Black Flagged Redux (12 page)

Instinctively, she blocked the devastating strike with her empty left hand, her brain deciding not to grab the wrist. She didn't know why this decision had been made, but as her own processing ability caught up with her instincts, she consciously flowed with it. She imparted a sharp upward motion against the strike and immediately hinged her elbow, allowing the strike to continue downward with more momentum than the attacker had probably expected. She had feinted a solid block, which if executed would have locked her into a useless strength match. Her attacker had been hungry for this and didn't realize his mistake as she stepped forward and pivoted on her left foot, swinging her blade behind her own back, in an admittedly desperate gamble.

She crouched as her entire body turned along the attacker's right side and her knife hand swung in a blinding arc, burying the blade to the hilt in his lower back. He made a useless attempt to swing his own blade backward to strike her, but missed, as she spun even further behind him. He recognized the severity of his wound and knew it was useless.

The knife hadn't really penetrated his back. The Simknife blade was designed to retract and measure the damage imparted by the knife strike. Based on a number of variables, it pressure released a bright red stain relative to the depth of the wound. Similarly, the flexible "blade" could measure lateral slash intensity. Not surprisingly, the stab wound to Leo's back resulted in the maximum spray radius, leaving a six-inch diameter mark on his blue flannel shirt.

"Shit," he muttered, and Jessica yelled, "Next!"

And so this game would continue until everyone had been given a chance to test their skills against her. For nearly two years, she had trained the new recruits, imparting her knowledge and absorbing skills from the program's "old hands," including General Sanderson. Leo had asked to go first today, since he wanted Jessica fresh. He was hell-bent on taking her down, and when he finally succeeded, he told her that he didn't want anyone claiming she was tired.

She nodded at Leo as the next victim walked toward her.

"First. Last. The result is always the same," she taunted, and he shook his head as a thin grin formed.

"You almost fucked up. It's only a matter of time," he said.

"I wouldn't rely on 'almost' as a key strategy. Now, if you don't mind, I have a few more of your buddies to open up here," she said, just as Sergei, another Russian Section trainee, leapt forward, trying to catch her off guard.

His throat was "slit" within five seconds, and they all braced for the word. "Next!"

She had started this end-of-the-week contest one year earlier and opened it to anyone at the compound. She relished the challenge and remained undefeated. The contest length varied every week, depending on how many willing participants were located at the main compound. Some participants perished quicker than Sergei, and few ever managed to stick around longer than Leo. The whole thing rarely lasted more than thirty minutes, and when it was finished, Jessica found herself physically exhausted, but mentally and sexually charged. She used the contest like a drug, to fuel her weekends with Daniel, not that their relationship needed it.

Although training never really stopped at the compound, Jessica and Daniel had carved out a nice existence, spending as much time together as possible. General Sanderson ran a demanding schedule, but he had been flexible with both of them, given the circumstances that had brought them into the Black Flag fold. Jessica mostly stayed at the compound. Her knife and urban field craft lessons were taught mainly during the week, with at least one weekend practical field exercise conducted per month on the outside, in a major city. For these "practicals," she served mainly as an observer, though she would occasionally test her own deception and disguise skills against the trainees. These were perishable skills that she had no intention of losing to the classroom.

Daniel drifted in and out of the compound, with no discernible schedule. He frequently took trainees to one of several field training areas, some located more than fifty miles away. Unlike Jessica's curriculum, Daniel's training regimen didn't have a set schedule, and the trainees' skill levels varied drastically. One day he would be at the nearby sniper range, the next he would suddenly decide to take them into the field for several days. He followed Sanderson's general sniper curriculum with most students, but for a small core group of promising candidates, he would take them to the far reaches of Ernesto Galenden's massive private reserve to put their skills to the test.

