sanderson asked.

  “We have a roster of pilots and crew for every type of aircraft,” Bauer replied.

  “And the Department of Defense just loans out aircraft when you ask?”

  “No, we receive official DOD aircraft when the president and his national security advisors decide that the mission transport phase requires an extra degree of perceived legitimacy. A U.S. Air Force C-17 stopping in Argentina or Ascension Island to refuel doesn’t draw attention. Neither does that same C-17 headed to the United Nations Base in Uganda. We don’t do it often.”

  “How does this stay a secret?” asked Sanderson. “I assume a squadron somewhere is missing an unmistakably large aircraft?”

  “A limited number of squadrons are on the short list to supply aircraft for these missions. It’s very hush-hush. They provide a fully flight-checked aircraft, our contractors walk on board and fly them away, returning them later. Nothing is recorded.”

  “Fucking spooks,” said Sanderson. “So now what?”

  “We obviously can’t trust the CIA,” said Bauer. “They set up the flight.”

  “With the help of the White House,” Sanderson chimed in.

  “Maybe, maybe not. Someone high in the Department of Defense is definitely in on this, though,” said Bauer.

  “Let’s cross the DOD, White House, and the National Security Council off the Christmas card list for now,” said Sanderson. “Except for Bob Kearney.”

  “I don’t know,” said Berg. “He’s pretty close to the president.”

  “Bob has been my man on the inside for a while now,” said Sanderson. “He warned me about the raid against my compound back in 2007. This information obviously stays between the three of us.”

  “I always wondered,” said Berg.

  “I trust Bob with no reservations, but I don’t trust that his office, house, car…all of it, is clear of bugs. He’ll get in touch with me discreetly when he hears what happened.”

  “If he ever hears about it,” said Bauer. “Ascension Island is in the middle of nowhere.”

  “We’ll figure out a way that doesn’t involve Farrington setting the autopilot for Cuban airspace before they bail out. They have three hours to figure it out.”

  “Don’t cross the option off the list,” said Berg.

  “Wouldn’t that be a fucking sight to see?” said Sanderson.

  “We’re better off if everyone involved in this conspiracy thinks they ran out of fuel and crashed at sea. When they get to Brazilian airspace, they should declare a fuel emergency and claim their navigational equipment malfunctioned. Point north before they bail out over land. That will send the aircraft into the middle of the North Atlantic. It’ll run out of fuel at some point and crash. End of story.”

  “I’ll pass that plan along,” said Sanderson. “What else?”

  “The Petroviches split,” Berg informed him. “Snuck off without saying goodbye.”

  “That’s disappointing, but it doesn’t surprise me. They were on the brink of vanishing from my radar when you passed the news about her mother.”

  “I guess we were lucky to have them while we did,” said Bauer.

  “You mentioned still having a Russian problem?” Berg prompted.

  “The Russians were behind Galenden’s murder. There’s no doubt about that. They just showed up in town,” said Sanderson. “With a small army.”

  “Then get the hell out of there,” said Berg.

  “No, I need to put an end to this,” said Sanderson. “Solve my Russian problem.”

  “That’s not the kind of problem that goes away permanently,” said Berg.

  “Not usually, but I have something different in mind.”

  “Keep us posted,” said Berg.

  “If you don’t hear from me again, you’ll know it didn’t work.”
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  “In that case, while I still have you on the line, what about Munoz and Melendez?”

  “Send them south to pick up Reznikov’s trail.”

  “Could be bullshit, just like Africa,” said Berg.

  “We can’t ignore the possibility that it’s real. If Reznikov is in the United States, he’s here by invitation, and we need to find out who invited him.”

  “I already know the answer. And so do you.”

  “I sincerely hope we’re both wrong,” said Sanderson.

  Chapter 57

  Salta, Argentina

  Mihail Osin got into the beat-up rental sedan and glanced into the backseat at the two Spetsgruppa Omega snipers chosen for the reconnaissance mission. Their orders were simple: determine if Sanderson was at the location provided by Galenden and indicated by his records. Thermal satellite imagery confirmed the presence of a group at the site, consistent with the suspected size of his remaining force, but the thick tree cover prevented satellites from taking high-resolution daytime photos to prove Sanderson was among the group.

