Black Ops Bundle: Volume One

by Allan Leverone

  "Sounds like a bad night to be on the streets up there. I'll give him a call, and tell him to stay inside until the police figure this out," Berg said.

  "I think that's probably a good call. Is there anything else we can help you with?"

  "No. Thank you very much. Sorry to bother you guys with something like this," he said.

  "No trouble at all, it's been an unusually quiet night," the voice said, and Berg heard a click.

  Berg decided he would take a walk and destroy the cell phone used to contact the Brown River team, but first he needed to make one more call. He used a third, separate cell phone, reserved solely for the purpose of calling this number. The phone rang for what seemed an eternity to Berg, but was finally answered by a familiar voice.

  "I assume the team took care of your business," Darryl Jackson said.

  "I think we have a problem," Berg said.

  "You mean I have a problem," Jackson stated.

  "I talked with the team leader right before they followed him into a grocery store. I lost contact with them after that, and now every cop in the D.C. area is converging on that same area. Multiple homicides, dead cop…I just wanted to give you the heads up. It won't be long before you get a call," Berg said.

  "Fuck. I thought two teams would be enough," Jackson said.

  "Sounds like he took them both out. There is a report of multiple homicides in two different locations. I know these are your guys, and I'm sorry, but…did you cushion yourself from this operation?"

  "Shit. As much as I could. Nothing in writing. Cummings assembled the team. I gave him complete authority on this one. I didn't want a big trail," Jackson said.

  "This is going to sound bad, and I apologize, but if Cummings was killed, would any of the other team members know who issued the orders?"

  "Not likely…are you suggesting that Cummings take the fall for this?" Jackson said.

  "I'm just suggesting that if Cummings is dead, why expose anyone else?"

  "All right. I don't like it, but reality is reality. I can tell from your voice that this wasn't exactly a legit mission on your end, so that leaves a lot of asses hanging in the breeze."

  "Precisely," Berg said, relieved that his friend could see the big picture.

  "So here's what I need from you. A large sum of money," Jackson said.

  "I don't understand," Berg said, hesitantly.

  "Not for me, you jack ass. For Cummings. Let's just say that it's possible for some of our team leaders to have undisclosed accounts, into which money is sometimes deposited for extra work. Work that nobody wants to acknowledge here at Brown River, or perhaps at the Pentagon. I might have access to some of these accounts, and a large, untraceable payment to the right account, very fucking soon, might give me all of the plausible deniability I need to steer this thing well clear of Brown River…and you. Do you know anyone that might be able to do us…you, a favor like this, and deposit some cash into the right account?"

  "I think I can figure something out. I'll call you back when I'm ready," Berg said.

  "Perfect. The larger the sum, the better. Six figure range. I'm willing to personally stake this cash to keep my ass out of jail, so don't be shy…and don't hesitate to throw some money into the pot yourself. I know you're not used to throwing your own money around, but this would probably be the right time to make an investment," Jackson said.

  "I agree," Berg said.

  "And make sure you toss the cell phone you used to call Cummings."

  "Now you're giving operational security advice to a CIA operative?" Berg joked.

  "Well, I'd like to continue to have the opportunity to sit around and sip fine Scotch with that operative, and I don't think they allow alcohol in prison…so don't take offense," Jackson said.

  "Get me the account information, and I'll call you as soon as I have something. Sorry about the mess," Berg said.

  "It's not your fault, really, and regardless of what happens today, I still owe you. I'll be waiting for your call, but please don't ponder this for too long. With a dead cop involved, things might move quicker than either of us expects," Jackson said, and the line went dead.

  Berg thought about their situation for a few minutes. He was utterly disappointed that this opportunity had slipped through his fingers, but he might still get another shot at it. Petrovich would have a difficult time snaking his way out of this one. Everyone was looking for him at this point. He was now the key figure in both a federal and local manhunt. He had few doubts that Petrovich was capable of eluding everyone, but he liked the odds, and if Petrovich surfaced again, Berg would kill the murderer himself.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  9:20 p.m.

