Black Flagged Apex

by Steven Konkoly

  “Sorry to get your baby a little dusty. How many times a week do you take that through the car wash?” he said, grinning.

  “Only when your momma’s too busy with her other chores,” Greely said.

  The two men shook hands and exchanged firm, yet brief man hugs. Brooks accepted a strong handshake as Greely brought him up to speed on the previous night’s debacle.

  “Done deal, then, Michael. Keep your eyes and ears on the key players. We’re in a critical, yet vulnerable phase right now. Anyone showing signs of wear and tear needs to disappear.”

  “Everyone’s holding up so far. No indications of a problem, aside from Mr. Young. He’ll be spending the next week in Atlanta near his family, so maybe things will cool down with him. Either way, we’ll be watching,” Brooks said.

  “Shall we?” Greely said, waving his hand toward the door.

  They entered the sparse complex and navigated through two empty rooms to a hallway that led deeper into the structure. The building’s air temperature felt cool, with no detectable humidity, which matched the sterile appearance of the building’s interior. The building still smelled like recent construction to Greely. He vividly remembered standing on the wild parcel of land currently occupied by the building, surveying the area. Just fourteen months ago, this place was a blueprint. He could barely believe that their vision for America stood a solid chance of becoming a reality. Years of rhetoric assembled in a single bold plan to propel True America into the spotlight as the nation’s only hope of redemption. He marveled at the simplicity of the building. Good old-fashioned building materials made right here in America. Steel imported all the way from a Wheeling-Pittsburg plant in eastern Ohio. Soon enough, the steel belt would be revived. America would be revived. Pulled right out of its grave.

  He felt electrified walking through the door to the conference room. Greely remained standing as the other members of True America’s secret leadership cabal settled into their chairs. He scanned their faces, looking for hints of nervousness, and found none. The group exuded confidence and purpose. Perfect for those charged with reshaping America’s destiny.

  “You all know I’m not big on speeches…anymore,” he said, incurring a few chuckles.

  He turned to face one of the team members. Tommy Brown ran the tactical side of True America’s militant arm. A former Green Beret, he had retired from military service after spending most of his twenty-year career bouncing back and forth between Africa and Central America as a military advisor. Lee Harding had recruited him nearly a decade earlier, after a heated discussion about the Iran-Contra debacle.

  Brown had approached him immediately after one of his rousing speeches at the Crossroads of the West Gun Show. They talked for nearly two hours about the decline of America, which Brown claimed to have seen firsthand on active duty. He wouldn’t divulge the details of his involvement in Nicaragua, but the intense Jamaican-born American made it clear to Harding that he was disgusted by the government’s role in the fiasco. He cited Iran-Contra as the first in a series of government-sponsored disasters that had tarnished America’s image abroad and weakened the nation’s leverage. Harding liked what he heard and offered him a job in his fledgling political movement. Brown had proven to be one of their most loyal plank owners.

  “Tommy, this is your first trip to the lab, right?”

  “Yes, sir. Been a little busy at the compound,” Brown said in his usual gruff voice.

  “Welcome to ground zero,” Greely said, shifting his gaze to a blond woman dressed in a casual gray suit.

  “Anne Renee, always a pleasure. From this point forward, you’ll be dividing your time between Mr. Mill’s distribution center and the lab. I can’t stress how important your job will be.”

  “I’m honored to be given this responsibility.”

  “You’ve earned it. I’ll probably never understand the intricacies that went into unraveling the Al Qaeda network, but your group performed a miracle.”

  “Thank you, sir. I can assure you that the distribution operation will be given the same careful planning and security.”

  Anne Renee Paulson had been another gift from the heavens. A former army master sergeant, Paulson had served as an intelligence specialist, finishing her career at Forward Operating Base Falcon just outside of Baghdad, where she put her intelligence training to work scouring the new base for security threats. Greely nodded at her before continuing.

  “The final shipments arrived last night. I’ve asked Jason Carnes to give you all a quick rundown of our projected timeline. Jason?”

  A lanky, brown-haired man wearing a white lab coat over jeans and a brown shirt stood up to address the group. Carnes was their lead scientist, charged with the responsibility of overseeing production of the final product.

  “The contents of all fifty canisters have been separated from their gel coatings. We are ready to mix the virus concentrate with avian blood, to promote the growth of more virus. We’ve tested this procedure with excellent results. Within two days, we will have enough biologically infected material to proceed with the bottling phase, though I will need at least the same amount of time to prepare the material and bottle it.”

  “Jason, will you explain how this works again? Why don’t we just put it right into the water? I don’t like the idea of preparing the material. You’re planning to render it partially inert, right?”

  “Correct. The biggest challenge we face is the amount of time the bottles may sit at an uncontrolled temperature. Until the moment the crates roll off our trucks, they will be kept at an optimal temperature that will ensure the virus’s survival. Beyond that, we can’t make any assumptions. The mixture I plan to put into the caps will contain live virus and partially inert virus. The partially inert portion will be enveloped in dried animal feces. Virology research has proven that humans have been infected with forms of equine encephalitis through breathing in the dust from dried feces. I’ve tested our combined delivery method extensively over the past month, and it never fails to ensure the delivery of a contaminant-level exposure. Once the bottle cap is twisted, the protective seal is breached. When the target takes a sip and replaces the cap, the virus will be mixed into the water. Trust me, Lee. This will work flawlessly.”

