Black Flagged Redux (48 page)

Gibson had mentally prepared himself to rush in against a hail of gunfire, but by the time he got through the door, he had already heard most of his team members pronounce their appointed cardinal sectors to be secure. Powerful beams of light rapidly swept the two-story room, exposing every potential hiding spot. Gibson directed his rifle-mounted LED light around the front of what appeared to be a comfortable wilderness lodge. Glowing embers in the fireplace were the only sign of recent activity in the entire building. His beam swept across a large wooden table and stopped. Another beam found what Gibson had just noticed.

He moved quickly to the table and lowered his rifle, taking a smaller flashlight off of his tactical harness. The softer light brought everything into better focus. A glass of milk sat next to a plate of cookies in the middle of the table, along with a remote control placed above an 8.5 x 11 sheet of paper. Further down the table, he saw what looked like a small teleconference device with wires extending over the edge of the table. A few spare wires lay coiled next to the machine. He could see writing on the top half of the note and leaned in to read it.

"Fuck me. Captain, you need to see this right now," he said, trying to remain calm.

**

Lieutenant Commander Scott Daly had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He had expected to hear multiple shotgun blasts as the marines and SEALs forcibly breached all of the structures. Instead, he watched marines disappear silently through all of the doorways, followed by a brilliant green light show as they searched the structures.

"Renegade, this is Back Yard. It's a bust. Nobody's home."

"This is Renegade. Copy your last. Assume Back Yard over watch."

"This is Back Yard. Roger. Out."

Daly leaned against the armory's door frame and scanned the visible structures with his rifle scope. Marines had started with the largest of the structures, which they had assumed would house the largest number of targets, and moved to the smaller ones. At this point, every structure had been breached, and there had been no report of resistance. He needed a status report from Major Strout.

"Wild Eagle, this is Renegade. Have your teams found anything? Over," he said into his headset.

"This is Wild Eagle. Negative. I'm receiving reports from the last structures breached. They all report no personnel on site. Over," Major Strout answered.

"Understood. Assemble all Wild Eagle units for immediate extraction."

"Roger. Out."

"Back Yard, this is Renegade. Collapse toward extraction point and cover Wild Eagle. Over."

"This is Back Yard. Roger. Out."

He turned off his transmitter and pounded his fist on the wall inside the armory.

"Mother fucker," he muttered and turned to his radio operator.

"Sonny, get the birds back in for extraction. Make sure they know we're empty-handed. Send the abort code back to
BOXER
."

He'd personally seen thermal satellite imagery confirming targets on site just hours before the operation launched. How the fuck had they screwed this one up? He had to be careful with his verbal criticism since he was still on candid camera, though he'd be sure to deactivate his camera for the ride back to
BOXER
. He could control his own comments, but there was no way he'd be able to censor any of his SEALs. He was just thankful that he wouldn't be riding with the marines. He could only imagine what they might have to say about this navy-sponsored operation.

"Renegade, this is Wild Eagle. Marines in the suspected headquarters building found something you need to see immediately."

"This is Renegade. I'm on my way. Extract birds are inbound. Over."

"Understood. Out."

He grabbed Petty Officer Obregon, who was already packed up and ready to move and patted Petty Officer Ellison on the shoulder as he slipped through the doorway with Obregon.

"You’re last out, Chief. See you at the bird!" he yelled to Inderman, who signaled his acknowledgement with a thumbs up.

Daly arrived on the lodge's porch and opened the screen door. Upon entry, he saw that most of the marines were dispersed tactically throughout the structure, guarding entrances. Captain Polidoro and Staff Sergeant Gibson stood in front of the table, flashlights aimed down its surface.

"What do we have here, Captain?" he said, striding up to the table.

"We've been made, sir."

Daly leaned in to read the note. He'd wanted to shake his head, but he was painfully aware of his long distance audience. Fuck them. This was their problem now. His only concern at this point was getting the strike force back to
BOXER
intact.

Chapter 55

1:33 AM

White House Situation Room

Washington, D.C.

Frederick Shelby couldn't believe this was happening. National Reconnaissance Office satellite imagery confirmed humans at the target at 10:30 PM local time and had supposedly watched the site right up until the landing. He just saw General Gordon examine a satellite image showing the damn helicopters at the site. How in hell could this be right? Did they check under the beds? He wanted to yell this question to the officers in the room, but knew the comment would land him squarely in Gerald Simmons’ camp.

"Can you get Renegade to focus on the note?" General Gordon said into his headset.

A few seconds later the helmet cam steadied on the note, which was illuminated by flashlights.

Greetings warrior brethren,

It's an honor to have so many brave men and women pay us a visit. I am truly humbled by your presence. You have my word that you are in no danger from my organization at this site. Please use the remote control to activate the monitor on the wall above the table. I urgently need to speak to the men and women watching from the White House and Pentagon about the situation developing in Europe.

Your most humble servant,

General Terrence Sanderson, USA (Ret)

P.S. The cookies are delicious. I won't tell if they go MIA.

General Gordon turned to the president of the United States. "I recommend we get our people out of there immediately. If he wants to talk to us, he can fly up here and meet us in person," Gordon said.

"I concur with the general," Shelby added.

He knew from the depths of his soul that Sanderson was up to no good and that everyone in the room would regret the decision to turn on that monitor.

"If he's connected to the situation in Europe, we need to know how. I can't see the harm in it. The helicopters have enough fuel to loiter for a few minutes," the national security advisor said.

"I'd feel more comfortable getting the marines and SEALs airborne. The longer those birds linger over the area, the more potential for trouble," Brigadier General Nichols said.

