Black Flagged Redux

by Steven Konkoly

  “He nearly slithered on the floor to get out of there. Anyway, after laboriously comparing imagery, I finally discovered a dirt road that did not exist in 2004, leading into this river valley. I subsequently found these structures, which also did not exist in 2004. I verified this by comparing two similar strings of imagery. One taken in October 2004 and the other taken in July 2005. I couldn’t find any other changes to the infrastructure of this zone.

  “Check this out. Ever hear of Google Earth? It’s a civilian application created by Google that overlays publically available satellite imagery onto the entire planet. You can literally scroll around the earth and zoom down to street level. It was launched in 2006. I had heard of it, but I wasn’t sure about its accuracy or level of detail. Let me tell you. I’m not sure we need to go crawling to the National Reconnaissance Organization (NRO) anymore. I used it to correlate most of the images, and the level of detail is frightening. I still like the NRO imagery for clarity, but look what we can do with it,” he said and started manipulating the screen to follow his words.

  “We can start out in Nuequen and travel west along Route 22, heading to Zapala, then turn south on Route 46. Moving along until right here,” he said and stopped at what appeared to be a random point on Route 46.

  “I don’t see anything,” Sharpe said.

  “That’s where Google Earth shudders to a halt for us. The imagery is older than 2005. Hold on…hold on…there!” he said, and the screen split, showing roughly the same image.

  “The 2005 NRO image shows an unimproved dirt road. Unfortunately, we can’t conveniently follow the NRO imagery like Google. But, if you follow Google Earth for about ten miles or so, you’ll come to this point. The NRO imagery shows people around the buildings. Welcome to Sanderson’s lair.”

  “Nice work on this, Hesterman. Almost like finding a needle in a haystack,” Sharpe said, pausing for an uncomfortable period of time.

  “Worried about taking this to Ward?” O’Reilly said.

  As usual, Dana had read his mind. Keith Ward, Domestic Terrorism’s director, had initially opposed Sharpe’s request to continue pursuing General Sanderson’s group, but a few well-placed calls from above had changed his tune on the surface. Ward had expressed enough of his feelings about Sharpe’s “pet project” to leave him with no delusions that his direct supervisor felt that it was a waste of time. To be fair, Sharpe and his team had very little to show for their efforts over the past two years, until recently.

  During DTB’s last weekly department head meeting, he announced the information they had uncovered by ATF agents in Los Angeles, along with their renewed focus on Argentina. The looks from Ward and the other task force leaders painfully reminded him that nobody really cared about his “pet project” anymore. Fortunately, nobody dared to shut it down. A personal inquiry from Director Shelby had a long shelf-life, especially if you had your eyes on moving up in the organization. Since he had never been officially swatted down, Sharpe assumed that Keith Ward had bigger plans at the FBI.

  “Actually, I’m worried about not taking it to Ward.”

  “Bypassing him?” O’Reilly said.

  Hesterman backed up from the computer table, so they could all face each other to talk.

  “How confident are you in this imagery?” Sharpe said.

  “It’s all pretty circumstantial, but it’s certainly worth a closer look. I’d feel comfortable requesting that NRO give us some face shots,” Hesterman said.

  “Face shots?” O’Reilly said.

  “Close ups from a satellite. It would require the temporary repositioning of a reconnaissance satellite into a stationary orbit above this area. It’s not a simple request. So based on what we have here, you’d feel comfortable making the request?” Sharpe said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Sharpe took his cellphone out of his suit jacket and speed-dialed a number that he rarely used anymore. He stepped into the far corner of the Joint Operations Center and lowered his voice.

  “Director Shelby’s office. How may I direct your call?”

  “Good morning, Margaret. This is Special Agent Ryan Sharpe from DTB. The director personally asked me to keep him apprised of an investigation.”

  “I remember, Agent Sharpe.”

  “I have new information pertaining to the case that he needs to see.”

  “I’ll pass this along to him immediately and be back in touch with you to set up a meeting,” she said.