  Sanderson was the primary target, and if the sniper team located him at the site and the shooting conditions were entirely favorable, they would be cleared to take him out. Ardankin much preferred the quiet use of two men to accomplish the mission rather than a direct assault by thirty. Colonel Levkin would set up an ambush on the isolated road leading out of the site, just in case the sniper team failed. A squad of Omega commandos hidden along that road, backed by anti-vehicle mines, would be more than adequate, according to Levkin. Satellite imagery showed no more than a dozen of Sanderson’s people at the site.

  He looked back at the darkened Quonset-hut-style warehouse serving as their base of operations. The rusty, neglected building cost them a small fortune to rent, most of the outrageous fee designed to buy them privacy and discretion.

  “Let’s go,” said Osin. “Stay around the speed limit.”

  “Nobody drives the speed limit around here,” said Vadim Dragunov, the only Zaslon operative assigned to the task force.

  “Then drive like everyone else. Just don’t get us pulled over,” said Osin, a little bit annoyed.

  Dragunov tore out of the dirt parking lot. He had soured after the Galenden mess. They were supposed to have time to devise a discreet plan to grab the Argentine businessman. Follow him for a few days, determine his routine, map his routes, and analyze the man’s security detail. They always found a weakness, but it took time. Time they didn’t know would be snatched away at the last minute, forcing a different, unavoidably messy approach that burned their careers as covert operatives.

  Once they walked through the front doors of Galenden International’s glass and steel high-rise and announced themselves as Galenden’s four-thirty appointment, they’d banished themselves to a career at headquarters. Osin wasn’t happy about it either, but they still had a job to do.

  They quickly connected with a smooth four-lane highway that circumvented the city to the west. In about twenty minutes, they’d be on Route 9, heading north out of the city toward the drop-off point roughly eight point nine miles away. Barring a flat tire or some other kind of unforeseen holdup, Osin and Dragunov should be headed back toward Salta in less than a half hour.

  For all practical purposes, their mission ended after this drop-off. They would remain at the warehouse to coordinate the timely and rapid departure of Levkin’s Spetsgruppa and possibly dispose of a body or two if Levkin’s commandos ran into any overzealous or incorruptible police officers along their travel route to and from the target. Beyond that, they would be in sit-and-wait mode for however long it took to eliminate Sanderson. He really hoped the sniper team ended this quickly.

  The mostly deserted highway wound north, turning abruptly east to connect with Route 9 in the northern part of the city. They drove along the quiet, sporadically lit outskirts of town until they broke out into the countryside north of Salta, where the highway became a winding, two-lane rural road.

  Route 9 snaked through the hillside, the streetlamps becoming less and less frequent the further they drove from the city. The less light the better. Far too many houses dotted these hills. The last thing they needed was a nosy night owl observing the drop-off. Osin checked his handheld GPS unit. One point two miles to go. A minute and a half at most.

  “About a minute,” he said.

  Levkin had picked the drop-off point, which gave his sniper team the shortest point of approach to the target area. Short being a relative term. They had a ten-mile hike through thick forest ahead of them. He didn’t expect to hear from them until late tomorrow afternoon.

  They passed a streetlight, which momentarily cast an orange glow through the sedan, followed by nothing but darkness for the next minute. Point two miles to the drop-off and not a hint of light ahead. Perfect.

  “Point two miles. Slow down a little,” he said.

  The car decelerated in a controlled manner for a few seconds; then he was thrown against his seatbelt.

  “Dammit, Dragunov!” he snapped when the car rumbled to a stop.

  Dragunov was out the door before Osin could process what was happening. Masked figures rushed the car from both sides of the street. Dragunov raised his suppressed pistol, instantly dropping to the road in a crumpled heap as the darkly dressed figures moved past him without slowing down. They instantly enveloped the sedan, their weapons pointed at the vehicle’s occupants.