  The Pentagon, Arlington, Virginia

  Colonel Farrington received the "green light" from General Sanderson earlier than he had anticipated. Frankly, he thought early tomorrow morning would be the best time to take possession of the file. He would attract little attention leaving in the morning, amidst the thousands of Pentagon personnel pouring into the building. At this point in the evening, the security staff would have very little to do at their station, and he might be searched. The search would likely be limited to his briefcase, which would be empty of anything suspicious. All of the file's contents would be strapped to an ingenious vest system under his uniform. If they decided to pat him down, Sanderson's extraction team had better be ready for a hot pickup.

  He looked around his deserted section and thought about the six individuals inside the Sanctum. Neutralizing six people in rapid succession would be a challenge, but he had some equipment to help him with the task. Slowly, over the course of several months, he had managed to smuggle the pieces of two non-lethal devices into the Pentagon. He would be glad to get it over with. He faced a wide spectrum of capabilities in that room, and he wasn't looking forward to the encounter, for various reasons.

  Two senior enlisted staff personnel, neither with any specialized hand-to-hand combat training, but resourceful nonetheless, would be the most dangerous to underestimate. One CIA agent with a photographic memory. Probably trained as a field agent, but not recently active in a dangerous assignment. His reaction would not be instinctual, but still dangerous. The two FBI agents would be armed, but they would be the least of his challenges.

  The most dangerous man in the room was McKie. He was a former Black Flag operative, and the only traitor to the program known to General Sanderson. He'd actively brought Black Flag's questionable activities to the attention of General William Tierney, who sparked a Congressional investigation into Sanderson's program. The Congressional inquiry effectively killed the program, burying it along with both of the generals' careers. Nobody wanted the details of this program to become public knowledge, which is why the file had been kept in its original form and sent to the military's most secure tomb. Sanderson's orders regarding McKie were explicit and had only been revealed to Colonel Farrington minutes ago. The orders actually made his job inside the room easier.

  He wondered why they hadn't just burned the file, if it could be so damning to the country. In his opinion, this was the curse of intelligence gathering. Even the most toxic information had its value, and in an important room somewhere in this city, someone wasn't willing to forsake that value to make the right decision. Sanderson's plan would rectify this situation, and he needed to get moving. According to the general, his ride would be here shortly.

  He opened the lower drawer of a three-level file cabinet to the left of his workstation and moved a stack of manila files onto his desk. Under the files sat a gray metal box, which he quickly unlocked. The box was filled with an exotic array of non-lethal weapons, and one long black commando knife. Alone in the Pentagon's Special Information Section, Colonel Farrington started to assemble the various devices.

  **

  Julio Mendez retreated to the back of the custodial closet and lowered himself onto the folding chair he called home. He'd found that metal box one day, while snooping through the file cabinets after
hours, and thought it was suspicious. Buried under a bunch of files, hidden from view, he'd seen Colonel Shifty open it before, early in the morning, and place something inside. The box is what put the colonel onto Julio's watch list from the start. He'd felt bad about poking into desk drawers and unlocked cabinets, right up until the day he found the colonel's secret box. Then, a few days ago, the colonel started taking secret calls on a cell phone he kept hidden in his briefcase, which was a complete violation of the Special Information Section's security policy.

  He had to take immediate action. He could sense that something important was going on in the Sanctum, and that the colonel was up to no good. It was a bad combination in his mind, and even if nothing big was going down, it was still his duty to report the cell phone. Colonel Farrington should know better, especially in this section. He decided to call security on the cell phone he had hidden inside his thermos. He finished unscrewing the lid, when the door suddenly swung open. Colonel Farrington stood in the doorway pointing something black at him. The metal leads from the Taser reached Julio before his brain really processed what was happening. He didn't remember much after that.

