Black Flagged Apex

by Steven Konkoly

  “I’ve never had much use for rules,” Daniel replied.

  “That’s why I recruited you. Let me know when you’ve selected a location for the transfer. And get new phones. There’s a twenty-four-hour Walmart in Scranton.”

  “Am I the only asshole that doesn’t know about this Walmart?” Daniel said, throwing the phone in Munoz’s lap.

  “So, we’re still a go?” Munoz asked.

  “Yep. We just need to find a secure place to receive the gear.”

  “Walmart parking lot?”

  “Sounds like a plan to me,” Daniel said.

  Chapter 51

  9:06 PM

  Wilkes Barre/Scranton International Airport

  Avoca, Pennsylvania

  “This isn’t funny, Karl.”

  Darryl Jackson gripped the handle next to the Lear jet’s exit hatch and stared out at the line of unlit private hangars less than fifty yards away. The tarmac was dark, and their aircraft had sat conspicuously in the middle of it for the last thirty minutes.

  “I understand your frustration, but there’s been a development.”

  “There’s always a development when you’re involved. What kind of fucking development are we talking about here? They were supposed to be here fifteen minutes ago!”

  “Darryl, they can’t risk coming to the airport. I can’t get into it right—”

  “And I won’t get off this muthafuckin’ airplane, carrying my guns, until your ass starts explaining some shit!” Darryl Jackson said, sounding more and more like Samuel Jackson by the second.

  “NCTC was hit by a suicide bomb,” Karl said.

  “What are you talking about? How does this keep these assholes from coming to the airport?”

  “The FBI thinks Sanderson’s people were involved.”

  “I’m out of here. No fucking way I’m turning over this gear to a bunch of fugitives.”

  “Darryl, please listen to me. The task force was wiped out by the blast. They lost everything and pretty much everyone. The backup servers were hit by a secondary explosion. True America crippled their efforts with this attack. The timing can’t be a coincidence. True America shut them down like this for a reason.”

  “Then why doesn’t the FBI take care of this?”

  “Only a small group of agents within the task force knew about this covert operation. It’s strictly off the books. Nobody else knows that Sanderson’s people are in Pennsylvania. There’s little chance that the FBI is watching the airport, but this mission is too important to take that risk. At least three of the operatives assigned to the mission traveled under their real identities.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me? The FBI could be all over this airport. How long could it take for them to track them here?”

  “Sanderson’s people were arrested in Brooklyn at 8:47. The nearest field office is Philadelphia. All they have in Scranton is a resident agency stuffed into the post office building. It’ll take them a little while to move the necessary pieces from Philly to Scranton. I can have you back in the air within thirty minutes if you’d quit arguing with me.”

  “If I’m arrested, Cheryl will hunt your ass down. No place on earth will be safe for you.”

  “If you’re arrested, I’ll gladly present myself to her for mercy,” Berg said.

  “You’re better off running because there will be no mercy. You’d better hope this works out. She just agreed to have you over for dinner,” Jackson said.

  “Then you better be careful out there. There’s more at stake here than I imagined. Is everything ready to roll on your end?”

  “Yes. Three large duffel bags filled with goodies waiting to be transferred.”

  “Perfect. I’ve arranged for a car service to pick you up on Hangar Road, right behind the hangars. I’m looking at the airport on Google Maps. The first hangar in the long row is a white structure. There’s a parking lot between that hangar and the next. The car will meet you on the road at the end of that parking lot.”

  “You’re going to make me carry this shit?”

  “Are you ever going to stop complaining?”

  “Just make sure the plane is here when I return. This thing better be taking me right to Princeton,” Jackson said.

  “What about your car back in Fredericksburg?”

  “Princeton. I expect a car to be waiting for me.”

  “Anything for you. Thanks, Darryl. Seriously.”

  “No problem. Just do what you can to keep me out of jail,” Jackson said.

  “I’ll do my best. You’re a little too soft for hard time.”