  Osin expected one of Levkin’s commandos to panic, but a few seconds passed without gunfire, convincing him they grasped the situation. A light metallic rap sounded against his window. He turned his head and saw someone signaling for him to roll down the window. A quick nod and he moved his hand to the button. He was surprised to hear perfect street Russian.

  “Hands on the dashboard. The two guys in the back put their hands on the headrests. You get out first, then the guy behind you, then the remaining passenger. We have no intention of killing you. Understood.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do it,” said the Russian speaker.

  They were herded out of sight of the road and lined up on their knees, hands above their heads. A quick pat down relieved Osin of a knife. The two Spetsgruppa commandos gave up nothing, their kits sitting useless in the trunk. One of their captors stepped forward and crouched in front of him, offering a hand.

  “General Terrence Sanderson, retired, pleased to meet you.”

  Osin hesitated, not sure if this was a trick.

  “Take the hand,” said Sanderson. “If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead.”

  Osin shook the general’s hand, placing his own back on his head. “How did you know?” he asked.

  “This is my backyard, and news travels fast. Galenden, Russians at the airfield…it wasn’t hard to connect the dots.”

  He remained silent, thinking he should have gone out like Dragunov. Now he was a bargaining chip, along with the two Omega Spetsgruppa commandos.

  “I don’t expect you to say anything. In fact, I’d respect you far more if you didn’t. And I’m not going to torture you to death like you did with Galenden,” said Sanderson.

  Osin swallowed hard.

  “That’s right. I saw a video of you and your friend visiting Galenden International the same day he was found mutilated and dead.”

  He wanted to say something. Even started to move his mouth.

  “Don’t,” said Sanderson. “I don’t hold that against you.”

  “What do you want, then?” asked Osin, genuinely unsure where this exchange was headed.

  “I need to talk to the director of your Foreign Intelligence Service.”

  “That’s not going to happen,” said Osin, expecting a rifle butt to the head.

  “I’ll settle for Dmitry Ardankin for now, who I assume is your boss. Directorate S?”

  Mention of Ardankin’s name was unsettling, but hearing the words Directorate S bordered on disturbing. He wasn’t naïve enough to think the Americans didn’t know their structure, bu
t it felt entirely different to actually hear it spoken by his enemy.

  “That’s not going to happen either,” said Osin.

  “Is that because you won’t make the call, or because they won’t take it?”

  “Both, but mostly the latter,” said Osin.

  “I strongly suggest you try to get Ardankin on the line,” said Sanderson. “The lives of about thirty of your comrades depend on it. Security is sloppy over at the warehouse. No sentries. Pretty much an open invitation to drive a truck bomb right into the place. Or place a ring of claymore mines aiming inward and starting a gunfight.”

  Osin kept a neutral face, or so he hoped. Sanderson’s information about the warehouse was dead-on. They had decided against sentries to avoid drawing attention.

  “Even better, I could wake up the police commander for the Salta Province and inform him that an army of Russian mercenaries are sitting in a warehouse close to the airport. Wouldn’t take much convincing to shut down the airport. I’m sure the commander of the National Gendarmerie unit based in San Miguel de Tucuman would be interested in this information as well. Thanks to my late friend Ernesto Galenden, I have a direct line to both of them.”

  He quickly weighed his options, coming to the same conclusion Sanderson had obviously reached. Colonel Levkin’s Spetsgruppa represented a devastating liability to Russia. Any course of action that pointed in the direction of their unhampered departure for Moscow was worth pursuing.

  “I’ll make the call.”

  Chapter 58

  SVR Headquarters, Yasanevo Suburb

  Moscow, Russian Federation

  For the first time in his career as director of operations of Directorate S, Dmitry Ardankin sailed through the outer chambers of Director Pushnoy’s office without the slightest pause. Doors opened as he entered, secretaries motioned for him to continue, security stepped swiftly aside. It was a horrible feeling. Even the smallest diversion would be welcome on the express train to Hell’s gates. When he reached the inner sanctum, even the secretary he’d come to despise over the years had a look of pity on her face.