  **

  Colonel Farrington locked and shut the door to Julio's custodial closet, confident that the nosy janitor wouldn't be found until tomorrow morning. He liked Julio and was glad that the confrontation hadn't turned deadly. He hadn't suffered a heart attack and didn't show any abnormal vital signs. He would wake up in a few hours, hog-tied to the floor, unable to make a sound. Beyond a little panic, he'd be fine.

  Farrington had been onto Mendez from the beginning. The slightly cracked open closet door was so obvious to him, he had found it next to impossible to ignore over the past few months, and when the telltales left in the lower cabinet had been disturbed, he knew Mendez was up to something.

  Once the authorities tore the tape off his mouth, he'd be able to tell them how close he had come to foiling the colonel's plan by staying late to keep an eye on him. This had been the final tip-off for Farrington today. He had checked the assigned work schedule for the Compartmentalized Information Section, and Mendez' shift ended at 4 p.m. The man never worked a minute past his assigned shift and had said goodbye on his way out every day for the two years Farrington had worked in the section.

  He went back to his desk and reloaded the Taser, rechecking his equipment one more time. Everything was in place. He took a deep breath and walked over to the Sanctum's access panel, shifting the long, thin commando knife to his left hand in order to press the fingers on his right hand onto the fingerprint recognition scanner. Once this was completed, he entered numbers on a keypad and shifted the knife back to his right hand, placing it in a concealed grip, with the flat part of blade pressed against his wrist and lower arm. The door's locking mechanisms clanged, and the door slowly opened. At this point there was no turning back, so he stepped inside.

  He passed through a small entry vestibule containing several coat hooks filled with suit jackets and entered the main room. He assessed the situation quickly, as he walked purposefully toward Derren McKie, who was seated at a gray, metallic table in the middle of the room, with the open Black Flag briefcase in front of him. Keller looked up at him from an office chair on the other side of the table. Only one of the FBI agents, Calhoun, sat at the table against the wall on the right side of the room, studying several sheets of paper. The other agent was out of sight, presumably taking a nap or using the bathroom.

  Technical Sergeant D'Onofrie and Staff Sergeant Brodin were located exactly where he expected to find them, on the left side of the room at the secured communications workstation. D'Onofrie sat in front of the fax machine, feeding a few sheets of paper cleared by McKie through to the FBI, while Brodin observed. The marine staff sergeant looked up at him with a slightly surprised look. He usually called her before re-entering the Sanctum, and his presence always meant that the accessed file had been closed.

  "The file's closed, sir?" she asked, and McKie turned his head lazily toward Keller and Calhoun.

  "Gentlemen, that's it for the file," McKie uttered, and these were the last words anyone would hear him speak.

  Colonel Farrington lunged past the table and grabbed McKie's thick, brown hair, yanking his head backward. McKie managed to get a hand up to grab Farrington's arm, but it was a futile effort. Farrington plunged the seven-inch blade downward through the right side of McKie's neck, just above the collarbone, instantly severing the carotid artery and slicing through the spinal cord. Farrington felt the man's body slacken and knew he didn't need to waste any more time on McKie. He left the knife buried in his neck and wheeled the dying man's chair toward the secured communications station, which averted a potential disaster. Staff Sergeant Brodin had already cleared half the distance between the station and the colonel when she collided with the chair, giving Farrington the time he needed to properly react.

  Farrington drew two Tasers from holsters that were attached to his uniform belt behind his back and aimed one in each direction. His first priority was Brodin, who was now covered in bright red arterial spray from McKie's neck. She pushed the chair out of the way and hesitated, unsure of how to proceed against Farrington. He fired the Taser leads into her chest, and she dropped to the blood-slicked floor, convulsing.

  He had set the Taser to deliver an incapacitating initial shock, followed by a continuous stream of lower voltage "reminders" that would keep her down until he deactivated the device. Through the pulsing spray of blood, he caught an image of Technical Sergeant D'Onofrie, frozen in horror with a blood-splattered sheet of paper in his hands. He wouldn't be a problem anytime soon.

