OMEGA: A Black Flagged Thriller (The Black Flagged Series Book 5)

by Steven Konkoly

  He reached his tiny office and squeezed between the wall and desk to his chair facing the door. Placing the desk in the middle of the office like this was one of the least optimal configurations to take advantage of the confined space, but Kaparov had taught him well.

  “Why make it so easy for me to see that you’ve been staring at the same screen for the past hour?” he’d say. “I can always find something for you to do, or stare at.” Truer words had never been spoken at headquarters.

  Prerovsky settled into his chair and faced his most important decision of the day. Did he start with the soup or sandwich? He started to unwrap the sandwich. Better to get it out of the way. The potato soup wasn’t half bad. With one hand holding the sandwich, he typed his password with the other, activating his home screen.

  A quick scan of his email inbox revealed dozens of messages sent by other assistant deputy directors or their minions during the morning stretch of meetings. Several came from Gennadiy Yurievich, who’d sat right next to him all morning and never said a word to him! He was the second most junior assistant director in the organized crime division, a precarious position in the hierarchy to hold in a division that clearly had a few too many assistant directors. Prerovsky’s presence could only be perceived as a constant threat to the man’s job. If only Yurievich knew that he’d gladly trade this office for a field job at this point.

  The sandwich had drifted close enough to his nose to remind him why he didn’t like egg salad. Egg salad was something you made with eggs nobody would eat, and enough mayo to cover up the reason why. He’d almost taken a bite anyway when an “email alert” caught his eye. He didn’t get many of those. Prerovsky lowered the sandwich after reading the subject line and clicked on the message. He skimmed it once and picked up his office phone, dialing a familiar extension.

  “Deputy Director Kaparov,” his friend answered.

  “Why the formality?”

  “Ah, Yuri. It’s because they swept in a few weeks ago and installed that abysmal key-encrypted phone system. It doesn’t give you any indication of who’s calling. Could be the fucking director himself! You can’t let it go to voicemail. Or shouldn’t. I don’t really give a shit.”

  “A few weeks?” said Prerovsky. “I’m surprised they haven’t made the transition here already.”

  “I’d be surprised if they ever did. How else would the Bratva stay one step ahead of the FSB?” said Kaparov. “You didn’t hear me say that.”

  “But everyone else did,” said Prerovsky. “Have you taken lunch yet? There’s a hotdog cart not too far away. I’m staring at an egg salad sandwich, or rather smelling it, and sincerely wishing it away. My treat.”

  “You know the way to my stomach, Yuri. I can eat Stardogs for lunch and dinner.”

  “Meet you downstairs in a few minutes,” said Prerovsky.

  He memorized the details of the message, shaking his head. If Sokolov and Reznikov were still connected at the hip like his friend suspected, this information could only mean one thing, and it changed everything.

  Chapter 49

  Salta, Argentina

  Sanderson sat on the balcony of an apartment a few blocks west of Plaza 9 de Julio in Barrio Los Molles. The building had been renovated into luxury apartments close to a year ago, with one of Sanderson’s shell companies as its earliest significant real estate investor. He’d purchased three adjoining units to use as a backup to their new headquarters in the hills north of the city. The shell company used for the transaction had no link to Ernesto Galenden, nor had it been used to purchase anything remotely traceable to the Black Flag program. It sat mostly dormant all of these years, maintained in electronic perpetuity by a Cayman Islands-based financial house.

  He’d stay here with the organization’s remaining skeleton crew until they found a new location safe from Russia’s renewed interest in his operations. He’d strongly considered leaving Argentina altogether. With their connection to Galenden no longer a secret to the Russians, Argentina might prove to be a difficult place to stay hidden, no matter where they relocated.

  When Farrington’s team returned from Africa, he’d rent warehouse space and housing outside of Buenos Aires to accommodate the group until they came up with a permanent plan. It wasn’t like they were busy. The operation in Gabon was the first full-scale deployment of Black Flag assets in several months, and it felt like more of a wild-goose chase than anything else.