  “Thank you, Margaret. I appreciate your assistance,” he said.

  “I’ll be in touch,” she said, which meant ‘don’t call back to check on this.’

  Sharpe snapped his phone shut and turned to Hesterman.

  “Stay close and make sure all of these images are portable and organized. The director’s office could call us back in minutes. We don’t leave the building until the director does,” he said, starting for the door.

  “Whoa! What are…wait a minute. I’m not going to see the director,” Hesterman said.

  Sharpe gave him a strained look and walked back over to him. “Let’s keep it down. The walls have ears around here. Of course you’re going. I can’t make all of this magic happen or explain it nearly as well, though you will have to economize your words and cut out any attempts at humor.”

  “What? No…sir? I think O’Reilly is the best agent for the job. She’s earned it,” Hesterman whispered.

  “Earned what? I don’t want to sing and dance in front of the director. This is all you. The guy sort of gives me the creeps, anyway. Likes to touch my shot-up arm and grimace like he feels my pain. It’s a little creepy,” she said.

  “It’s all you, Hesterman. Put on your game face,” Sharpe said.

  “You’ll do great, Eric. Seriously, you know the ins and outs of this imagery, and I liked the way you presented it to me. I can’t possibly drag O’Reilly in there again. Admittedly, it’s a little creepy when he touches her arm,” Sharpe said.

  “He better not touch me,” Hesterman said.

  “No guarantees. Stay close. When the director calls, we jump,” he said and left the Joint Operations Center.

  Chapter 10

  11:20 AM

  FBI Headquarters, Director’s Office

  Washington, D.C.

  Frederick Shelby, director of the FBI, stared intensely at Special Agent Hesterman for several uncomfortable seconds. Sharpe had given Hesterman the full briefing on what to expect from the director and hoped the agent didn’t fidget. The director hated fidgeting under pressure, and often did whatever he could to elicit what he considered to be an undesirable trait. Eric held it together, only breaking eye contact a few times, but remaining silent and composed until the director spoke.

  “This looks promising, Agent Sharpe. Very promising. Agent Hesterman? Excellent job with this discovery. Solid presentation skills I might add. Sharpe. I would like a moment alone with you,” he said and turned to face one of the vast windows in his office.

  Sharpe patted Hesterman on the back and winked at him. “Can you find your way back?” he whispered.

  “I’ll figure it out,” he said, suppressing a grin.

  Hesterman collected the meticulously prepared folios of support documents and satellite imagery, and removed the portable hard drive connected from the computer connected to the director’s wall mounted flat-screen monitor.

  “See you in a few,” Sharpe said.

  Hesterman started to walk to the door.

  “Agent Hesterman?” the director said.

  “Yes, sir?” he said, turning to face the director, who continued to stare out at the inner courtyard of the J. Edgar Hoover building.

  “You had one hell of a senior year playing for Michigan. Starting linebacker for an undefeated season. Rose Bowl win over Washington State,” he said.

  “Thank you, sir. It sure beat the year before,” Hesterman said, not sure if he was pushing his luck.

  “Damn straight it did. I lost a considerable amount of money on the ‘96
season. Made up for it your senior year, plus some, so I won’t hold it against you.”

  “I appreciate that, sir. Wolverine?”

  “Lacrosse for four years. Graduated in ‘62, which was one of the worst football seasons in history up until that point. Keep up the good work, Agent Hesterman,” the director said, and Sharpe signaled for him to leave.

  “Take a look at this,” the director said, still facing the window.

  Sharpe walked over to join him and stared out at a busy courtyard, filled with agents and support staff, mostly clustered in small groups.

  “Can you imagine? Having the time at two in the afternoon to take a little sun break out in the courtyard?”

  “Not really, sir. This is the first glimpse of the outside I’ve seen today,” Sharpe said.

  “Well, nobody comes to headquarters to enjoy the sun. Especially not while they’re on the clock,” he said.

