Black Flagged Apex (25 page)

"He doesn't need to tell us that. The good general flushed nearly three years' worth of work down the toilet. Not to mention the fact that I almost lost my arm," O'Reilly said.

"He wasn't suggesting that we cozy up to the man. I think he suspects that Sanderson might somehow be involved in the virus threat. He didn't come out and say that, but I could read it from him. We need to be extremely cautious with Sanderson's people and make no assumptions," Sharpe said.

"I'll second that," Mendoza said.

"All right. I'll be in my office waiting for Shelby to call. Frank, would you walk up and notify Ms. Stewart? I'll contact Kathryn Moriarty and start the ball rolling in Newark. Dana, I want to be fully linked into the mobile task force on this one. Anything they can see, I want to see. I'll let Moriarty and her supervisory special agents call the shots, but I want the ability to command by negation in real time. I'll explain this to Moriarty."

The two agents nodded and wished him good luck talking to the director. He felt extremely fortunate to have them both on the task force. The three of them had a history together going back nearly five years, since the beginning of Task Force Hydra. They had started to go their separate ways after Hydra was unceremoniously destroyed by Sanderson's successful ploy to bury the rest of the Black Flag files. The setback had been costly to the American people. Sharpe didn't have time to pore over the connections, but he wondered if Sanderson's actions had enabled the very crisis they were facing.

His task force had mapped Al Qaeda's financial network in the U.S. and had already initiated the surveillance of several suspected terrorist cells connected with the network. All of that disappeared within the span of twelve hours on May 26, 2005, compliments of General Terrence Sanderson. Now the same man was helping them stop a terrorist plot that may never have developed without his interference. Sharpe hoped the irony of the situation wasn't lost on anyone that had sanctioned the use of Sanderson's assets.

It certainly hadn't been lost on Director Shelby. Sharpe had withheld Shelby's more caustic comments from Mendoza and O'Reilly on purpose. The director questioned Sanderson's involvement to the very core of this entire crisis. Shelby had no doubt lost much of his ability to judge the situation objectively, but even a hardened investigator like Sharpe couldn't quite shake the feeling that the director's theory held some merit. Shelby never laid it all out in front of Sharpe, but he asked some highly disturbing questions:

Don't you find it odd that all of our key intelligence came from Sanderson's people? The list of Al Qaeda addresses. Reznikov's details. Intelligence from the Kurchatov lab. Details from Monchegorsk. The Imam's sudden cooperation. Where is this Reznikov? Is the Imam really alive? Have we sent our own people to Kurchatov? How hard could it be to get our own live intel on Monchegorsk?

The more Sharpe listened, the more he started to question General Sanderson's involvement. He needed to strike a balance between pursuing the leads that made sense and protecting his own people. He couldn't expose Mendoza or O'Reilly to the director's core suspicions without risking a complete breakdown within the task force. With fifty canisters of Reznikov's designer encephalitis virus in enemy hands, he couldn't afford the slightest glitch in his team. It would remain his burden alone to harbor Shelby's suspicions.

Chapter 20

8:16 AM

Wayne County

Pennsylvania

Jackson Greely hopped down from his black 1993 Chevy Suburban 2500 and slammed the door shut. He stood nearly six feet tall on a muscular frame that would normally spill out of any oversized SUV…but not this monster. The drop from the running boards had been increased by an additional eighteen inches due to a custom-drilled six-inch lift kit, bearing Goodyear R18 Kevlar tires. When it came to his transportation, Greely didn't mess around, and he'd just as soon put his concealed Smith and Wesson .357 revolver in his mouth and pull the trigger than purchase one of those Nissan or Toyota knockoff versions like the Titan or Tundra. Sure, they were built in America, but the profits flowed right out of the door to Japan. Soon enough, all of that would change.

He walked toward the open door to the right of the closed loading bay doors, noting several cars parked on the grass. As the de facto leader of True America, they had left an open path along the gravel driveway for his SUV, parking the rest of the vehicles on the far side of the driveway or in the field. Only his good friend Lee Harding dared park in front of him, and he hadn't arrived. Harding was about five minutes out, having travelled all night from their training compound. He wanted to oversee the final stage of the compound's enhanced security preparations and ensure that Tyrell Bishop handled the next phase of their operation flawlessly.