  Not that he was complaining. Even if they’d just thrown him a bone to keep him occupied, a professionally and discreetly executed mission would make an impression on somebody. Then they’d get another operation and another. Baby steps. If the Africa operation yielded Reznikov, he could get the Russians off his back in a hurry. Even if it didn’t produce the scientist, he’d offer to deliver an unambiguous warning to the Russians about the price of kidnapping CIA officers. Everything hinged on Farrington’s success, which was why he’d stacked the deck, sending most of his operatives.

  The satellite phone attached to his belt chimed. He wasn’t expecting to hear from Farrington for at least another hour, when they landed at the Royal Air Force airfield on Ascension Island to refuel for the continued trip to Libreville. He hoped the mission hadn’t been scrapped. They really needed this one. The numbers indicated on the phone’s digital screen eased his worry. He could think of no reason why they’d have Karl pass him the bad news.

  The CIA officer wasn’t in the operational loop on this one. Or in any official loop, it appeared. At this point, Berg was running solo, with Bauer pursuing a soon-to-be irrelevant angle, all from an isolated location three hours away from D.C. Out of respect for everything Berg had done for Sanderson in the past, he would keep him in the loop regarding the Africa mission. He owed him that much.

  “Miss me already?” he answered. “The light switch for the back porch is in the pantry off the kitchen. Whoever wired—”

  “We have a problem,” Berg cut in.

  Here we go.

  Berg’s mind was relentlessly spinning in circles around the evidence he’d gathered, unable to settle on the obvious conclusion.

  “Now what?” he asked, unable to restrain his irritation.

  “I just received word from my source in Moscow. Sokolov was spotted in Ciudad Juarez, Mexico, yesterday, accompanied by an unidentified Russian.”

  “He can’t be in both places at the same time,” said Sanderson. “What’s the source?”

  “Hard to say. An FSB surveillance operation in Mexico City logged the call, placing Sokolov and his Russian friend at a bar in a brothel within the city’s red-light district. FSB surveillance confirmed that the Bratva has sent a team north to investigate.”

  “The source used the name Sokolov, but not Reznikov?”

  “Yes. The Bratva placed a considerable bounty on Sokolov’s head. I just learned that. They must have drawn the same conclusion I did about Reznikov’s all too convenient escape.”

  “How significant of a bounty?”

  “I know what you’re thinking. Money makes people see things.”

  “In this case, conveniently at the source’s favorite whorehouse.”

  “I have two problems with summarily dismissing this as a fake sighting. First, the source identified two Russians. The bounty was specific to Sokolov, making no mention of anyone else. Why would the source make up the sighting and add another Russian to the mix?”

  “To make it more realistic?” Sanderson suggested.

  “Maybe, but what’s the point? When the Bratva arrives, you’re stuck holding an empty bag, no matter how detailed you described its contents. Which underscores an even bigger problem. What does the source think is going to happen to him when the Bratva finds the bag empty and quickly determines it never held anything? You’d have to be suicidal to report a false sighting like this to the Russian mob.”

  “This information is a day old?” said Sanderson.

  “At least.”

  “Then Sokolov and Reznikov are either dead or
back in the Bratva’s possession by now. Unless you can convince the powers that be to deploy a second task force to Ciudad Juarez, there’s nothing we can do about it right now.”

  “Munoz and Melendez said they’d head south. This is exactly the kind of mission they’ve trained for,” said Berg.

  “Two men, without support?”

  “If the report is true, we’re looking at a game changer. There’s only one reason I can think of to explain why they’d be on the U.S.-Mexico border.”

  “I can’t think of any, which is why I’m ninety-nine point nine percent convinced it’s a bogus report.”

  Sanderson’s own statement triggered another thought. The surveillance report itself was fake. It made sense given the fact pattern. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of this as soon as Karl described the report.

  “Terrence, they’re bringing him here,” Berg stated flatly.

