OMEGA: A Black Flagged Thriller (The Black Flagged Series Book 5) Page 9

  The question caught Ardankin off guard. He wanted to say let sleeping dogs lie. The American mystery unit had been quiet since the raid on Vektor Institute. Clearly Pushnoy didn’t feel the same way, or was he under pressure from above to make this work? The train of thought led to an idea. Probably a long shot, but it was the only hope of pulling this off.

  “Colonel, if I’m off base tactically, please don’t hesitate to say so,” he said, continuing after Levkin nodded. “We stack the numbers in our favor by drawing them out of their lair?”

  “It still leaves us with the same problem, just spreads it out,” said Levkin.

  Pushnoy leaned back in his chair with an approving look. “You mean to suggest we go after Sanderson himself when he’s least protected.”

  “Cut off the head of the snake,” whispered Levkin.

  “And burn the framework of his operation to the ground, ensuring it can’t be used against the Russian Federation any time in the near future,” said Ardankin.

  “How will we lure his people away?” asked Levkin. “I assume a string of firecrackers down the road won’t do the trick.”

  “It might have to,” said Ardankin, turning to the director. “Unless the email containing all of this wonderfully convenient information included a return address.”

  Pushnoy neither blinked nor changed his facial expression, which meant he had the man’s undivided attention and that his earlier assumption about the anonymity of the information was correct.

  “With all due respect, Director, if they want us to do their dirty work, the least they can do is set the stage. Sanderson will need a convincing reason to deploy the bulk of his people. I hear that a certain high-profile bioweapons scientist is on the loose again.”

  The director stared at him with piercing ice-blue eyes, the faintest hint of a grin on his face as he stood up. “This goes without saying, but the two of you will not be seen with each other outside of this office. Figure out a way to coordinate efforts.”

  “Understood, Director,” said Ardankin. “I’m sure we can work something out.”

  Colonel Levkin stood at attention, echoing his statement.

  “Colonel, you are dismissed. Report directly to Ardankin from this point forward. My secretary will provide you with a secure briefcase for that folder. I can’t stress enough the confidentiality of its contents.”

  “With my life, Director,” said Levkin. “Thank you for this opportunity.”

  “Don’t thank me yet,” said Pushnoy, motioning for him to leave.

  When his secretary closed the door, the director addressed Ardankin less formally, a surprise to him.

  “We move cautiously on this. One misstep and we have a disaster on our hands.”

  “I agree, sir,” said Ardankin. “I have just the man for the job.”

  “Osin?”

  “He has the most experience with Sanderson’s people.”

  “Not many live to share that experience,” said Pushnoy.

  “That’s why he’s so valuable. I have no doubt he will be eager to nail Sanderson’s coffin shut.”

  Chapter 14

  Neuquén Province

  Argentina

  General Terrence Sanderson stood on the deck of the timber lodge he had once called headquarters, and drew deeply on a Cuban cigar. He’d missed this place. The Black Flag program rose to full strength from the ashes here, forging men and women of the highest caliber for the dirtiest unacknowledged missions the United States had to offer. Now the valley compound served as temporary lodging for long-range reconnaissance and scout-sniper training. They didn’t spend much time in the valley that sheltered the complex before heading out into the massive expanse of land leading right into foothills of the Andes Mountains. The less time spent here, the better.

  He’d rubbed too many people the wrong way during the painful process of rebooting the program to trust the sanctity of deals signed and sealed under the old guard. Immunity didn’t protect you from a payload of ground-vaporizing two-thousand-pound smart bombs released from a B-2 stealth bomber. The coordinates to this location were likely in the wrong hands already, which was why part of any training exercise based out of the former headquarters started with a three-day infiltration and surveillance operation to ensure the location was safe.