  Darryl leaned out of the hatch and surveyed the hangars, looking for the parking lot Berg had referenced. He could barely identify it in the darkness that swallowed the private section of the airport. The absence of lighting might work in his favor, especially since the airport’s tower was visible from the hatch. The fewer witnesses to this transfer, the better.

  Chapter 52

  9:44 PM

  White House Situation Room

  Washington, D.C.

  The president leaned across his desk and nearly screamed at Frederick Shelby.

  “You exceeded your authority, and you know it!”

  “Mr. President, Sanderson’s liaison to the task force helped the suicide bomber. This has been confirmed by the video feed and the testimony of an air force major. Special Agent Frank Mendoza stopped the attack, and Callie Stewart stepped in to make sure the bomb detonated. I was opposed to bringing Sanderson’s people into this on any level. The details of his involvement in Europe and Russia are sketchy at best and unverified. I suspect that he’s been playing us all along.”

  “I don’t care if the video shows Sanderson himself lighting the damn fuse. You were well aware of the special circumstances surrounding our relationship with Sanderson. We still have a Black Hawk helicopter sitting in front of his goddamn compound! You don’t go around me on things like that!”

  Frederick Shelby considered the president’s words and the tone in which they were delivered. He was clearly more concerned about the possibility of a scandal than the lives of the agents and counterterrorism professionals lost in the terrorist bombing. He knew that the president wasn’t a callous, unfeeling man. He’d seen evidence to the contrary on numerous occasions. Still, Shelby had to remind himself that the president was a politician, and politics relied on reputation and image more than actually doing the right thing, or anything, for that matter.

  The director didn’t have that option. He had to produce quantifiable results in a timely manner or find another job. He looked up at the president and chose his words carefully. The president was more than just a simple politician. He had beat out every other politician for the grand prize. Shelby had to be cautious here. He was talking to a first-term president, who faced an uphill battle for reelection. A little contrition would go a long way right now.

  “I have to apologize, Mr. President. The heinous act clouded my judgment. I lost thirteen agents in that blast, and there’s a good chance that a few more might not survive the night. The investigation has been torpedoed, and I want to kill the son-of-a-bitch responsible. I didn’t intend to put you in an untenable situation.”

  “I’m sorry to hear about your agents. I know you assigned the most talented agents to that task force. The results achieved so far reflect this. This is a heinous act, Frederick, and I’ve assured General Sanderson that if I find him to be responsible, we will sever all ties with him.”

  “You’ve spoken with him?”

  “He contacted my chief of staff within an hour of the bombing, demanding to know why his agents had been arrested in Brooklyn. We didn’t have an answer for him. When we finally figured out what you had done, I called him personally. I didn’t apologize or make excuses. I told him we had reason to believe one of his people was involved and that his unconditional pardon didn’t cover him beyond the day of the failed helicopter raid. Surprisingly, he agreed and said that he understood our actions. He disavowed any
involvement with True America,” the president said.

  “Of course he did.”

  “He never made a threat or suggest that he would renege on our deal. I didn’t get the impression that he was lying.”

  “He’s a slippery character, Mr. President. I wouldn’t trust anything he says. I have video evidence and a witness from the blast site that put Callie Stewart’s hands on the detonator. This is a difficult fact to ignore.”

  “I don’t intend to ignore it, but for now we need to move the investigation forward. We can build a stronger case against Sanderson along the way. Where do we stand?”

  “In a pile of rubble, mostly. Our headquarters’ technical division is collecting data from the mobile computers and the Newark field office. The NCTC team processed and analyzed field data collected. This information was stored in the NCTC servers. They formed conclusions and shaped the investigation with this data and parsed it back out to the mobile teams as requested. Unfortunately, it was a fairly compartmentalized operation. Most of the data was lost in the blast, along with the agents who could explain any new leads or theories in development.”

  “Nobody survived?” The president shook his head with a look of sorrow.

