Black Flagged Apex

by Steven Konkoly

  Then again, she hadn’t been happy to hear about their illicit affair with General Sanderson’s gang. He wouldn’t be surprised to see his senior year high school portrait appear during the presentation, or much worse. O’Reilly’s talent for data analysis was matched only by her proficiency with digital imaging software. He tried not to think of what might appear on the White House situation room screen if she was still as pissed off as she had been when Mendoza nearly had to drag her back into Sharpe’s office. He’d hit the button to fog the windows like a panicky bank teller during a robbery, hoping that the windows were somewhat soundproof in addition to shatter resistant. He was pretty sure she would test all of those performance parameters after being pulled by her arm back in by Mendoza.

  They all waited nervously, trying not to fidget or touch their faces. The director of FEMA, along with the Secretary of Homeland Security, provided an update regarding efforts to contain the poisoning of a portion of Morris County Municipal Utilities Authority’s water supply system through the Mount Arlington pump station. Confirming what he already knew, FEMA’s director explained how a critical error in Al Qaeda’s target selection had likely spared them a major disaster. The Morris County Municipal Utilities Authority served as an indirect supplier of water to local water companies. None of the water that passed through their pump stations went directly to consumers. It was all stored in tanks owned by the townships or water companies, and subsequently piped to residents, creating a significant delay. CDC personnel, supported by state health officials, had been testing community water throughout the night and hadn’t detected signs that the Zulu virus had been distributed. This had been a lucky break for Morris County residents. Their counterpart utilities provider in southern Morris County piped water directly to consumers. If the terrorists had chosen a pump station connected to the southern Morris County loop, they would be facing a catastrophe.

  The president finally asked Director Shelby for an update regarding the Task Force’s investigation. Joel Garrity, NCTC director, looked up from his terminal at the other end of the table. The technician next to him nodded, which prompted Garrity to give Sharpe a thumbs-up. They were live.

  “Mr. President, Deputy Assistant Director Ryan Sharpe will brief us on Task Force Scorpion’s progress. Agent Sharpe, you have the floor.”

  “You can skip all of the formalities, Agent Sharpe. This is a brass tacks meeting,” the president said. “Where do we stand?”

  “Yes, sir. Shortly after midnight, Hamid Muhammad, the Imam with known ties to at least three of the terrorist cells assassinated yesterday, escaped from a site under active and direct FBI surveillance. He may have been abducted. The disappearance was timed with a sophisticated cyber attack on FBI computer equipment at the stakeout site.”

  “He’s gone? How could he have escaped?” demanded Jacob Remy, White House chief of staff.

  “I’ll get to that very shortly, sir. The good news is that we received an anonymous tip a few hours later that led to the apprehension of the last terrorist cell. They were hiding out in an apartment on the edge of a well-established Muslim community in Bayonne, New Jersey. We recovered four virus canisters from this site. This still leaves fifty canisters unaccounted for, but given the intelligence provided to us by the CIA, these were the last canisters in Al Qaeda’s possession. We can now focus our investigation on the domestic terror network, True America. As you know, we’ve identified one of the previous evening’s murderers as Julius Grimes, a known True America militant.”

  “You still haven’t answered my question, Agent Sharpe,” Remy insisted.

  “I apologize, sir. One of the cell phones recovered in Bayonne showed calls to a landline inside an Arab market in Brooklyn. The market is located on Coney Island Avenue, Kensington. This is one of the biggest Muslim communities in the tri-state area. We’re putting this site under surveillance as we speak. The calls were placed yesterday, prior to noon prayer. We think someone at the market coordinated the pedestrian delivery of a message to the Imam, who was hiding in the mosque at the time.”

  “The Imam was hiding in his own mosque, and you lost him? I think it’s time for a sweeping look at FBI surveillance procedures. I can’t believe this!” Remy fumed.

  “If this is the first you’ve heard of Hamid Muhammad hiding in his own mosque, then I suggest the problem might lie at your own feet, Jacob. We’ve been working every angle possible for the past two days trying to get agents into that mosque! So far, Justice is dragging their feet, and my requests through your office appear to have vaporized into thin air! No offense, Joe. I know this is above your pay grade back in those hallowed halls,” Shelby said.

