Black Flagged Apex

by Steven Konkoly

  The parachute harness yanked high against his inner thighs as the experimental MC-6 parachute arrested his descent from 176 feet per second to 16 feet per second. Within seconds he started steering the parachute with the toggles attached to the canopy lines, searching for the drop zone located beneath them. At a thousand feet, he started to see the differences in terrain. A quick glance at his navigation board confirmed that the lighter patch of gray just below them was the designated drop zone.

  The clearing was less than fifty meters long and thirty meters wide, which was why they had chosen the experimental MC-6. The round parachute gave them an advantage over the square-shaped MC-5 canopy in more confined spaces, giving them the option of a steep descent. Though each member of his team could easily land an MC-5 in the drop zone below, mission planners took into account the possibility that they might be forced to land somewhere else. No chances were being taken with this operation, and he fully understood their mentality.

  As he rapidly approached the ground, he slowed his descent and manipulated the toggles to gain more forward momentum. Despite being a round canopy, the MC-6 was highly maneuverable, and he fully intended to land gently on his feet…deep within Hacker Valley.

  Chapter 28

  6:15 AM

  The White House, Oval Office

  Washington, D.C.

  The president of the United States rubbed his face with his hands and leaned back in the deep golden couch, waiting for his first cup of coffee to arrive. He warily eyed the two men seated on the matching couch opposite him. The concealed door leading to the West Wing opened, and a Secret Service agent entered, quickly stepping aside to permit the entry of the president’s coffee service. A middle-aged man with thin brown hair dressed in a sharply tailored black suit with a crisp white shirt and black tie pushed a silver cart into the room. He efficiently placed the polished silver tray containing three matching silver cups and a large silver coffee pot on the low table between the couches. A few seconds later, an assortment of cream, sugar and other sweeteners appeared on the table. The man started to prepare the president’s coffee.

  “Thank you, Robert. That won’t be necessary this morning,” the president said.

  “Very well, Mr. President. Will you be taking breakfast in the residence this morning, sir?”

  “Yes. I’ll eat with my family in about thirty minutes, Robert.”

  “I’ll notify the kitchen, Mr. President. Gentlemen. Please excuse me.” He nodded and pushed the beverage cart back through the same door through which he’d entered.

  Jacob Remy, the president’s chief of staff, leaned forward with Harrison Beck, the president’s chief political advisor.

  “So it’s confirmed?” the president asked, helping himself to the coffee service.

  “Unfortunately. Our hopes for a convenient bogeyman evaporated last night. The FBI conducted a major sting operation that killed or captured seventeen militants, none of them Al Qaeda. They’ve identified a possible terrorist training camp in West Virginia, which is under surveillance as we speak. SOCOM is putting together a package to take down the camp if ordered,” Remy said.

  “It looks like three militants were captured?” the president asked.

  “That’s right. One surrendered to the FBI. The others were severely wounded by undercover agents inside the market,” Remy replied.

  “And the special assets used for the operation?”

  All three of the men knew what he meant by “special assets.” Even within the confines of the Oval Office, none of them would speak directly about Sanderson’s involvement.

  “Two killed, as you know. The two wounded are in stable condition.”

  “Harrison, what’s your take on the situation?”

  “This is a tough one,” Beck replied. “We haven’t confirmed that this is the work of True America militants, but I can’t imagine the FBI is too far away from drawing that conclusion. I think we’re dealing with a splinter group, likely under the leadership of Jackson Greely or Lee Harding, but we don’t have enough information to make the connection.”

  “I’m not sure we want to,” Remy said.

  The president nodded in agreement, and Beck continued.

  “The True America political movement is sweeping the nation and grows larger every day. We all suspect that they’ll make an independent bid for the White House next year, and they’ll most certainly do some damage to the House and Senate. Projections show them taking at least twenty percent of the House, though these projections are early. Neither party has started to throw any serious money at advertising at this point. I see those poll numbers dropping drastically when the real money hits the streets. Still, their grassroots political campaign has been extremely effective and can’t be discounted. Any connection to domestic terrorists will kill the movement. I can’t see any scenario in which the True America political arm would condone this militant action. The True America folks on the Hill have very clearly denounced the previous militant rhetoric spouted by Greely and Harding. The two of them barely make a living giving speeches to NRA dinners and Libertarian rallies.”

  “Either way, we have to be careful with this, Mr. President. Our best-case scenario is that we stop this plot and never really connect this group to True America,” Remy said.

  Beck chuckled at his comment. “I don’t think we’re going to benefit from that kind of a convenient luxury. This reeks of True America, and if it links back to Greely or Jackson, no amount of distance will keep the political movement alive. The FBI has traced one of last night’s captured cell phones to the Mount Arlington pump station, connecting them with the Al Qaeda plot to poison the water supply of 35,000 citizens. Then we have the picture of the guy taken at the Al Qaeda safe house—Julius Grimes. He’s even been photographed in public with True America. Politically, the biggest challenge we face is not appearing overly eager to connect this to True America and torpedo the movement. We’re dealing with a major political phenomena predicted to upset the two-party system in 2008, or at least shake up the status quo. We need to be one hundred and ten percent certain that True America is behind this plot before anybody mentions a possible connection between the two. The last thing we can afford in the early election cycle is the accusation that we’re trying to pin this attack on True America.”