  Of course they are. Just what they want you to think. They don’t even have Reznikov, but they can wield him like a weapon. Brilliant.

  “Who? The Russians?”

  “What? No. Why would the Russians bring him here?”

  “They wouldn’t. The Russians don’t have Reznikov. The whole thing is a ruse,” said Sanderson.

  “Dammit, Terrence!” said Berg. “Quit being obtuse. I’m talking about our government.”

  “I think you’re obsessed with True America. Why would they bring Reznikov to the United States?’

  “I don’t know,” said Berg. “To finish the job they started in 2007?”

  “Karl, the Russians manufactured this intelligence. Think about it. They know you’re looking for Sokolov. They know you have a source in Moscow. I’m not saying your source is compromised, but they conjure up some phony intelligence about Sokolov on the U.S.-Mexico border and dump it in the system. Instant panic.”

  “I don’t—” started Berg, pausing for a long moment. “What’s to say it’s not the other way around?”

  In his excitement, Sanderson had skipped right past that possibility. Both reports could be false. Could the Russians deploy a large enough force in the Gabonese jungle to ambush Farrington’s team? Would they risk the political fallout from killing the Special Operations Command operators assigned to accompany the team?

  “General?”

  “Sorry. I was thinking about what you said. The Russians dragging us into Gabon—”

  “Stop,” said Berg. “Terrence, I’m not talking about the Russians. I’m talking about whoever is behind Ajax and the attacks here.”

  “True America,” said Sanderson.

  “I don’t know yet, but tell Farrington to watch his back. I suspect we’ve just scratched the surface of this conspiracy, and you have most of your eggs in that C-17 basket.”

  “I confirmed the authenticity of this operation with General Frank Gordon, the head of SOCOM, and Bob Kearney, the president’s Homeland Security advisor. I trust Bob with my life, and Frank Gordon is the most principled soldier I’ve ever met, even if he’s the biggest pain in my ass. The op is real. Farrington didn’t sense anything off when the aircraft picked them up. SOCOM assigned four operators from DEVGRU to keep an eye on us. Not exactly the kind of posse you send to round up twenty of my people.”

  “I’m just repeating some sound advice given to me a few days back, right before I was kidnapped. Watch your back.”

  Sanderson remembered the conversation and the scent of the Montecristo No. 2 in the air at the time.

  “Words to live by,” he said. “I’ll warn Farrington. The team is about an hour out of Ascension by my calculation.”

  “That’s an isolated place,” said Berg. “What about Munoz and Melendez?”

  “Let’s see how things play out in Africa. I’ll call you when they reach Libreville.”

  “Thanks for keeping me in the loop. I feel pretty damn useless right now. We all do.”

  “We’ll get things back on track for all of us. This is the first step on that path. I never forget my friends,” said Sanderson.

  He ended the call and immediately dialed Farrington’s satellite phone, not expecting to get through. Unless he wandered onto the flight deck and the phone caught a satellite signal through one of the windows, he would be unable to communicate with Farrington until they landed on Ascension Island. He waited to leave a message.

  “Rich, we’ve had a few developments. Nothing critical, but keep a close eye on your escorts and check for stowaways. Call me as soon as you land on Ascension. Just being cautious.”

  He thumbed a text message, relaying an abbreviated version of the voicemail. Sanderson lowered the phone to his side, knowing he’d place a call every few minutes until he got through to Farrington on the runway. Berg’s paranoia was like a contagious rash. Once you got it, scratching only made it worse, and he’d just scratched the hell out of this rash.

  PART FOUR:

  BLACK MARK

  Chapter 50

  Royal Air Force (RAF) Base

  Ascension Island

  The C-17 Globemaster’s wheels bit into the runway and rumbled for a few seconds, before the massive aircraft rapidly and unnaturally slowed from the reverse thrust of its four over-powered turbofan engines. The sudden deceleration pushed Farrington into Dihya Castillo to his right. Jared Hoffman knocked into him from the left; a victim of the same, seemingly impossible physics prank played by the aircraft’s engines.