  Joseph Morales, the Department of Justice’s assistant attorney general for National Security raised both of his hands in a mock defeated gesture. “None taken, of course.”

  “Gentlemen! We can work this out later. Agent Sharpe, do you think the Imam is hiding at the location you described?”

  “It’s possible, sir. We’ll have the market under surveillance within the hour.”

  “I don’t want to wait. Send in the troops. I’m comfortable hiding behind the Patriot Act on this one and the next one. No more waiting around for warrants to track down these psychopaths,” the president said.

  “But, Mr. President—”

  “No buts, Mr. Morales. We have fifty canisters of an apocalyptic-level virus out there somewhere. If I had known we were waiting around for a warrant to enter that mosque, I would have grabbed some of the generals and admirals sitting at this table and driven down there myself to kick the door down.”

  “The market is one thing. The mosque is an entirely different story,” the president’s chief of staff interjected.

  “Not anymore. We have several million taxpaying citizens in New Jersey staring at their water faucets in disbelief. The news agencies are all over this. Can anyone guess the lead segment on every radio and television news broadcast this morning? Worse yet, they’re starting to crack the code linking Monchegorsk to last night’s attack.

  “It’s a little hard to conceal the fact that I’ve ordered the National Guard and local law enforcement agencies to secure the water supply system. Convoys of heavily armed Humvee’s tend to draw attention from a public unaccustomed to seeing .50 caliber machine guns on Main Street. We can all guess where this will go very shortly, ladies and gentlemen. The Russian crackdown, despite the human rights horror involved, has bought us some valuable time. Time that’s running out. We need to reassure the American people that the situation is under control. Agent Sharpe, how long until we can have a tactical unit inside that market?”

  “Not long, sir. Ten minutes. May I make a proposal, Mr. President? One that will better serve the investigation.”

  “If you’re worried about the legal ramifications, I can promise you it will not be an issue for you or anyone on your task force,” the president assured him.

  “I’m not worried about that, sir. Here’s the problem. I’m fairly confident that Al Qaeda’s role is finished. What we desperately need are some True America leads. According to the intelligence shared with my task force, the Imam collaborated with True America to gain funding for the development of the virus, in exchange for a portion of the final product. It appears True America never had any intention of honoring the deal, which makes sense. The last thing True America needs is to be connected in any way with the most reviled terrorist network in history. The Imam is the last remaining link between True America and Al Qaeda. If I were sitting on the throne at True America, I’d want him dead. They can’t afford to have this nexus confirmed and made public. The Imam’ network has been sloppy, as evidenced by the fact that eight out of ten cells were taken out. It’s only a matter of time before True America finds him, and when they do, we’ll be there. I plan to put the market under full tactical surveillance with snipers and an army of SWAT agents ready to storm the building.”

  Jacob Remy started to open his mouth to make what Sharpe could only as
sume was a crack about the task force’s recent surveillance record, but the president intervened.

  “Shelby, make this happen. I like the way this agent thinks. Good luck, Agent Sharpe.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President.”

  “Agent Sharpe, I’ll be in touch shortly to discuss the assets involved,” Director Shelby added.

  The NCTC technician gave a hand signal indicating that the videoconference was finished.

  “That’s it. Let me know if you need anything else. I’ll have the screens configured for side-by-side video streams within the hour. My techs just need the feed protocols from the field tactical teams to make it happen,” said Joel, the watch floor director.

  “Thanks, Joel. When the teams are set, I’ll make sure they get the right protocols,” O’Reilly said.

  “Good luck today. Should be interesting,” he said.

  “Let’s hope so,” Sharpe added.

  When Garrity and his technician closed the door, Mendoza made the first comment. “I can’t wait for Shelby’s call. Assets involved? I can’t believe they’re going to keep this a secret. Do you think Jacob Remy knows we’re using Black Flag assets?”

  “Be careful with those words,” Sharpe warned.