Señor
Galenden was one of the Black Flag program's most prominent silent partners and Argentina's wealthiest oil baron, owning a sizable share in the Repsol YPF, a Spanish owned, multinational petroleum company. Most of Galenden's wealth stemmed from his father's aggressive campaign during the late 1950s to buy large tracts of land in the western Nuenquen province. In a gamble based on privately contracted geological surveys, Galenden's father added vast stretches of the barren province to his shaky portfolio. In 1965, when petroleum was "officially" discovered near Rincon de los Sauces, the sleepy cattle town was transformed into the "energy capital of Argentina," and the Galenden family quickly became the wealthiest family in Argentina's history. Nearly 50% of Argentina's proven reserves of oil and natural gas lay under the soil on Galenden family property.

Black Flag's "leased" property extended for hundreds of miles along the western edge of the province, well away from most petroleum industry activity. The area had been designated a "private reserve," which kept most of the public from venturing too far into the territory. For Sanderson, it held everything the program needed. With arid land at the eastern limits of the reserve and the heavily forested Andes Mountains to the west, his operatives could train in nearly any environment. Several abandoned settlements, ranging in size from a small town to rough encampments, sprinkled the property, providing opportunity for urban combat training. The reserve combined unlimited training possibilities with privacy. Privacy provided by remote, geographic difficulty and guaranteed by
señor
Galenden's considerable influence.

Tucked into an obscure Andes river valley forty miles southwest of Zapala, Sanderson's compound took advantage of the natural cover offered by lush, dark green mountain conifers, and the naturally broken and rocky terrain of the Andes foothills. A wide, pristine stream teeming with trout rushed through the open valley a few hundred meters from the nestled encampment, giving the scene a rustic, picturesque feel that could evoke postcard quality images of a nature conservation lodge…if nature conservation activities involved automatic weapons.

Pushed back from the open valley into a gently cleared forest area, the main compound had been constructed with Sanderson's private funds and resembled a small campus of a few dozen log and timber buildings. The compound housed Black Flag's "schoolhouse" activities, along with a general cantina and basic housing accommodations. Operatives lived in private rooms within small dormitories. With the exception of common instruction and messing, operatives separated themselves by assignment to Areas of Operation (AO), for the purpose of language and cultural immersion. As much as practical, instruction, food preparation and recreational activities were designed to be AO-centric and focused on improving their ability to assimilate with indigenous AO populations.

Unlike the first Black Flag program, the new program was not designed to create long-term undercover operatives for strategic placement. The support requirements needed to adequately prepare operatives for deep cover placement proved to be prohibitive and unrealistic given Sanderson's budget and need for operational security. General Sanderson had no shortage of funding for the new program, but the human logistics required to recreate the first program caused Sanderson to rethink the program. The U.S. military had not only provided him with a generous budget, but had also given him a full battery of psychologists and counselors, critical to trainee selection and conditioning. Carefully screened political refugees had been funneled by the State Department to his program and paid generously to live among the trainees to ensure full immersion.

Beyond these limitations, Sanderson had a more practical reason for redesigning the program. Sanderson couldn't afford the time it would take to find candidates suitable for deep cover assignments. Without the screening tools used to find the earliest batches of Black Flag operatives, he now had to rely on a cautious process to recruit new operatives. The process was slow and inherently risky, exposing Sanderson's new program to the outside world more often than he would like. Still, it was the only way to gauge the limited pool of recruits he could access. Mostly hardened combat veterans of Iraq and Afghanistan, the new batch of operatives were different, and he had so far only identified two that would have passed the first program's initial psychological assessment.

The new program created undercover operatives suitable for short term or quick response operations. The first batch of trainees were ready for deployment, though based on Jessica's next three quick kills, the casual observer might consider sending them back through the program for further knife training.

