Black Flag Rising: A James Jackson Thriller

by Jesse Russell

  He got down on his knees and pulled it free.

  When he stood back up, he was facing Baldwin, the Fed hack that the current DC assholes had placed inside the Unit.

  “Lose something, Brunell?”

  “Yeah. I got it. Thanks.” He jammed the paper into his pocket.

  “We have been missing you around here. Is everything OK?” he asked suspiciously.

  “Oh yeah. Just tracking down a few leads on a case.” Brunell acted busy.

  The clown was a quasi-political appointee, and a relative of the Open Borders congressman from Tucson. He was also a complete tool. Brunell didn't work for him, but Baldwin acted like he did, always threatening to suspend funding and cooperation for this or that project.

  This had all begun at the Unit a while back, after the fast and furious Federal gun running debacle, where the ATF was knowingly moving weapons over the border to the cartels in hopes that some would come back across and be used in crimes in the United States. It had become public in the late 2000s.

  Most thought it had been a failed political play to call for more gun control. Brunell suspected something more nefarious may have been taking place.

  Either way, the Feds realized they had very little control over state and local agencies. Many states were not putting up with their command and control bullshit, so the Feds had stuck this guy in here to ‘manage’ things and to make sure no one went rogue by talking to the press or manipulating things away from the overlords in DC.

  Often, Baldwin acted like your best buddy, but everyone knew he was a pipeline straight to Washington and the NSA, CIA, and FBI. Also, ATF, HSC, and ICE.

  He was always schmoozing everyone and looking for dirt. The little secret was that the political hacks on both sides in DC did not want anyone meddling with the streams of illegals coming over the border. One side wanted new voters, the other one wanted cheap labor. So they kept a tight leash on everyone and everything these days. But they had to tolerate it for Federal Intelligence funding. The state was more than happy to push those dollars off budget and let the Feds pay.

  “Well, glad you’re back. We are getting some chatter about some suspicious activity. We need you here in the office. DC is getting a little nervous,” Baldwin sniffed.

  “Sure, I understand. I’ll be here now. Everything is good,” Brunell grudgingly responded.

  “That’s good,” Baldwin clipped. He spun on his heel and walked out.

  That was weird. He’d known they wouldn’t be happy he was taking so much time away, but the dude wasn’t even his superior. He was in an entirely different food chain. Maybe this rumpswab was in on more than it seemed.

  He walked over and shut the door to the office. Sitting back down, he pulled up the Unit database again and logged in with the bogus credentials. To anyone observing, it would appear that it was a tech doing some updating. It could be tracked back to his personal IP, but there had been people working in there as recently as last week, so he hoped he didn't raise any eyebrows.

  He inputted the mule’s name: Juan Manuel Sanchez. The file popped up. He saw his address and social security number. His address was way down south in Maricopa, a town twenty miles south of Gilbert. Definitely not North Phoenix.

  His arrest record was a mile long, but Brunell didn't care about that. The current address was probably fake, and there were several different addresses that he had used in the past. Brunell took a notepad out and began furiously writing everything down. Just as he got to the final address, the only one in North Phoenix, a warning screen popped up, forbidding him from looking any further. The system had been overridden. Someone had put the clamp on it.

  “Shit.”

  He was racking his brain, trying to remember the address. It was something on Acoma. He remembered the zip code, 85023, and he knew it was around 36th Street. Maybe 3629 East Acoma, 85016? Or was it 3269? Maybe 3926. He wasn't sure if those were even the correct numbers. It was close to the 51 Freeway, he knew that much.

  There was no way to override and access the file without alerting security. He decided to search on Google maps, and pulled up a picture of the 3629 property. There was a swing set in the back, so that was a start, but most every other house had that too, so that was no good.

  He tried every combination of those numbers, and it didn't matter, they all looked the same on the map. Then, he got on a White Pages search and put in the name to see if anything was there. Despite all the inside information they had, it was amazing how much police used the same resources as everyone else.

  Nothing.

  At least he had something in the general area. Next, he accessed Arizona Public Schools through the database and searched the name and general area. That would work if the kids were enrolled in public schools. If they were in private school, there’d be no way of knowing. There were several Catholic schools in the area, and without a warrant, they wouldn’t tell him anything. He didn’t have any luck with the public school records, so he was back to square one. They didn't know the names, descriptions, or address - just a vicinity, if they were still there.

  He sat back and scratched his head.

  Then it dawned on him. He had an ace in the hole.

  14

  Jackson told Paul he had to run an errand and jumped in his car. He stopped at an ATM, pulled out two hundred dollars and then drove south on Scottsdale into Tempe. He pulled into a big box center with a Walmart, a Best Buy, and a Sams, and parked the car.

  He got out and did a scan of the parking lot, to make sure he hadn't been followed by Turd Boys. So far, so good. He went in and headed back to the electronics area and browsed the aisles for burner cell phones. He found them and saw they had three of the same kind. Good. Next, he picked up three, four-hundred-minutes prepaid calling cards. He figured if they kept texts to a minimum, that should last them a while.