  “The use of Sanderson’s people has been sanctioned by the president. No limitations. I can’t imagine Remy was left out of that decision.”

  “One thing is clear. We better not fuck up the market operation,” O’Reilly said.

  “I still think we need the Imam at the market,” Mendoza said.

  “You want to put that request through Ms. Stewart? Maybe they can drug him unconscious and sit him at a stool inside the market. Carry him around like Weekend at Bernie’s,” Sharpe said.

  “Except he wouldn’t be dead. Might work,” O’Reilly added.

  They all laughed briefly, then Sharpe got serious.

  “At least we assume he isn’t dead. Director Shelby never gave me the full details behind Sanderson’s sudden return to the government’s good graces, but it apparently involved a level of deception and manipulation similar to the stunt he pulled two years ago. He did tell me not to get comfortable with Sanderson’s people,” Sharpe said.

  “He doesn’t need to tell us that. The good general flushed nearly three years’ worth of work down the toilet. Not to mention the fact that I almost lost my arm,” O’Reilly said.

  “He wasn’t suggesting that we cozy up to the man. I think he suspects that Sanderson might somehow be involved in the virus threat. He didn’t come out and say that, but I could read it from him. We need to be extremely cautious with Sanderson’s people and make no assumptions,” Sharpe said.

  “I’ll second that,” Mendoza said.

  “All right. I’ll be in my office waiting for Shelby to call. Frank, would you walk up and notify Ms. Stewart? I’ll contact Kathryn Moriarty and start the ball rolling in Newark. Dana, I want to be fully linked into the mobile task force on this one. Anything they can see, I want to see. I’ll let Moriarty and her supervisory special agents call the shots, but I want the ability to command by negation in real time. I’ll explain this to Moriarty.”

  The two agents nodded and wished him good luck talking to the director. He felt extremely fortunate to have them both on the task force. The three of them had a history together going back nearly five years, since the beginning of Task Force Hydra. They had started to go their separate ways after Hydra was unceremoniously destroyed by Sanderson’s successful ploy to bury the rest of the Black Flag files. The setback had been costly to the American people. Sharpe didn’t have time to pore over the connections, but he wondered if Sanderson’s actions had enabled the very crisis they were facing.

  His task force had mapped Al Qaeda’s financial network in the U.S. and had already initiated the surveillance of several suspected terrorist cells connected with the network. All of that disappeared within the span of twelve hours on May 26, 2005, compliments of General Terrence Sanderson. Now the same man was helping them stop a terrorist plot that may never have developed without his interference. Sharpe hoped the irony of the situation wasn’t lost on anyone that had sanctioned the use of Sanderson’s assets.

  It certainly hadn’t been lost on Director Shelby. Sharpe had withheld Shelby’s more caustic comments from Mendoza and O’Reilly on purpose. The director questioned Sanderson’s involvement to the very core of this entire crisis. Shelby had no doubt lost much of his ability to judge the situation objectively, but even a hardened investigator like Sharpe couldn’t quite shake the feeling that the director’s theory held some merit. Shelby never laid it all out in front of Sharpe, but he asked some highly disturbing questions:

  Don’t you find it odd that all of our key intelligence came from Sanderson’s people? The list of Al Qaeda addresses. Reznikov’s details. Intelligence from the Kurchatov lab. Details from Monchegorsk. The Imam’s sudden cooperation. Where is this Reznikov? Is the Imam really alive? Have we sent our own people to Kurchatov? How hard could it be to get our own live intel on Monchegorsk?

  The more Sharpe listened, the more he started to question General Sanderson’s involvement. He needed to strike a balance between pursuing the leads that made sense and protecting his own people. He couldn’t expose Mendoza or O’Reilly to the director’s core suspicions without risking a complete breakdown within the task force. With fifty canisters of Reznikov’s designer encephalitis virus in enemy hands, he couldn’t afford the slightest glitch in his team. It would remain his burden alone to harbor Shelby’s suspicions.