  “Ryan Sharpe, the task force leader survived, but he’s severely injured and remains unconscious. He was partly inside his office when the bomb detonated and got lucky. Only one of the other agents survived, but she’s in worse shape than Sharpe. Video shows Special Agent Eric Hesterman purposely shielding Special Agent Dana O’Reilly from the blast. She was spared any lethal fragmentation, but suffered from massive internal injuries due to the pressure effects of the bomb. Hesterman was nearly vaporized.”

  The president swallowed hard and exhaled deeply. “I’m sorry…I can see why you put the hammer down on Sanderson. Can any of the surviving NCTC analysts help?”

  “Special Agent Kathryn Moriarty is on her way back to D.C. with a dozen agents. She’ll direct all efforts to rebuild the task force from the ground up. That will be one of her first priorities. Most of the analytical work was done by the FBI, but there was considerable collaboration with permanent NCTC personnel. We can piece the investigation back together, but it will take time,” Shelby said.

  “Time is running out. Do we have any more active field operations planned?”

  “No. We’re still collecting evidence from Hacker Valley and the Fort Meade site. I do have something to suggest, but it falls under the Sanderson category,” Shelby said.

  “As long as it doesn’t involve another raid in Argentina, I’m open to suggestions.”

  Shelby wasn’t sure if that was meant as a zinger or it was just the president’s way of saying that Sanderson himself was off limits. Either way, he didn’t appreciate the comment.

  “At least three, but possibly four of Sanderson’s operatives landed at the Wilkes Barre/Scranton International Airport early this evening. Both of the Petroviches and Jeffrey Munoz are confirmed to have arrived, along with an unidentified Hispanic man,” Shelby said.

  Jacob Remy interjected for the first time during the meeting. “They were directly involved in Sanderson’s 2005 fiasco regarding the Black Flag program files.”

  “I remember the names now. That seems like an odd place for Sanderson’s inner core to surface,” the president said.

  “I agree, which is why I’d like to deploy a significantly large investigative team to figure out why they chose Pennsylvania for their corporate getaway.”

  “How significant?” Remy asked.

  “I’d deploy every agent on the east coast if I could, but given the circumstances, I’ll settle for Task Force Scorpion’s mobile team. Forty agents. Tactical and investigative. I’d be happy to take whatever assets the Philadelphia field office could spare,” Shelby said.

  “You mean they’re not already en route?” the president said.

  “The task force or agents from Philadelphia?” Shelby asked.

  “I figured as much. Get whatever you need up to Scranton. I want to know what they are doing up there. I don’t want things to get messy with Sanderson, but if he’s responsible for the bombing or in any way connected to True America’s plot…he’s a dead man.”

  Chapter 53

  10:37 AM

  Wayne County

  Pennsylvania

  Daniel Petrovich sat in the front passenger seat of the Jeep Grand Cherokee, tensing for the next pothole in the road. Munoz seemed unable to avoid them. They had driven along these roads for the past forty minutes, each turn depositing them onto a smaller, less comfortable stretch of isolated, tree-covered dirt road. Fortunately, they were moving along slowly to accommodate the Ford Transit van following them.

  The windowless white van carried the electronic warfare team, which had already proven themselves to be invaluable. Graves and Gupta, two wisecracking cyber geniuses, had swept through Honesdale Construction’s unsophisticated computer network and found payments linked to the five million dollars Benjamin Young had shifted to the company’s account. The company had multiple projects, both small and large, ongoing and scheduled around the time of the deposit, so they went to work digging. Most of the projects appeared to be legitimate and included several town-awarded contracts along with a dozen or more commercial business expansions.