He was greeted by Michael Brooks as he approached the door. Greely had requested a quick word with Brooks before the meeting began. Both men walked several feet away from the opening.

"Did you take care of the problem?" Greely asked.

"Last night. He almost got away on us. Bolted toward that tree line when he saw his team leader."

"Why didn't you kill him as soon as he stepped out of the van?"

"Carnes can use the help around here. The lab complex is a little short-handed, given the circumstances. The place is secure. They weren't going anywhere."

"Were there witnesses?"

"Just the security manager and his team. Everyone else was busy in the lab, which is on the far side of the complex. A five hundred pound bomb could hit your truck and nobody inside the lab would hear it," Brooks said. "Sorry. That was probably a bad choice for an example," he added.

"You're fucking right it was. If I didn't count you in my close circle of friends, I'd consider that a veiled threat."

"Sorry," Brooks repeated.

"Next time I tell you to do something, don't get creative. They should have been executed upon arrival or somewhere else. We can't afford to have rumors floating around here, not when sacrifices like these are only the beginning. We still have a long road ahead of us," Greely said, staring at the cars parked where the team was executed. "Looks like everyone except Lee is present."

"Everyone arrived within the last hour or so. Lee will be here in a few minutes," Brooks said.

Greely abruptly started to walk back toward the door.

"Jackson, before we head in…" Brooks said carefully, "what are your thoughts about Benjamin Young?"

"He still puts a lot of corporate money into our coffers. Is he showing signs of strain?" Greely asked.

"His lifestyle puts him at risk. Makes him vulnerable. He cheats on his wife daily, drinks heavily, and has started to increase his cocaine habit. I'm not seeing a pretty end here."

"Send him another message. He's too damn good at wrangling money out of the Beltway and Wall Street," Greely said.

"We've already sent him two. Now there's the prostitution thing. He's flying them to his apartments in Manhattan, Atlanta and D.C. The only place he's not seen with them is during the few hours a week he spends with his wife and kids," Brooks said.

"Keep a close eye on him for now. I'll work on finding a replacement, which won't be easy. Ben is a fucking genius when it comes to schmoozing money out of people. If you detect an immediate problem, terminate his association with True America," Greely said.

"Understood."

Just as they started to walk back, a mud-encrusted, hard-top Jeep Wrangler skidded to a halt less than three feet from Greely's SUV, sending a cloud of gravel dust over the shiny black behemoth. Lee Harding emerged from the cloud and bounded over to greet them. In stark contrast to Jackson Greely's tall, muscular frame, Harding resembled a wiry, compact runner. He wore a loose-fitting gray polo-style shirt tucked into naturally faded jeans. A thick brown belt, adorned with a sizable bronze buckle plate kept the jeans affixed to his lean frame. A few steps away from Greely and Brooks, he turned around to view his handiwork.

"Sorry to get your baby a little dusty. How many times a week do you take that through the car wash?" he said, grinning.

"Only when your momma's too busy with her other chores," Greely said.

The two men shook hands and exchanged firm, yet brief man hugs. Brooks accepted a strong handshake as Greely brought him up to speed on the previous night's debacle.

"Done deal, then, Michael. Keep your eyes and ears on the key players. We're in a critical, yet vulnerable phase right now. Anyone showing signs of wear and tear needs to disappear."

"Everyone's holding up so far. No indications of a problem, aside from Mr. Young. He'll be spending the next week in Atlanta near his family, so maybe things will cool down with him. Either way, we'll be watching," Brooks said.

"Shall we?" Greely said, waving his hand toward the door.