The last body hit the deck with a solid thud, followed by two quick knife stabs to the neck that hissed red paint. Dhiya Castillo lasted longer than any of her previous attempts, having rapidly absorbed Jessica's instruction. For her small size, she fought viciously and relied heavily on her martial arts training to disarm Jessica. Inevitably, all of their matches ended with Dhiya eating dirt, the victim of splitting her attention between edged combat and martial arts acrobatics. With a little patience, Jessica always found an opportunity to knock her off-balance, though she had to admit, as Dhiya shifted more of her attention to the blade, Jessica had experienced some close calls. A few more months of intense knife work would turn the tide for this one, she thought.

With no more takers, she took a deep breath and sheathed her knife. She glanced around for Daniel, who she thought had been present earlier. She shook several hands and accepted a dozen or more slaps on the back as she waded through the group looking for her husband. She saw Richard Farrington breaking free from the group and jogged over to talk to him.

"Rich! I missed you in the circle today," she said.

Farrington turned and regarded her with a grin. "I can only have my ass handed to me so many times in one month before I develop a complex. You start to join us on the range, and I'll jump back into the circle," he said.

"I hate guns, but I might take you up on that. I know Danny likes to see you get your ass kicked. Might bring him around to watch. Have you seen him today?"

"He was there for a few minutes. I saw him head off to the armory."

"Thanks. See you around," she said and took off jogging, energized by the prospect of seeing her husband after his two-week absence in the field.

She still felt a twinge of disappointment that he never stuck around for "the circle." Logically, she knew that their strong attraction and protective instinct for each other would make it almost impossible for him to stay and watch. From an observer's point of view, every attack looked like a close call, and some were closer than she would care to admit. He'd seen the results of the closer calls. A black eye, split lip or bloodied nose wasn't uncommon. Every Friday yielded multiple bruises, and she knew that Leo's desperate attempt to take her down would leave several bruises on her forearms from blocking his devastating strikes. She'd have to wear long sleeves on their trip to Buenos Aires. Luckily, she had been spared any damage to her face.

As she approached the armory door, she heard him talking inside the secure facility. Constructed of log and timber on the outside, the inside of the armory had been considerably upgraded to store the program's weapons and ammunition. Personal weapons were also kept in the armory, though they served no real purpose in the grand scheme of the program, other than an indulgence. Operatives mastered weapons common to their AO and were familiarized with weapons beyond that scope, in case they were needed in a more general role outside of their specialty area.

She entered the armory and heard the distinctive metallic snap of a rifle bolt sliding forward. Daniel looked up as she crossed the threshold, placed his sniper rifle against the bench, and sprang up to greet her. He had nearly two weeks of grit and camouflage grease on his face, compounded by thick, filthy stubble. She knew he would reek of dirt, sweat and possibly urine, but she didn't care. She embraced him, and they held each other for a few seconds, until one of the other operatives grunted.

"I'll be up in about an hour. We need to clean all of the rifles and stow our gear," he said and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek.

"I'd tell the two of you to get a room, but you already have one," said Enrique "Rico" Melendez, ex-marine sniper, and Daniel's most promising trainee.

"Rico, don't upset the lady. I'd hate to see her turn up the heat on you in the 'circle' next week," Daniel said.

"We're not headed back out?" Rico said.

The other trainee started to add to the complaint, but Daniel cut them off. "We're taking a little R&R trip to the city, but we'll be back for next Friday. Jess didn't want to miss out on the fun."

"I need to make sure he's not coddling you guys out there. Put a little balance back into your lives," she said, and her long, black Simknife flashed out of its sheath in a blur.

"Shit. More of that? I thought I wouldn't have to deal with that anymore."

"Nobody has to participate, especially a fragile guy like you, Rico," she taunted, and the other sniper trainee, a harsh-looking Caucasian with a flat nose, blurted out laughing.

"You’re fucking pure evil, you know that? You and your husband. And what are you laughing at, Jared? Who the fuck names their kid Jared, anyway?"

"It's a Jewish biblical name. At least my parents didn't idolize Julio Iglesias. Fucking Rico? Living
la vida loca
," he started to sing.