  Electronic sweeps confirmed that no electronic signals emanated from the buildings or surrounding valley, which would have indicated the surreptitious installation of remote surveillance equipment. Most of the Black Flag operatives were familiar with the use of portable radio frequency detectors and handheld spectrum analyzers. Since background electromagnetic noise was nearly nonexistent in the isolated valley, detecting a hidden signal, no matter how cleverly disguised or transmitted, should be a fairly simple prospect. To be on the safe side, he always brought a member of the program’s dedicated electronic warfare along to oversee the analysis.

  An array of portable sensors stood guard over the compound during their brief stay, watching the sky and the forest for emissions indicating a potential threat. Of course, a smart bomb didn’t advertise its arrival. You were there one minute, gone the next, which was why he was meticulous about countersurveillance during their short stays.

  After checking his watch, he pulled a sturdy-looking satellite phone from one of his jacket pockets. He was about to break one of his own rules and accept an incoming satellite call, only because the originator had been insistent and they were less than thirty minutes from leaving the site. He counted the seconds, reaching “two” before it buzzed.

  “It’s been a while, stranger,” Sanderson answered.

  “Well, it’s been a while since I’ve had anything for you,” said Karl Berg.

  “Been a while since anyone has given us anything,” said Sanderson. “Frankly, it makes me nervous.”

  “You and me both,” said Berg. “I was counting the hours to retirement, until I got a call from a friend in Moscow. I might have a mission for you.”

  The line went quiet for a few moments.

  “I’m not in the mood for theatrics, Karl. What do you have?”

  “I forgot what a pleasure it is to talk to you,” said Berg. “We got a possible hit on Reznikov. A Special Forces raid against a hidden laboratory on the west coast of India missed him by minutes, and my friend strongly suspects that one of the ex-GRU mercenaries assigned to guard Reznikov arranged for the convenient last minute absence from the site.”

  “Russian Special Forces?”

  “Possibly a joint U.S.-Russian operation,” Berg replied. “But that’s purely speculative based on my friend’s assessment.”

  “Any way you can confirm it?” asked Sanderson.

  “The CIA wasn’t directly involved. I’d know if that was the case. Audra Bauer would definitely know.”

  “Maybe she’s trying to protect you—from yourself,” said Sanderson. “Sniffing around for Reznikov is likely to draw the wrong kind of attention.”

  “I’m willing to make some noise to catch Reznikov.”

  Sanderson understood where he was coming from, which was why he admired Berg. Tolerated might be a better term. The general’s disdain for intelligence professionals was nearly pathological. Berg had been the first intelligence officer to gain his trust in decades. Sanderson sensed a firm commitment to their shared nation, linked by a willingness to take extraordinary and, if necessary, unsavory steps to safeguarding it. Berg understood what it took to protect America under the new rules shaped by global terror organizations and the states that sponsored them. And apparently he hadn’t lost his enthusiasm for upending those rules.

  “What are we looking at?” Sanderson asked.

  “It’s kind of a long shot, but if this mercenary turns up, he could lead us directly to Reznikov. That’s where you come in. This will be a short-fused mission.”

  “I can pre-stage a team for immediate takeoff from Buenos Aires or possibly one of the regional airports. That would be our best bet. We have a few discreet jet service
s on retainer that can transport a lightly armed team. My guess is we could be in the air within an hour of notification. Give me twelve hours to get everything in place.”

  “Perfect. With that kind of response time, it might even be possible to nail them in the same place. My best guess is that they have been attached at the hip since Vermont. Video surveillance of that mess identified the mercenary. Same with Uruguay. If that’s the case—”

  “They’ll be looking to blow off some steam,” Sanderson cut in.

  “That’s what I’m thinking. They’ll want to discreetly spend some money. A double-cross deal like this cost someone a pretty penny.”

  “That was my next question,” said Sanderson. “Any idea who funded and presumably orchestrated Reznikov’s escape? Sounds like they had help on the ground. I’m trying to picture a single mercenary dragging that sorry sack of shit around the jungle, and it’s not happening.”