  He was almost out the door when he saw the damn Taurus wheeling around. He turned back around and headed back down the entry, through girl’s clothes and fishing gear, and made a beeline for the other exit.

  Then, he remembered he still has his regular cell in his back pocket. He pulled it out and popped the battery out of the back. He got over to the other door at the same time as a very heavy woman with a gaggle of kids in tow was shuffling along, pushing a fully loaded cart. He let her exit, and he poked his head out. He saw one of the Turds walking into the entrance he’d just run from. He let the big gal go ahead, then hustled up quickly next to her, and began walking alongside her on the right, to stay hidden.

  “Hello! How are you today?” he said.

  The woman looked somewhat surprised. “Well, just fine, honey! How are you?”

  “Terrific. Would you like some help loading your stuff in the car?”

  “Now, that would be just great! As you can see, I have my hands full with all these little crumb-crunchers runnin' round. It's not very often a stranger asks to help. That is so kind of you.”

  He walked alongside her, hiding as they came up to her car. As she wrestled her tribe into the beater minivan, he ducked down under the rear lid and loaded everything inside.

  She finished strapping the last one into a car seat and came back to him.

  “You know, that is one of the nicest things anyone has done for me in a long time. I take care of all these little ones for my neighbors so they can go to work, but it's really hard to go shopping with all of them. Thank you so much! God bless you, dear.” She gave him a big bear hug.

  He blushed a little and said, “No really, you’ve helped me more than you know. God bless you, too. I only wish I could come home and help you get everything out.”

  She laughed a hearty laugh and said, “I think we'll manage just fine. I hope you know you are an angel! My Walmart angel.”

  He smiled and closed the rear door. He'd never been called an angel before, let alone a Walmart angel. He chuckled a little.

  And he started walking out towards the street.

  She drove past him and honked.
He waved back.

  He got out to the street and walked back to the left. They wouldn't be looking for him coming from out in the street.

  As he got closer, he saw they were parked two rows over from his car. He ducked down and scrambled along behind pickups and cars until he reached the BMW. He stayed low and used the key to open the door, so as not to alert them with the beep of the keyless lock.

  Backing out, he noticed in the mirror the Turd in the car was looking toward the door, to see if he was going to come out.

  Just as he reached the exit out to the street, he saw Turd One walk out with his hands up, shaking his head. He peeled out and headed back to the lot. Leaving the burners in the trunk, he went back in.

  Paul was coughing and pointing to the phone. “I can't even talk. Can you answer the phone? I'm gonna go in back and lie down.”

  “Sure, Paul. Go lie down. You sound like crap.”

  Paul shuffled into the back room and Jackson fired up his computer.

  He had gotten into the habit of listening to some daytime talk radio since he had been out of the force. Whenever it was slow, he would pop on an internet streaming service that carried hosts from around the country. He had never been all that political, but he found he agreed with ninety-nine percent of the conservative hosts. One of his favorites was Tracey Brent.

  She was a former big-wig in a national women's group and had gone over to the conservative side after a murder case involving a famous athlete. He’d killed his wife, and all the women in her group were supporting him, for whatever reason. Being listener supported, she was free to say whatever the hell she wanted and ripped the crap out of both sides every day.

  He had even joined her sponsorship. It was called the Tracey Crew. It also gave him access to contact her, even though he never had.

  On today's show, Tracey was ripping the Republicans for going soft on the southern border and leaving the back door wide open. He liked these episodes. He knew more about what was going on than almost anyone, and she was hitting all the right points.

  She said that she had gotten word through some in-the-know channels of hers, that there was a threat, possibly coming over the border to LA or AZ or both. She didn't elaborate, just that everyone should be alert. She was good like that. Keeping her listeners informed. But she said something else that triggered things in his mind.

  It was the theory that the Feds were orchestrating everything, that they wanted to take everything down and declare martial law.

  “I have it on pretty good authority, and I can't say from whom, but you'll just have to trust me, that there is a possible attack looming in the southwestern United States. Apparently, it’s known by the S.O.B. in the White House, and the stooges in Congress are helping it!” She never held back when talking about politicians.

  “And these effing freaks are going to create something so big… and so awful… that they will be able to waltz in and shut everything down! Now, I don't need to tell you, Tracey Crew members, what that means. You already know! If you've listened for any length of time, you’ll realize what these sons of bitches are capable of.”

  She could cuss and swear all she wanted. She didn’t have any sponsors or terrestrial radio suits to worry about.

  “It means taking down all communication! The inter-web tubes, all media, all movement, and who knows what else. They are out of control and everybody knows it!”

  He looked over the top of his screen and saw the Taurus sitting across the street. He caught a glimpse of their binoculars flashing in the sunlight.

  “If you only knew, Tracey,” he thought to himself.

  “Everyone needs to get a gun and as much ammo as they can. These bastards will never, ever take this country down! I am telling you, they hate us! They are in for the worst surprise of their lives. We will not be silenced!” Tracey hollered.

  He had never heard her this animated. This was one tough chick.

  Then, he remembered that he’d forgotten to call Sam back about the kids.