  “Our first priority is stopping any further attacks. I want a link to SOCOM’s planning efforts and a continuous executive summary of the surveillance. I’ll address General Gordon in the situation room later this morning. In the meantime, I’ll talk to Director Shelby and make sure he understands the importance of keeping the True America link quiet for now,” the president said.

  “What do you think about approaching True America’s leadership with these developments? Shake the trees a little. If the political arm is in any way connected, they might put pressure on the militant group. If they’re not connected, they would likely start their own investigation. This could be a coup in the making within True America,” Remy said.

  “All speculation at this point. This might be a group completely unconnected to True America. Until we possess more information, we can’t approach them like this. They’d ask for proof, and we’d be hard pressed to give them more than a picture of a guy that used to hang out at Greely’s old True America rallies. They’d cry foul,” Beck said.

  “No sense in trying to predict their reaction to hypothetical situations at this point. We’ll keep an eye on the political ramifications, but let me be clear about one thing. If True America is involved, I have no problem exposing them,” the president said.

  “At the right time,” Remy added.

  “Exactly. I’d love nothing more than to torpedo their movement.”

  Chapter 29

  7:32 AM

  Hacker Valley, West Virginia

  “Mugs” started moving forward slowly, and Chief Petty Officer Steve Carroll settled in for a long morning. After an uneventful landing three miles north of the target compound, they hid their gear
and split into four teams of two, each assigned a different cardinal approach to the compound. Their mission was simple, observe and report, but above all, remain undetected. Remaining undetected was the trick. They had moved at a normal pace under the cover of darkness, which allowed his team to cover most of the terrain in two hours, stopping at a point he had previously designated on his map to deploy Mugs.

  A few minutes before arriving at the point, he’d started to pick up faint wireless signals on his wrist-mounted battle feed, which had been detected by one of the squat antennas protruding from the communications rig in his backpack. This particular antenna was a “receive only” array, processing signal strength, data emission and direction. Based on the information transmitted to his battle feed, several devices were emitting wireless signals in front of them. They hadn’t moved close enough to the signals to process a fix, and he had no intention of moving any further. He had no idea how far the opposing sensors could reach.

  Mugs would cover the remaining 1,000 meters at a turtle’s pace. One fifth of a mile per hour, or roughly 5.3 meters per minute, which was a pace scientifically proven to defeat all known, commercial and industrial grade remote infrared sensors. Mugs would end its journey twenty-five meters back from the point where the forest stopped and the clearing that surrounded the compound began. The drawback was obvious. Carroll and his teammate, Petty Officer First Class Jeff Stanhope, would have to wait more than three hours for the electronic assistance to reach its destination, possibly longer if the robotic device encountered obstacles.

  The Micro Unmanned Ground Vehicle (MUG/V), affectionately known as “Mugs” to the SEALs, resembled a remote control tank, with no turret. Roughly the size of a typical 1/8 scale remote control vehicle, the MUG/V contained an internal surveillance package that included four night vision capable cameras supported by infrared illuminators. This provided a three hundred and sixty degree omnidirectional view for the operator. Additional sensors on each side allowed MUG/V to navigate around obstacles when it was programmed for an automated journey like the one that had just commenced. This particular model contained sensors that could detect wireless signals and transmit the data back to Carroll’s communications rig, along with the camera feed.

  Carroll had his reservations about using Mugs in the rough forest terrain, but he didn’t have much choice. The robot could right itself if tipped and was capable of climbing over medium-sized fallen trees, but he was concerned that it might get caught up in thick branches. Mugs had a bad habit of trying to push through thick brush. The density of bushes didn’t register as an obstacle that needed to be avoided.

  The two SEAL DEVGRU operators disappeared into the surroundings and began the long waiting game that would consume most of their morning. If all went well, they would be able to cautiously advance with Mugs once the motion detectors were disabled. Their robot couldn’t jam or disrupt the signals, but the data sent back to his communications rig would be transmitted to a nearby E-8C JSTARS aircraft. NSA techs onboard the command and control aircraft would figure out a way to penetrate the compound’s computer network and disable the sensors. If the techs worked fast, they might not have to wait for Mugs to finish the entire journey. Until then, there was nothing to do but remain hidden and try to keep Mugs from getting stuck.