  “That’s the big mystery,” said Berg. “My guess is someone connected to the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service. From what my source in Moscow can tell, the raid against the laboratory was real. Someone on the inside tipped them off at the last minute.”

  “It almost sounds like the raid provided a necessary distraction,” Sanderson suggested.

  “I was thinking the same thing.”

  “One hell of a risky gamble. Nearly impossible to control all of the variables.”

  “Right. But given the isolation of the facility, this may have been the only viable option to snatch Reznikov without making it blatantly obvious,” said Berg.

  “The Bratva will figure this out eventually. They have people on the inside too.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. If they have someone deep enough in the Federal Security Service to relay access to all of the evidence gathered and reported by the strike team, I think they’ll assume the Russian government sent a covert team to grab Reznikov, to permanently disappear the guy.”

  “Or put him back to work,” Sanderson said.

  “Don’t say that,” said Berg. “Please.”

  “You have to consider the possibility that this was an inside job disguised to look like an outside job. If that’s the case, he’s probably deep underground inside Siberia.”

  “All we can hope to do right now is work with the scant intelligence we’ve been given,” said Berg.

  “I’ll stack the deck with the largest team I can fit on a jet in case we’re looking at a complicated mission.”

  “I guarantee it will be complicated.”

  “You know what I mean,” said Sanderson. “It’s easier to scale back than scale up.”

  “I got you,” said Berg. “I’ll keep you updated from my end. Let me know when everything is in place.”

  “Copy that,” said the general. “Good to hear from you, Karl. I was worried you might have retired without inviting me to your farewell party.”

  “Funny. I won’t get so much as a pat on the back when I leave.”

  “Word of advice?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “Whenever you decide to leave, do it quietly. And watch your back.”

  “I plan to have you watching my back.”

  “Only if you’ve signed on the dotted line,” Sanderson said. “You’d like it down here.”

  “Not sure how much use I could be,” said Berg.

  “You’d be surprised. Times change. Administrations change. A person’s value can fluctuate, but their potential remains the same. Given the right circumstances, you’ll be worth your weight in gold again.”

  “Thanks for the pep talk.”

  “Just trying to say that you’re always welcome around here,” said Sanderson.

  “Let’s hope I’m not forced to take you up on the offer. Let me know when everything is in place,” said Berg, disconnecting the call.

  Sanderson lowered the phone and took a few puffs on his Montecristo No. 2. He wasn’t thrilled by the lack of details passed by Berg. The CIA officer had been generous with information in the past, which led him to believe that the mission was a long shot at best, even if they miraculously caught a sniff of Reznikov. Even more troubling was Berg’s subtle air of desperation.

  He understood Berg’s position well. The Black Flag organization had lain dormant under the new administration, and Sanderson was eager to get back in the game. A fine line existed between eagerness and desperation. An often-imperceptible line, mostly marked by patience—a quality rigorously honed by Sanderson during his years in exile. He sensed that Berg might have drifted over the line to a dangerous place, where judgment lapsed and good men and women were senselessly killed. He’d have to carefully evaluate the intelligence provided to support whatever mission eventually materialized. They’d come too far to throw caution to the wind.

  The Black Flag program had enjoyed a productive two years after their controversial but silently celebrated destruction of the Russian bioweapons program at Vektor Institute. A few months before the raid, they had also played a critical role in unraveling and stopping the bioweapons plot perpetrated by True America-aligned extremists. The mainstream True America political movement successfully disavowed any connection to the fanatics, but Sanderson had no doubt his organization’s involvement in the fiasco was the primary reason why his program had remained dormant for the past several months. It also validated his decision to relocate the headquarters and scatter his teams. Sanderson and his operatives represented an untidy loose end for the True American administration.

  A small group of operatives approached the darkened porch from the direction of a waiting convoy of SUVs. He could identify them by their general bearing and movements. Richard Farrington carried himself fully upright and moved assertively. The soldier was afraid of nothing, but not out of a misplaced sense of bravado. He was confident in his own competency and the proficiency of his colleagues, which extended to the surveillance teams that had ensured the valley’s security and continued to watch as they packed up to depart.