They entered the sparse complex and navigated through two empty rooms to a hallway that led deeper into the structure. The building's air temperature felt cool, with no detectable humidity, which matched the sterile appearance of the building's interior. The building still smelled like recent construction to Greely. He vividly remembered standing on the wild parcel of land currently occupied by the building, surveying the area. Just fourteen months ago, this place was a blueprint. He could barely believe that their vision for America stood a solid chance of becoming a reality. Years of rhetoric assembled in a single bold plan to propel True America into the spotlight as the nation's only hope of redemption. He marveled at the simplicity of the building. Good old-fashioned building materials made right here in America. Steel imported all the way from a Wheeling-Pittsburg plant in eastern Ohio. Soon enough, the steel belt would be revived. America would be revived. Pulled right out of its grave.

He felt electrified walking through the door to the conference room. Greely remained standing as the other members of True America's secret leadership cabal settled into their chairs. He scanned their faces, looking for hints of nervousness, and found none. The group exuded confidence and purpose. Perfect for those charged with reshaping America's destiny.

"You all know I'm not big on speeches…anymore," he said, incurring a few chuckles.

He turned to face one of the team members. Tommy Brown ran the tactical side of True America's militant arm. A former Green Beret, he had retired from military service after spending most of his twenty-year career bouncing back and forth between Africa and Central America as a military advisor. Lee Harding had recruited him nearly a decade earlier, after a heated discussion about the Iran-Contra debacle.

Brown had approached him immediately after one of his rousing speeches at the Crossroads of the West Gun Show. They talked for nearly two hours about the decline of America, which Brown claimed to have seen firsthand on active duty. He wouldn't divulge the details of his involvement in Nicaragua, but the intense Jamaican-born American made it clear to Harding that he was disgusted by the government's role in the fiasco. He cited Iran-Contra as the first in a series of government-sponsored disasters that had tarnished America's image abroad and weakened the nation's leverage. Harding liked what he heard and offered him a job in his fledgling political movement. Brown had proven to be one of their most loyal plank owners.

"Tommy, this is your first trip to the lab, right?"

"Yes, sir. Been a little busy at the compound," Brown said in his usual gruff voice.

"Welcome to ground zero," Greely said, shifting his gaze to a blond woman dressed in a casual gray suit.

"Anne Renee, always a pleasure. From this point forward, you'll be dividing your time between Mr. Mill's distribution center and the lab. I can't stress how important your job will be."

"I'm honored to be given this responsibility."

"You've earned it. I'll probably never understand the intricacies that went into unraveling the Al Qaeda network, but your group performed a miracle."

"Thank you, sir. I can assure you that the distribution operation will be given the same careful planning and security."

Anne Renee Paulson had been another gift from the heavens. A former army master sergeant, Paulson had served as an intelligence specialist, finishing her career at Forward Operating Base Falcon just outside of Baghdad, where she put her intelligence training to work scouring the new base for security threats. Greely nodded at her before continuing.

"The final shipments arrived last night. I've asked Jason Carnes to give you all a quick rundown of our projected timeline. Jason?"

A lanky, brown-haired man wearing a white lab coat over jeans and a brown shirt stood up to address the group. Carnes was their lead scientist, charged with the responsibility of overseeing production of the final product.

"The contents of all fifty canisters have been separated from their gel coatings. We are ready to mix the virus concentrate with avian blood, to promote the growth of more virus. We've tested this procedure with excellent results. Within two days, we will have enough biologically infected material to proceed with the bottling phase, though I will need at least the same amount of time to prepare the material and bottle it."

"Jason, will you explain how this works again? Why don't we just put it right into the water? I don't like the idea of preparing the material. You're planning to render it partially inert, right?"

"Correct. The biggest challenge we face is the amount of time the bottles may sit at an uncontrolled temperature. Until the moment the crates roll off our trucks, they will be kept at an optimal temperature that will ensure the virus's survival. Beyond that, we can't make any assumptions. The mixture I plan to put into the caps will contain live virus and partially inert virus. The partially inert portion will be enveloped in dried animal feces. Virology research has proven that humans have been infected with forms of equine encephalitis through breathing in the dust from dried feces. I've tested our combined delivery method extensively over the past month, and it never fails to ensure the delivery of a contaminant-level exposure. Once the bottle cap is twisted, the protective seal is breached. When the target takes a sip and replaces the cap, the virus will be mixed into the water. Trust me, Lee. This will work flawlessly."