  Chapter 20

  8:16 AM

  Wayne County

  Pennsylvania

  Jackson Greely hopped down from his black 1993 Chevy Suburban 2500 and slammed the door shut. He stood nearly six feet tall on a muscular frame that would normally spill out of any oversized SUV…but not this monster. The drop from the running boards had been increased by an additional eighteen inches due to a custom-drilled six-inch lift kit, bearing Goodyear R18 Kevlar tires. When it came to his transportation, Greely didn’t mess around, and he’d just as soon put his concealed Smith and Wesson .357 revolver in his mouth and pull the trigger than purchase one of those Nissan or Toyota knockoff versions like the Titan or Tundra. Sure, they were built in America, but the profits flowed right out of the door to Japan. Soon enough, all of that would change.

  He walked toward the open door to the right of the closed loading bay doors, noting several cars parked on the grass. As the de facto leader of True America, they had left an open path along the gravel driveway for his SUV, parking the rest of the vehicles on the far side of the driveway or in the field. Only his good friend Lee Harding dared park in front of him, and he hadn’t arrived. Harding was about five minutes out, having travelled all night from their training compound. He wanted to oversee the final stage of the compound’s enhanced security preparations and ensure that Tyrell Bishop handled the next phase of their operation flawlessly.

  He was greeted by Michael Brooks as he approached the door. Greely had requested a quick word with Brooks before the meeting began. Both men walked several feet away from the opening.

  “Did you take care of the problem?” Greely asked.

  “Last night. He almost got away on us. Bolted toward that tree line when he saw his team leader.”

  “Why didn’t you kill him as soon as he stepped out of the van?”

  “Carnes can use the help around here. The lab complex is a little short-handed, given the circumstances. The place is secure. They weren’t going anywhere.”

  “Were there witnesses?”

  “Just the security manager and his team. Everyone else was busy in the lab, which is on the far side of the complex. A five hundred pound bomb could hit your truck and nobody inside the lab would hear it,” Brooks said. “Sorry. That was probably a bad choice for an example,” he added.

  “You’re fucking right it was. If I didn’t count you in my close circle of friends, I’d consider that a veiled threat.”

&nbs
p; “Sorry,” Brooks repeated.

  “Next time I tell you to do something, don’t get creative. They should have been executed upon arrival or somewhere else. We can’t afford to have rumors floating around here, not when sacrifices like these are only the beginning. We still have a long road ahead of us,” Greely said, staring at the cars parked where the team was executed. “Looks like everyone except Lee is present.”

  “Everyone arrived within the last hour or so. Lee will be here in a few minutes,” Brooks said.

  Greely abruptly started to walk back toward the door.

  “Jackson, before we head in…” Brooks said carefully, “what are your thoughts about Benjamin Young?”

  “He still puts a lot of corporate money into our coffers. Is he showing signs of strain?” Greely asked.

  “His lifestyle puts him at risk. Makes him vulnerable. He cheats on his wife daily, drinks heavily, and has started to increase his cocaine habit. I’m not seeing a pretty end here.”

  “Send him another message. He’s too damn good at wrangling money out of the Beltway and Wall Street,” Greely said.

  “We’ve already sent him two. Now there’s the prostitution thing. He’s flying them to his apartments in Manhattan, Atlanta and D.C. The only place he’s not seen with them is during the few hours a week he spends with his wife and kids,” Brooks said.

  “Keep a close eye on him for now. I’ll work on finding a replacement, which won’t be easy. Ben is a fucking genius when it comes to schmoozing money out of people. If you detect an immediate problem, terminate his association with True America,” Greely said.

  “Understood.”

  Just as they started to walk back, a mud-encrusted, hard-top Jeep Wrangler skidded to a halt less than three feet from Greely’s SUV, sending a cloud of gravel dust over the shiny black behemoth. Lee Harding emerged from the cloud and bounded over to greet them. In stark contrast to Jackson Greely’s tall, muscular frame, Harding resembled a wiry, compact runner. He wore a loose-fitting gray polo-style shirt tucked into naturally faded jeans. A thick brown belt, adorned with a sizable bronze buckle plate kept the jeans affixed to his lean frame. A few steps away from Greely and Brooks, he turned around to view his handiwork.