  With Brodin out of the picture, he fired the second Taser at Keller, who had at this point only managed to back his chair a few feet from the table and look at Special Agent Calhoun, who was having serious trouble extracting his service pistol. The effect was immediate, and Keller stiffened in his seat, unable to move. Farrington dropped both Tasers to the ground and grabbed two shiny metallic cylinders from his front trouser pockets.

  Each device looked like a retractable toilet paper holder and held several darts fired by compressed air. The device was a one shot deal, firing all of the darts at once in a tight circle. At a range of twenty feet, most of the darts should hit within the radius of a regulation basketball and would strike with enough force to penetrate a business suit. Beyond twenty feet, the darts had a tendency to wander and lost too much kinetic energy to reliably punch through clothing. Each dart delivered a specialized neurotoxin that instantaneously disrupted the primary signal pathway required to voluntarily operate the body's musculoskeletal system, while leaving the body's smooth muscle and cardiac muscle unhindered.

  At a distance of fifteen feet, all six darts hit Calhoun in the upper right shoulder and chest, just as he cleared his pistol from the holster. The effects were immediate, and Calhoun's pistol dropped to the floor. Farrington could see the agent's lips quivering, which was a telltale sign that the neurotoxin had completely disabled him. Frozen like a statue, he fell over onto the white linoleum tiled floor a few seconds later, his muscles no longer receiving the signals needed to maintain balance.

  The colonel heard a toilet flush toward the back of the room and picked up Calhoun's semi-automatic pistol. He pointed it at D'Onofrie and shook his head, waiting for Special Agent Harris to emerge. The door to the bathroom swung open.

  "I can't believe the bathroom doesn't have a fan. I wouldn't recommend anyone…" He froze when he saw Farrington.

  The second cylinder hissed, and Harris didn't react. He couldn't. All six darts had delivered their neurotoxin through the agent's white dress shirt, in a noticeable concentric circle on his chest. As the agent teetered and fell, Colonel Farrington returned his attention to Technical Sergeant D'Onofrie, who continued to stare in shock at McKie's lifeless form, which had tumbled partway out of the chair and jammed against the rear door leading to the break area. The former Black Flag operative's body weakly pumped the last remains of it
s crimson reservoir onto the lower half of the gray metal door.

  D'Onofrie tried to speak. "Why…what did…?"

  "Tech Sergeant, I don't have time to explain this, but I need your help. The FBI agents were hit by a neurotoxin delivered by small darts. They'll be fine in a few hours. Brodin and Keller were hit by Tasers, which are still active. I need you to zip tie their hands for me, as soon as I deactivate the Tasers, and drag them into that room," he said, pointing at the bloodstained door behind McKie's body.

  The air force sergeant, still dazed, glanced toward the carnage at the door and dropped the sheets of paper in his hand.

  "D'Onofrie, I need you to pull yourself together, and get this done immediately. Pull the two FBI agents into the room, and we'll work on the other two. If you want to leave this room alive, you must do what I ask," Farrington said.

  The sergeant looked back at the door again and hesitated. Farrington walked over to McKie's body and grabbed the dead man's blood-soaked shirt collar, yanking him back into the chair and wheeling him away from the door. He removed the knife from McKie's neck and tossed it onto the table next to the Black Flag files. Staring intently at D'Onofrie, he opened the door to the break room and jammed several thick plastic zip tie handcuffs into one of the sergeant's hands.

  "You need to get to work before I decide it would be easier to kill the rest of you. Start with that one," Farrington said and pointed at Agent Calhoun with the agent's own pistol.

  As the sergeant started to move Calhoun into the back room, Farrington removed Harris's service pistol and tucked it into his pants, purposefully locking eyes with D'Onofrie as he stepped over Calhoun's frozen body on his way across the room. The sergeant looked relieved to have the last gun taken out of play. Still watching D'Onofrie, the colonel ripped the fax's connection from the wall and threw the fax machine onto the floor. He stomped on it a few times to make sure it was permanently disabled. The fax machine was the only device capable of communicating beyond the Sanctum and the Pentagon.