  Sharpe made a mental note to avoid the courtyard, even if it represented a shortcut to another section of the building.

  “Keith Ward won’t be happy to know you’ve gone over his head with this.”

  “I felt you needed to see this first, without it being watered down,” Sharpe said.

  “I can appreciate the fact that you had the guts to do it, despite the consequences.”

  “Surprisingly, it wasn’t a difficult decision, sir.”

  “That’s called personal integrity, and it’s by far my favorite trait in a person, especially another agent. I’ll need to make a few calls on this. I should be able to convince the right people at the Pentagon that we need a look at Argentina. I presume you’d like to keep the CIA out of this?” Shelby said.

  “I assume that was a rhetorical question, sir?”

  “Very well, we’ll leave our scheming brethren out of this one.”

  “What will you do if the satellite photos ID our man?” Sharpe said.

  “Do my very best to rain fire and brimstone down onto him.”

  Chapter 11

  3:45 PM

  Nuequen Province

  Western Argentina

  Jessica’s attacker committed nearly everything to the overhand, downward knife strike, leaving her with few options. Her attacker possessed a startling combination of agility and raw strength, which had so far left her with little margin for error. For the past minute, which seemed like an eternity, Jessica poured every ounce of skill, power and most importantly, instinct…into staying alive long enough for him to make a fatal mistake. At one hundred and twenty-four pounds, her five-foot-seven-inch frame was lean and exceptionally muscle toned. She could physically match up against most men in a hand-to-hand combat situation, but her current situation was far from normal. This man was a highly trained killer, with more than an eighty pound advantage, and he’d wanted to taste her blood for as long as either of them could remember.

  Instinctively, she blocked the devastating strike with her empty left hand, her brain deciding not to grab the wrist. She didn’t know why this decision had been made, but as her own processing ability caught up with her instincts, she consciously flowed with it. She imparted a sharp upward motion against the strike and immediately hinged her elbow, allowing the strike to continue downward with more momentum than the attacker had probably expected. She had feinted a solid block, which if executed would have locked her into a useless strength match. Her attacker had been hungry for this and didn’t realize his mistake as she stepped forward and pivoted on her left foot, swinging her blade behind her own back, in an admittedly desperate gamble.

  She crouched as her entire body turned along the attacker’s right side and her knife hand swung in a blinding arc, burying the blade to the hilt in his lower back. He made a useless attempt to swing his own blade backward to strike her, but missed, as she spun even further behind him. He recognized the severity of his wound and knew it was useless.

  The knife hadn’t really penetrated his back. The Simknife blade was designed to retract and measure the damage imparted by the knife strike. Based on a number of variables, it pressure released a bright red stain relative to the depth of the wound. Similarly, the flexible “blade” could measure lateral slash intensity. Not surprisingly, the stab wound to Leo’s back resulted in the maximum spray radius, leaving a six-inch diameter mark on his blue flannel shirt.

  “Shit,” he muttered, and Jessica yelled, “Next!”

  And so this game would continue until everyone had been given a chance to test their skills against her. For nearly two years, she had trained the new recruits, imparting her knowledge and absorbing skills from the program’s “old hands,” including General Sanderson. Leo had asked to go first today, since he wanted Jessica fresh. He was hell-bent on taking her down, and when he finally succeeded, he told her that he didn’t want anyone claiming she was tired.

  She nodded at Leo as the next victim walked toward her.

  “First. Last. The result is always the same,” she taunted, and he shook his head as a thin grin formed.

  “You almost fucked up. It’s only a matter of time,” he said.

  “I wouldn’t rely on ‘almost’ as a key strategy. Now, if you don’t mind, I have a few more of your buddies to open up here,” she said, just as Sergei, another Russian Section trainee, leapt forward, trying to catch her off guard.

  His throat was “slit” within five seconds, and they all braced for the word. “Next!”