"Sir, we need to figure out how he's connected," Sarah Kestler insisted.

"Sanderson is a slippery character. You don't want to open Pandora's Box," Shelby added.

"I'm not sure we have a choice. A situation has developed in Europe that took a messy turn thirty minutes ago. We're looking at a very likely WMD deployment scenario in Europe and the United States. If Sanderson has any light to shed on the situation, I'd like to hear it. Tell Lieutenant Commander Daly to switch on the monitor. How will Sanderson hear us?" the president said.

"We'll take care of the patch, Mr. President. We'll be talking in real time with the team in the room. The SEAL commander's radio operator has a sophisticated communications rig and should be able to transfer the audio to that teleconference machine."

Shelby wondered about Europe. WMDs on U.S. soil. He couldn't imagine why this had been kept from the FBI. Based on the president's comment, he envisioned a very busy day for the J. Edgar Hoover Building.

They all watched the green image on the right screen, which showed a hand reach out and grab the remote control. A few seconds later, the green image intensified, and they could no longer make out details in the room.

"Have Lieutenant Commander Daly remove his helmet cam's night vision attachment," Gordon said into his headset.

The image shook and became obscured for several seconds, which prompted a few gasps in the room.

"He's fine. Just working on the camera," General Nichols reassured them.

The green image changed to a regular color scheme and shifted again. The new image settled in on the monitor, and they all saw General Sanderson sitting in front of a small lamp, his face beaming a grin that Shelby could only interpret as smug.

"Your radio operator should find the cable he's looking for on the table. It's the left one. I wasn't sure if I'd be dealing with a SEAL or Marine Advanced Communications System. If you'd also power up the teleconference device, we should be able to chat," Sanderson said. "While I have your undivided attention, let me welcome you to my humble compound. I commend all of you for an incredibly efficient operation. Commander, you had your task force offloaded in eighty-four seconds. That's a record in my book. I would have ordered an immediate surrender if the compound had been occupied."

Shelby didn't like the sound of this and registered the concerned looks from the military leadership around the table. Sanderson was watching the assault force, which didn't bode well.

"I assure you we have no intention of harming any of the assault team. Barring any unforeseen mechanical difficulties, you'll bring everyone back, Commander."

General Gordon gave the president a thumbs up and pointed to the microphone on the table, which flashed a green light. Shelby shook his head, indicating that he thought it would be a bad idea to start out with the president. They needed to treat Sanderson like a terrorist, and terrorists didn't get to speak with the president of the United States.

"General Sanderson, this is General Frank Gordon. I'm in charge of this operation. We're working on a very limited timetable here, so if you would make your communication brief, we would appreciate it."

"Frank, always good to hear your voice. JSOC is in capable hands," Sanderson said, nodding on the screen.

"I wish I could say it was good to hear your voice, Terry."

"I understand and assume you're not alone in that spirit. I'll be brief. I want to discuss the terms of an immunity deal in exchange for critical information related to the recent bioweapons attack on Russia and possible subsequent attacks throughout Europe and the United States. I'm seeking informal presidential immunity for my organization. This will be a wide-scoped agreement, encompassing the activities of all of my operatives, past and present. I'd also like to discuss reactivating the Black Flag program."

Shelby shook his head and looked at the president, who leaned toward the microphone.
Please don't do this,
he thought, and briefly considered pulling the president back in his seat, which would have been a career limiting move. He heard the national security advisor tell one of his aides to get a hold of the president's chief of staff. He caught a whisper about the attorney general and lawyers. He really hoped they weren't going to give this any consideration.

"General Sanderson, this is the president of the United States. Please explain the nature of the information in your possession. I have no inclination to negotiate with you."

"I appreciate your tough stance, but I have detailed information about the attack on Monchegorsk and specific information about the locations of impending attacks in Europe. I assure you that this information is worth sweeping my past and present activities under the rug."

"We can't just sweep terrorist activity under the rug," Shelby whispered and received a scornful look from the president.

"General, I already possess this information. I'm not sure how the information came into your possession, but I have to seriously question your involvement in the plot. There will be no immunity deal, and we have no need for your rogue operatives. I will never entertain the idea of sanctioning one of your programs. We can get the work done without you."

"Really, Mr. President? Who do you think got you the information from Stockholm? CIA operatives? Special Operations assets? Two of my people sacrificed their lives on Bondegatan Street to capture Reznikov and provide the CIA with that information. Another is critically wounded. I lost another man in Kazakhstan, alongside a CIA operative, while tracking Reznikov. I gave you this information."

"What is he talking about?" General Gordon said.

There was a general murmur in the room, especially among the White House staff. Shelby was at a complete loss, which was a rare and uncomfortable feeling for him.

"My team is several minutes from delivering Reznikov to a CIA safe house north of Stockholm. Should I send them somewhere else?" Sanderson said.

"These are your operatives?" the president said, then whispered to the national security advisor, "I thought this was a CIA team?"

The national security advisor shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. An argument escalated between the two of them when the national security advisor suggested that this couldn't be construed by the public as their fault. Shelby couldn't believe what he was hearing. It didn't matter who knew what. The president was ultimately responsible, and he had unknowingly used terrorists to pursue terrorists on European soil. This was a disaster of epic proportions for the administration and all of them. Their leverage had just evaporated.

"Terry, you're a better man than that!" Major General Bob Kearny yelled from down the conference room table. "I can't believe you would withhold information that could save thousands of lives, just to save your own ass!"

"Is that you, Bob?" Sanderson said.

"Damn straight it is. Up until right now, I still respected you on many levels. Tell me I'm mistaken here with my new assessment of your character," Kearny said.