  15

  Dr. Al-Hazi pulled the car up to the clinic and ran inside. Two orderlies came jogging out, pushing a stretcher.

  They helped Dumitru out of the car and laid him down. The doctor got down in his face, shouting, “Stay with me! Stay with me!”

  Dumitru’s eyes were starting to roll back in his head.

  They attached the IV to his arm and pushed him inside.

  Mrs. Drazov and Valeria followed behind; they were both starting to feel weak. When they got inside, they sat down around other patients in the waiting room. There had been so much going on, the doctor had forgotten to tell them to stay away from everyone else.

  A nurse came flying out into the waiting room and ushered them into two rooms set up for semi-isolation. She instructed them, through the door, to strip off all their clothes and get in the decontamination shower.

  In the third room, the doctor was busy checking all of Dumitru's vitals and was waiting for the Geiger counter to show up. He gave him a combination drip of potassium iodide and Prussian blue, both known to help adsorb metals and radiation. It was too late for charcoal tablets. They gave him a large dose of morphine to ease the pain and hoped he could survive the next few hours. It would help if he were knocked out.

  They had stripped off all of his clothes. His skin was so inflamed, it hurt just to look at it. There was no use washing him down. Things were too far gone. They all went down the hall and pulled out some protective clothing that the UN had supplied decades earlier - left over Cold War relics.

  One of the nurses hustled down the hall with a Geiger counter and handed it to the doctor. He powered it up and made sure the gauges were active. The device started beeping loudly when he was only three feet from Dumitru, and when he waved it over his body, the needles started bouncing off the charts.

  “He is totally radioactive. We need to find out where he was exposed and warn others. Please find out where he works and get a hold of them. Talk to Mrs. Drazov. Maybe she can tell you.”

  The nurse hurried to her room. “Excuse me. The doctor is asking if you know where Dumitru works. Is he ever around any radioactive material?”

  “He works down at the imports warehouse. He works mostly for the UN, loading and unloading charitable supplies. He would bring me food and other things from there occasionally. Things that were left over or broken.”

  “Do you know his boss’s name?”

  “No, I don't. I know he was planning on taking a trip to America to visit his brother soon. That's all I know. How is he?”

  “We are waiting to see. We'll let you know of any changes. How are you feeling?”

  “I am weak and tired, but I am OK.”

  “We will get some medicine started for you. Please lay down and rest. Thank you, Mrs. Drazov.”

  When she told the doctor what she had learned, he said, “Could someone be shipping nuclear material in here? Why would they do that? No one would ever want to blow up this poor place. There is no need.”

  He told them to get both the women started on drips and charcoal immediately and walked back to his office.

  He took off all his clothes and hopped in a shower, scrubbing his skin and hair as hard as he could. He gulped down two large charcoal tablets, drank a huge glass of water, and looked up the warehouse online before picking up the phone and calling the receiving warehouse.

  A man answered on the third ring and identified himself as the manager.

  “Hello sir, I am Dr. Al-Hazi. I have an employee of yours, Dumitru Vieru, here. He is very ill. Can you please tell me if you have been handling any radioactive or nuclear material there in the last twenty-four to forty-eight hours?”

  “Oh my God! No, sir. We are merely a receiving area. Mostly UN aid. Food goods and the like.”

  “Did he handle any unusual items recently?”

  “Not that I know of. Yesterday, he unloaded a truck of grain and medical supplies. I did notice a smaller truck that arrived early in the morning. It was h
ere maybe an hour. The driver of the grain truck vanished after he delivered the load. I thought that was strange. Someone else drove it off.”

  “Did you see any identifying marks on either truck?”

  “Let me check the logs. Please hold.”

  The doctor waited for a few minutes. “Hello? Yes. This is the one. It arrived at 6:30 a.m. Came in from Constanta, Romania. The Black Sea area. I remember seeing Dumitru off-loading grain bags when I arrived at seven. The other truck arrived shortly after I arrived and came from Ukraine.”

  “Is there any way to track where either truck went?”

  “Let me see. I’ll have to call you back.”

  The doctor gave him his number and went back to check on his patients.

  16

  Dumitru's boss noticed he was starting to feel weak and tired, but he had some details for the doctor. He picked up the phone and called back. He waited as they went and got him.

  “This is Dr Al- Hazi.”

  “Doctor, this is Grav, Dumitru's boss. I have some records here. It appears the larger truck left at 9:00 a.m. It was headed to Turkey, the port city of Izmir.”

  “That would be about… 1300 kilometers. Eighteen hours or so, depending on roads. I have a cousin who is with the police department down there. Let me see if he can locate something. Do you have a tag number on the truck?” the doctor asked.

  “Yes, it is registered in Turkey. Plate #35 FK 8574.”

  Excellent.

  “Doctor, please tell me what is happening.”

  “I believe you all may be suffering from radiation poisoning. You will need to get over here as soon as possible if you were exposed to Dumitru. Also, we need to locate this truck and stop it. The driver is most certainly at risk as well, and anyone else he has been in contact with.”