  The behemoth taxied smoothly for a few minutes before coming to a stop. Farrington looked forward to getting off this thing for however long it took to refuel. Despite its impressive size, the two-story, windowless cargo bay felt like a flying tomb. He might reconsider the flight crew’s offer to sit on the flight-deck level, where he’d have a chance to see the sky. They had a long flight ahead of them to Africa, their destination still up in the air. Literally.

  The Gabonese government had apparently been less than receptive to the idea of allowing a U.S. military transport to land at their air base in Libreville to “refuel.” The current plan was to covertly parachute a small group into the farmlands southeast of the city along the aircraft’s approved route to the United Nations Base at Entebbe International Airport. The group would link up with CIA-friendly assets and make arrangements to receive the rest of the team when they filtered into the area on private flights. The plan was far from ideal, but it got some of them on the ground in the target area as quickly as possible to start the search for Reznikov.

  After the aircraft remained stationary for several seconds, the C-17’s loadmaster, seated in a sturdy flight chair next to the flight deck stairwell, released his harness and gave them all a thumbs-up. Farrington unbuckled the far less serious-looking strap holding him into the jump seat. The loadmaster opened the crew door on the forward-most, port side of the cargo bay, close to his station.

  The team milled about the section of the hold they had claimed, groggy from the eight-hour leg of the flight. Farrington could sense they were ready to press their feet on terra firma and breathe some fresh air before they were sealed up again. The DEVGRU operators stuck together toward the rear of the hold, like they had for most of the flight. The SEALs had neither been openly disdainful, nor subtly disrespectful toward Farrington’s team, they merely stuck to themselves. He hadn’t expected an ice cream social. They had been assigned to babysit Farrington’s team, and it clearly wasn’t a choice assignment.

  “If your team wants to breathe some crisp middle-of-fucking-nowhere Atlantic air tinged with aviation fuel, they can stretch their legs on the runway!” the loadmaster yelled. “Just keep them near the stairs and out of the refueling crew’s way so we can get out of here.”

  “Which side do they use to refuel?” asked Farrington.

  “That side,” said the loadmaster, pointing toward the starboard side of the cargo bay.

  Farrington nodded at the U.S. Air Force technical sergeant, turning to face the bulk of his team nearby. “Stick close by. There’s nothing to see out there anyway. This plac
e is literally in the middle of nowhere.”

  The group mumbled and nodded, at least half of them immediately moving toward the hatch leading out of the aircraft. He stopped Aleem Fayed on the way by. “Make sure they don’t wander.”

  “Got it,” said Fayed. “How long do you think we’ll be here?”

  “They topped off in Buenos Aires, so I’m thinking twenty to thirty minutes. I’ll meet you out there in a few. I need to update Sanderson.”

  “What’s there to update?”

  “That they didn’t fly us to Guantanamo Bay.”

  The seasoned operative shook his head and laughed, heading over to organize the pack gathering at the door. Fayed led the Middle East Group, which comprised at least a third of the task force put together by Sanderson for this operation. Given the final destination, any skin tone naturally darker than Farrington’s tan bought you a ticket on this flight. The entire South-Central America group, minus Munoz and Melendez, had also been sent.

  Not that operatives from either group would blend right into the Libreville population. Far from it, in fact. The quick-fused mission exposed a significant weakness in the Black Flag structure. They had only two operatives who could walk through the main Libreville market without drawing immediate attention. Andre Luison, a French-Creole descended operative attached to the European Group, and Jon Holloman, a former Special Forces soldier with two years of intense German language training from the Defense Language Institute in Monterrey, California. Needless to say, they’d both parachute into Gabon tonight.

  Castillo remained in her seat, rubbing her temples, an empty airsickness bag between her knees. Farrington patted her on the shoulder, nudging her forward.

  “Get some air,” he said.

  “I don’t feel like moving,” Castillo groaned.