  Chapter 30

  12:16 PM

  Bonitos Boathouse

  Fripp Island, South Carolina

  Jessica stared at the young woman like she was holding a wet brown paper bag filled with dog feces over her lunch. The waitress looked to Daniel for support, still holding the phone out for someone to grab. Jessica didn’t need to ask to figure out who was on the line. Few people knew they were here, and only one of them would have the nerve to call them. Given the fact that he had tracked them down at lunch on the first day they were together, Jessica was pretty sure this wasn’t a social call. She could barely bring herself to look at Daniel, who should have snapped up the phone immediately. She was starting to wonder if this was her husband’s intention all along, to let her make the decision. Well fuck both of them.

  “I’m not talking to him,” she said to Daniel, then turned to face the ponytailed, twenty-something waitress. “And if you continue to hold that phone in my face, I’ll throw it over the railing into the water.”

  The woman retracted her hand and bit down on the top of her lip, unsure how to proceed.

  “I realize this isn’t your fault. I apologize for snapping at you,” Jessica said, staring at Daniel. “I’m talking to her, not you. Go ahead and hang up on the gentleman, miss. I’ll add a twenty to your tip if you do it within the next three seconds. Three, two…”

  The waitress smiled and pressed the disconnect button. Before Jessica could dig the money out of her handbag, the phone rang again.

  “I’ll make that $500 if you throw it into the water.”

  “Don’t throw the phone over. She doesn’t mean that,” Daniel said to the waitress. He turned to Jessica. “You want me to take this?”

  “Not really, but I have a feeling it’s inevitable. I don’t want to talk to him. He’s not going to get my approval to drag you off on another crazy adventure.”

  Daniel took the phone from the waitress and thanked her. Before she scurried off, Jessica gave her two twenty-dollar bills and apologized for putting her in the middle of their dispute. She watched the waitress walk quickly away from the table and thought about the difference between the two of them. At her age, Jessica had been learning spy craft at Camp Peary, Virginia, also known as “The Farm.” A world apart. One woman ready to cry after being placed in an uncomfortable position while waiting tables, the other training for the rigors of an undercover position in war-torn Yugoslavia. She envied the waitress and wished her a simple life that she herself had had.

  She caught snippets of the conversation, choosing to focus on finishing her grilled calamari salad. It was a little heavy on the southern spices, but otherwise cooked to perfection. She drank most of her Bloody Mary, staring out at the marina, watching the masts bob up and down, back and forth. She heard enough of the conversation to be satisfied with Daniel’s performance. Her suspicions had been wrong.

  “He won’t be bothering us anymore,” Daniel said, placing the phone on the table.

  “What did he want?”

  “Do you really want to know?”

  Jessica considered his question with her own internal query. Were they really done with the Black Flag program? Could they afford to cut ties with the program? That seemed to be the real question they needed to answer. Neither of them could predict how long their current immunity deal would last under a new administration. They were one year away from an election year and a possible reshuffle of the White House. They had planned to disappear as Jessica and Daniel Petrovich and reemerge as a “regular” couple somewhere within the United States. Living in another country remained an option, but their options would be limited, unless they were willing to spend a considerable sum of money. Money like that always attracted the wrong kind of attention.

  “Where does he want to send you now? Back to Europe?”

  “Atlanta, and he doesn’t need me. He wanted to speak with you for a reason.”

  “He found a job for me? He is still aware that I was recently beaten to within an inch of my life and shot in the hand, right?”

  “All of that supposedly makes you the best candidate. If not you, he’ll have to hire from outside the group.”

  “A woman with a claw hand, strangled neck and black eye is the best candidate for the job? Why can’t he send Diyah Castillo instead? I’d be happy to punch her in the face a few times.”

  “Diyah’s in critical condition, along with Sayar Abraham. The rest of Sayar’s team is dead. They were part of an FBI undercover operation in New Jersey. Sanderson’s already sent Munoz and Melendez to Atlanta to start surveillance. The target is a highly successful quasi-lobbyist and fundraiser named Benjamin Young. Apparently, he has a weakness for beautiful women.”


  “Don’t they all?”

  “He has a specific weakness for the professional ladies,” Daniel said.

  “Sanderson needs someone to play the role of a prostitute? Wonderful.”

  She started to get up, but thought about what little she had heard of the conversation. Daniel had flat out refused whatever Sanderson had suggested, quickly ending the call. She had to remember that none of this was his fault. She lowered herself back onto the plastic patio chair and finished the Bloody Mary in one long gulp.

  “You know how I feel about work like that,” she said.

  “The suggestion didn’t sit well with me either,” Daniel said.

  On paper, two years of intense training with the CIA had prepared her to operate undercover in Belgrade. In reality, nothing could have prepared her for the ordeal she had been selected to endure. She had been too naïve and enthusiastic in Virginia to put the pieces together. Too caught up in her success within the agency to see it coming. From top to bottom, men dominated the Serbian government and paramilitary structures. Women played no role in these corrupt and brutal organizations. This fundamental characteristic of Serbia was so overwhelmingly obvious that it remained invisible to her. The training continued, and she remained blind to the jaws waiting to chew her up and spit her out when she arrived in Serbia. Her handlers only made matters worse for her in the long run.