  She had started this end-of-the-week contest one year earlier and opened it to anyone at the compound. She relished the challenge and remained undefeated. The contest length varied every week, depending on how many willing participants were located at the main compound. Some participants perished quicker than Sergei, and few ever managed to stick around longer than Leo. The whole thing rarely lasted more than thirty minutes, and when it was finished, Jessica found herself physically exhausted, but mentally and sexually charged. She used the contest like a drug, to fuel her weekends with Daniel, not that their relationship needed it.

  Although training never really stopped at the compound, Jessica and Daniel had carved out a nice existence, spending as much time together as possible. General Sanderson ran a demanding schedule, but he had been flexible with both of them, given the circumstances that had brought them into the Black Flag fold. Jessica mostly stayed at the compound. Her knife and urban field craft lessons were taught mainly during the week, with at least one weekend practical field exercise conducted per month on the outside, in a major city. For these “practicals,” she served mainly as an observer, though she would occasionally test her own deception and disguise skills against the trainees. These were perishable skills that she had no intention of losing to the classroom.

  Daniel drifted in and out of the compound, with no discernible schedule. He frequently took trainees to one of several field training areas, some located more than fifty miles away. Unlike Jessica’s curriculum, Daniel’s training regimen didn’t have a set schedule, and the trainees’ skill levels varied drastically. One day he would be at the nearby sniper range, the next he would suddenly decide to take them into the field for several days. He followed Sanderson’s general sniper curriculum with most students, but for a small core group of promising candidates, he would take them to the far reaches of Ernesto Galenden’s massive private reserve to put their skills to the test.

  Señor Galenden was one of the Black Flag program’s most prominent silent partners and Argentina’s wealthiest oil baron, owning a sizable share in the Repsol YPF, a Spanish owned, multinational petroleum company. Most of Galenden’s wealth stemmed from his father’s aggressive campaign during the late 1950s to buy large tracts of land in the western Nuenquen province. In a gamble based on privately contracted geological surveys, Galenden’s father added vast stretches of the barren province to his shaky portfolio. In 1965, when petroleum was “officially” discovered near Rincon de los Sauces, the sleepy cattle town was transformed into the “energy capital of Argentina,” and the Galenden family quickly became the
wealthiest family in Argentina’s history. Nearly 50% of Argentina’s proven reserves of oil and natural gas lay under the soil on Galenden family property.

  Black Flag’s “leased” property extended for hundreds of miles along the western edge of the province, well away from most petroleum industry activity. The area had been designated a “private reserve,” which kept most of the public from venturing too far into the territory. For Sanderson, it held everything the program needed. With arid land at the eastern limits of the reserve and the heavily forested Andes Mountains to the west, his operatives could train in nearly any environment. Several abandoned settlements, ranging in size from a small town to rough encampments, sprinkled the property, providing opportunity for urban combat training. The reserve combined unlimited training possibilities with privacy. Privacy provided by remote, geographic difficulty and guaranteed by señor Galenden’s considerable influence.

  Tucked into an obscure Andes river valley forty miles southwest of Zapala, Sanderson’s compound took advantage of the natural cover offered by lush, dark green mountain conifers, and the naturally broken and rocky terrain of the Andes foothills. A wide, pristine stream teeming with trout rushed through the open valley a few hundred meters from the nestled encampment, giving the scene a rustic, picturesque feel that could evoke postcard quality images of a nature conservation lodge…if nature conservation activities involved automatic weapons.

  Pushed back from the open valley into a gently cleared forest area, the main compound had been constructed with Sanderson’s private funds and resembled a small campus of a few dozen log and timber buildings. The compound housed Black Flag’s “schoolhouse” activities, along with a general cantina and basic housing accommodations. Operatives lived in private rooms within small dormitories. With the exception of common instruction and messing, operatives separated themselves by assignment to Areas of Operation (AO), for the purpose of language and cultural immersion. As much as practical, instruction, food preparation and recreational activities were designed to be AO-centric and focused on improving their ability to assimilate with indigenous AO populations.