  “Unless they drink the whole bottle without replacing the cap,” Greely said.

  “Yes. If they don’t replace the cap, then the virus won’t mix,” Carnes said.

  “Or if they place the bottle down carefully. Doesn’t water have to splash on the inside of the cap?” asked Owen Mills, owner of Crystal Source.

  Mills had come up with the bottled water idea in the first place, funding a majority of the current plot from the vast fortune he made as the owner of northeastern Pennsylvania’s most successful bottled water company. Crystal Source had been in his family for several decades and dominated the market in the Poconos region. Mills had secretly joined forces with Greely and Harding in the early 1990s, lured in by the promise of a seat at the big table when True America rose from the ashes.

  “We’ve been through this already, gentlemen. Most consumers of bottled water replace the cap and toss the bottle in a backpack or car seat. I suppose if you planned to hand these out at the end of a 10K road race, you might want to reconsider the plan. I get the feeling that’s not the case,” Carnes said.

  “We were just trying to shake the tree a little, Jason. I had to be sure of your confidence level in this design,” Harding said.

  “It’s an effective design. Mr. Mills can attest to that,” Carnes said.

  “Jason worked with some of our engineers to create the cap, under the guise of research into a flavored water delivered by the same method. The only drawback I can see is the need for the water to hit the cap. He’s right about the research. I funded it,” Owen Mills said.

  “All right. Sorry for the theatrics, Jason. I’m hearing four days until the bottles are ready to roll?” Greely said.

  “Four days minimum on this end. The bottling assembly
line is a miniaturized version of what they use at any of the big plants. We have one line dedicated to removing the caps from the bottles we’ve stockpiled and another to replace the caps with our own. We have the machinery to label and wrap the bottles in new pallets right here. I’m including this process in the eight-day estimate.”

  “We’ve been diverting pallets of water for over two months. Nothing that would raise eyebrows in accounting,” Mills stated.

  “Then we have to transport it by smaller trucks and vans to the distribution hub in Honesdale, to be loaded onto larger, refrigerated trucks. One day total to move the product. Once it leaves here, it’s out of my hands,” Carnes said.

  “Everything is set at the distribution center. I’ve arranged for two private docking bays, not that anything would appear unusual. I’ll talk with the site supervisor to make sure nobody gets in the way. Once the pallets are delivered and staged according to their final destination, we’ll bring in the trucks. I figure it’ll take them the better part of a work day to get the trucks loaded and on the streets,” Mills said.

  “I wish we could load it here. Too much back and forth bullshit,” Greely griped.

  “We’re looking at massive, one-time deliveries requiring the use of refrigerated semi-trailers. We could never get anything that big in here.”

  “I know. It worries me. Tommy, we’ll be leaning heavily on your friend here. Tactical and operational security will be critical at that site and everywhere in between. I can’t stress the importance of your job, Renee. Once the product starts to leave this lab, we enter the final, tactical phase of the operation.”

  “I understand, sir. Mr. Brown and I have selected the best operatives for the job. The loading bays are isolated and secure. All of the paperwork is in order. Everyone has been briefed and rebriefed. We’re ready to execute the mission,” Paulson said.

  “Excellent. I’m not detecting any impediments to our progress at this point; however, since we’re here, I’d like to discuss an opportunity to completely close the link between True America and Hamid Muhammad. Tommy, how confident are you that our friend escaped FBI surveillance?”

  “Extremely,” Brown answered. “FBI agents turned the mosque inside out last night, around midnight. One of the undercover SWAT units took off like a bat out of hell in pursuit of something just before the raid. A white van sped off from the scene just before SWAT responded. Regular police radio traffic indicated a massive response in support of federal agents. He’s still out there.”

  “Which concerns me,” Greely said.

  “We should have killed him earlier,” Mills chimed in.

  “We needed him to go to ground and activate the remaining cell,” Harding said.

  “Cells,” Brown corrected.

  Anne Renee Paulson shot him a confused look, followed by the rest of the group. He tapped his iPhone screen.

  “Breaking news,” he read. “FBI officials just announced that they have captured the last remaining cell in the terrorist network responsible for the water supply attack at Mount Arlington pump station. Based on foreign and domestic intelligence sources, they are confident that the captured cell represents the last of the Al Qaeda network involved in a recently uncovered plot to poison multiple water sources. Hamid Muhammad, ‘the radical Imam,’ is wanted in a possible connection to the plot. His whereabouts are currently unknown.”

  “He’s a slippery son-of-a-bitch. We need to find him before the FBI does,” Harding said.

  “Renee, I’m going to keep Mr. Estrada’s team in place within the tri-state area. Killing Hamid Muhammad takes priority. The Imam will turn up shortly, and we’ll be there to remove him from the equation. Tommy, make sure Estrada’s group is ready to roll at a moment’s notice, no subtlety necessary. The media will attribute his execution to a radical anti-Muslim group. Just find him and kill him,” Greely said.