  One project drew their attention, simply because it lacked a physical location. The other projects listed either an address or town grid lot number, but this one lacked any geographic reference. A little more electronic snooping uncovered a list of drivers used for the project, which is how Harry Welsh ended up sitting crammed between Jessica and Melendez in the back seat. Welsh, age thirty-two, had worked as a heavy vehicle driver at Honesdale Construction for nearly six years. He’d listed his mother as next of kin on the company’s record sheet, and his recorded address in Pittston put him nearly eighty miles from his mother’s address in Middletown, New York. They assumed he was unmarried, which suited their purposes. The last thing they needed when they knocked on his door at 6:00 AM, posing as FBI agents, was a headstrong wife demanding to verify their identities with children crying in the background.

  Karl Berg had provided them with six sets of forged credentials matched to Sanderson’s operatives, complete with badges and picture identification. Daniel had never really seen an FBI identification case up close, but these looked real and felt authentic. If anyone had questions, they would be happy to pass along accompanying business cards with the Philadelphia field office number, which would be answered by someone in the inconspicuous white van that followed them from a distance.

  Harry Welsh had answered the door red eyed and disheveled, clearly woken out of a severe Sunday morning hangover. He barely examined their credentials and didn’t seem fazed by their outfits. Daniel and Munoz had purchased several black nylon jackets at Walmart to lend some uniform credibility to their group appearance and to conceal their pistols. It worked with Welsh, though Daniel was convinced that the man was seeing double. As he swayed in the doorway, they thought about leaving him alone and moving on to the next driver, but Welsh insisted he could get them to the site, and Daniel didn’t feel like wasting any more time.

  According to Welsh, he’d made over a hundred trips out there, sometimes at night, and could drive it blindfolded. Several wrong turns later, Daniel was about to dump him on the side of the road when he finally spotted the dirt road off Route 590. Based on the numerous, recent tire tracks on the seemingly obscure, unmarked road, Daniel decided to give him a little more time. When he started calling out turns well in advance, they felt more confident that the man had found his way.

  “How much further?” Munoz said.

  “About another quarter mile. It’s a pretty big place, you know,” Welsh said, followed by a deep, guttural burp. “Sorry about that. The road is fucking with my stomach.”

  Daniel turned his head and met Jessica’s glare. She didn’t look happy to be seated next to Homer Simpson. Welsh’s gaseous discharge refreshed the stale beer smell t
hat had persisted in the SUV since he was stuffed into the back seat. Their short trip on the interstate had provided them with enough air turbulence to clear the stench, but they had no such luxury moving along at ten miles per hour on these roads. Daniel’s handheld radio crackled and Graves’ voice filled the van.

  “We’re picking up some faint wireless signals to the north. We should proceed on foot from here,” he said, and Daniel acknowledged.

  Munoz slowed the van in the middle of the road, blocking traffic in both directions. The Ford Transit stopped twenty feet behind them, depositing Fayed and Paracha.

  “What kind of fence can we expect?” Daniel asked Welsh.

  “I just hauled construction material up here. They didn’t have a fence at that point.”

  “You think it’s a quarter mile? Does this road run straight north?”

  “Straight as an arrow,” Welsh said.

  “All right. Let’s gear up,” he said, and they all stepped into the damp Poconos air.

  The operatives met between the two vans.

  “Do the two of you mind keeping an eye on Mr. Welsh? We’ll head about fifty meters into the forest and turn north toward the site,” he said to Fayed and Paracha.

  “No problem. We’ll make sure nobody gets in or out. Our guys in the van are trying to access the security system. They’re pretty sure we’re dealing with cameras. High bandwidth wireless output,” Fayed said.

  “No motion detectors?” Munoz said.

  “Not as far as our guys could tell. There might be a hardwired system close to the structure, but these are the only signals so far. I think we should move up another two hundred meters to be sure.”

  “We’ll unload here and set out, while you reposition,” Daniel said.

  Munoz tossed the vehicle keys to Paracha, who snatched them out of the air.

  “Mr. Welsh, Agents Paracha and Fayed will keep you company until we return. We should have you home in an hour or so. This is probably just a wild goose chase, but you never know. You’ll be safe here,” Daniel said.