  Trailing several feet behind, Jared Hoffman’s shadowy form lurked over Farrington’s shoulder. To the casual observer, the two would appear to exude the same air of sureness, but Sanderson could recognize the stark difference between them, night or day. Trained primarily as a sniper, Hoffman couldn’t help distrusting the security of his surroundings. When you spent hours observing unaware targets through a scope at great distances, you never quite shook that subtle, paranoid feeling that you could be in the same crosshairs anywhere and at any time.

  He walked upright like Farrington, but his movements were stiff, less fluid, almost like he was tensed for action. Out of habit, he frequently scanned his surroundings for telltale signs that he was being glassed. Usually mistakes: a flash of sunlight reflected off an unprotected scope lens, an out-of-place open window, movement in the distance. Anything that might give away a sniper or provide him with the fraction of a second he needed to throw himself to the ground. He’d already glanced around twice since meeting Farrington behind the rear vehicle, despite the sheer blackness of the night. Some habits died hard. Others made it harder to die. Hoffman’s habit definitely fell into the latter category.

  “Gentlemen,” said Sanderson, “we ready to roll?”

  “Affirmative,” said Farrington, stopping a few feet in front of the porch steps. “Need us to lock up behind you?”

  “I took care of it,” said Sanderson. “How did Castillo fare in the hills?”

  Hoffman stepped into the open next to Farrington. “She’s ready to take on the new role. A-team level. I can still shoot better, but she’s sneaky as shit.”

  Sanderson joined them on the soft ground. “What do you think?”

  “She’s more than paid her dues. If she can work a sniper rifle half as good as Jared claims—”

  “It’s a verified claim. Petrovich built the foundation; Melendez put up the framework and put all the finishing touches in place. She can shoot,” said Hoffman.

  “Then that settles it,” said Farrington.
“She’s on the primary assault team unless the mission requires a homogenous Caucasian unit for infiltration purposes.”

  “If that’s the case, I’d be happy to fill in,” said Hoffman. “I could use a few days in Finland or Norway. Frankly, I’d be happy to go anywhere outside of the usual shitholes we’ve seen.”

  “I’d be glad to see one of those shitholes again,” said Farrington. “Anything good come from your call?”

  “I’m not sure. Sounds like a long shot, whatever it turns out to be,” said Sanderson. “And I doubt we’ll be sent anywhere to your liking, Jared.”

  “At this point, I think the team would take anything,” said Jared. “Myself included. I’d even consider stepping foot in Russia again.”

  “You and I are permanently off the Russia list,” said Farrington.

  “Moscow’s most wanted.” Hoffman chuckled.

  Sanderson placed a hand on Farrington’s shoulder. “If this pans out and the target in question emerges in Russia, we might not have a choice.”

  “Jesus,” Hoffman breathed. “Reznikov?”

  “Yes. Our ever-elusive friend has once again flown his coop. We’re still not sure who sprang him this time, but the Russkies haven’t been crossed off the list of suspects.”

  “If the Russians grabbed him, he’s probably a slurry of lye at this point,” said Farrington.

  “I’d like to think so,” Sanderson said, “but he’d be an invaluable asset to a bioweapons program, and the Russians don’t have the best track record of complying with the international Biological Weapons Convention.

  “Fucking Russians,” muttered Hoffman.

  “The CIA has no idea who nabbed him. They just know that he vanished under suspicious circumstances, minutes before a joint U.S.-Russian Special Forces raid against a covert laboratory.”

  “Yep. My money is on the Russians,” said Hoffman.

  “I wish I could say I’d take that bet,” stated Sanderson. “Let’s move out. I want to hit the ground running when we get back to the compound. We have twelve hours to position a rapid-response team in Buenos Aires.”