  “We’ll start actively turning over his known hideouts,” Brown said.

  “Just make sure not to attract any FBI attention,” Greely ordered.

  “Understood. We’ll be using the best technology money can buy to track the FBI.”

  “The best that I can buy,” Mills said, and they all laughed.

  “All right. This will probably be our last face-to-face meeting for quite a while. We all go our separate ways and communicate by secure satellite phone only. If the FBI is looking in our direction, they’re not going to find anything. Let’s not give them something to work with. That’s it, everyone. A new dawn awaits us in about three weeks.”

  “To a new America,” Mills boasted.

  “To the True America,” everyone responded.

  “Michael, can you stick around for a second?” Greely said, nodding to Harding.

  “Sure.”

  Greely and Harding made their way around the room, shaking hands and patting backs before closing the door and returning to Brooks.

  “How are things going with our special surveillance project?” Greely asked.

  “Making progress. I’ve narrowed the selection down to three possible candidates. I can’t rush this one. Once the offer is made, the candidate either accepts or has to disappear. Just one disappearance could jeopardize the project. I need to choose the candidate carefully,” Brooks said.

  “Take your time, but don’t take forever. We need better FBI intelligence. We’ll proceed with the next phase in three days. I need your special project operational by that time. Things will move fast after the next attack.”

  “I can do it in three days.”

  “I wasn’t giving you the option to take longer,” Greely said. “We’ve waited long enough to see this day.”

  “We’ll approach the candidate within two days. This is going to be an amazing few weeks,” Brooks said.

  “Scary as all hell,” Harding said, “but worth every bit of sacrifice.”

  Greely couldn’t have agreed more. He was ready to sacrifice his own life if necessary to bring the United States of America back to its former glory. The next three weeks would prove pivotal to their efforts to bring about The New Recovery, True America’s primary goal for the American people.

  Dissatisfied with the costs associated with America’s present role as the world’s police force and frustrated by politicians that continued to turn a blind eye to the economic warfare being waged against the U.S. through uneven trade relationships; more and more Americans were looking for an alternative. The New Recovery would usher in a new era of strength, prosperity and independence for the American people. Two decades of “deterrent isolationism” to rebuild America’s infrastructure, reinvest in U.S. industry and restructure foreign policy. The United States would emerge from The New Recovery as an ultra-super power, with few of the ties currently hindering its prosperity and security.

  He swelled with pride at the thought of playing a role in the nation’s transformation. While their extreme plan would be disavowed by the mainstream True America political movement, the aftershock would enable True America political leaders to topple the two-party system and offer a new option for True Americans. At first he’d be declared an outlaw, but as America transformed, the history books would change to reflect their greatness…and how True America’s founders, like Romulus and Remus, had changed the course of human history.

  Chapter 21

  3:55 PM

  Charleston International Airport

  Charleston, South Carolina

  Arranging to meet Jessica in the private lounge had turned out to be one of his better ideas. If she had been given the opportunity to blend into a larger group in the “arrivals” area, he may not have recognized her. She wore a stylish, colorful sleeveless turtleneck top with designer jeans and black narrow strap sandals. As always, she looked stunning, but he wasn’t sure if he cared for her short hair.

  “Like my new hairstyle?” she asked, immediately testing him.

  “It looks incredible. I never pictured you with short hair, but it really works,” Daniel said, dropping his carr
y-on bag.

  “Bullshit.”

  He embraced her, mindful of her injuries, and kissed her passionately. He wished that they could fully test the privacy of this lounge. He’d been gone for seven days, but it felt like a lifetime. He couldn’t imagine how Jessica felt. Despite her advertised self-reliance and confidence, he knew that she depended on him emotionally. Sanderson had been wise to keep the details of her attack a secret until the Stockholm operation had run its course. He would have left the operation to Farrington and jumped on the next plane to Buenos Aires, which could have led to disastrous results across the board. The mission might have failed, and he would more than likely have been picked up at the Buenos Aires airport.

  By the time Sanderson had shared the details of Jessica’s harrowing experience, she had recovered enough to convince him that he could shepherd the last stage of the mission in Germany. He felt guilty delaying his return, but she sounded stable, and he trusted Munoz and Melendez implicitly to guard her. He eased his embrace, but she showed no sign of releasing him.

  “You’re back,” she whispered, resting her head on his shoulder.

  “I’m back.”

  She let go and backed up a few steps to look him over. “Not a scratch? Amazing.”

  “A few scratches and bruises, but nothing more than that.”

  He didn’t dare go any further. He’d been chased down by Mi-28 Havoc helicopters, ambushed by a regional Spetznaz platoon, fired upon at point-blank range by armored vehicles, swarmed by virus-crazed “zombies,” and caught in a crossfire by Zaslon operatives. All of this, however, paled in comparison to Jessica’s ordeal. She had narrowly escaped a fate worse than death—being gang-raped for hours by the most detestable, heartless group of men to ever walk the planet. He would never leave her side again, except for one final mission to kill Srecko Hadzic. He’d make that one exception.