Black Flagged Redux (46 page)

"Let's just do everything in our power to guide them safely to Viggbyholm," Audra added.

The watch officer, a dark-haired, stiff-looking man dressed in a navy business suit, interrupted them. "Director Manning. The White House Situation Room."

"All right. I better take this. I'll have to brief our director after that," Manning said and stepped away.

"Nice job handling the team," Audra said to Berg.

"You should expect nothing less from your assistant deputy director."

"I'll have to keep a close eye on you. With a performance like this, I could easily be replaced," she said.

"I don't think you have anything to worry about. When they figure out the team belongs to Sanderson, I have a feeling I'll be looking for employment…if I don't get rendered in the middle of the night to some oil rig in the middle of nowhere."

"I'll be joining you," she said.

"No. I got your back on this one," Berg assured her.

"Maybe you could go to work for Sanderson," she joked.

"Trust me; I've given it some serious thought. Either way, we're not out of the woods with this op yet. A lot could go wrong in the next hour. I just hope they can get some actionable intelligence from Reznikov."

"Me too. This is just the tip of the iceberg."

Chapter 52

1:10 AM

White House Situation Room

Washington, D.C.

Frederick Shelby shifted uneasily in his high-backed leather chair. Operation Bold Scimitar's strike force was less than twenty minutes from touching down inside Sanderson's compound, and half of the room was still missing. He couldn't imagine what might be more pressing at 1:10 in the morning, but much to his surprise fifteen minutes ago, three of the key players in the room left suddenly after Miss Kestler took a phone call. The White House counter-terrorism director, along with the national security advisor and secretary of state, left without saying a word. At least the secretary of defense didn't leave. He had stayed glued to his laptop computer screen, probably shifting between the live camera feeds received from the assault force.

The two massive flat-screen monitors at the end of the room displayed a helmet camera feed from the SEAL force's commander, Lieutenant Commander Scott Daly; and a nose mounted feed from the lead helicopter, a Special Forces HH-60H Rescue Hawk from the Firehawks squadron. They had all watched the green images in silence as the darkened Chilean coast filled the screen and the strike force went "feet dry" over Chile at 12:37. Less than twenty minutes later, Operation Bold Scimitar lost half of its audience.

He stared at the empty seats around the far end of the conference table and directed his attention toward Lieutenant General Frank Gordon at the head of the table. The general's purposeful eyes were glued to his own laptop. He felt slightly disconnected without the same information feeds seen by the secretary of defense and the commander of U.S Joint Special Operations Command, but this was more a function of feeling left out than operational necessity. He was along for the ride as a courtesy and didn't want to overstep his boundaries.

The flat-screen monitor mounted on the side of the conference room showed the strike force's progress on a detailed topographic map and displayed a bunch of information on a side window that nobody had bothered to explain to him. A digital clock featuring three time zones counted away the seconds toward the strike force's proposed 3:30 AM local time arrival at the compound. He turned to his least favorite person in the room to ask a question.

"How does everything look, Gerry? On schedule?" he said.

Gerald Simmons, assistant secretary for Special Operations and Low Intensity Conflict Capabilities, regarded him with a thinly veiled annoyance, pretending to examine Shelby's laptop, which relayed no additional information beyond what the FBI director could already see for himself on the room's screens.

"Looks like they might arrive ahead of schedule. The flight commander made the decision to fly directly over a low mountain range instead of snaking through a few lower canyons, so they picked up a few minutes and saved some fuel. This might come in handy if they have to loiter around the Sand Box. You don't have this on your…uh…never mind," he said.

"Sand Box?" Shelby said, wishing he could rip the computer away from Simmons and bash it over his head.

"That's the informal name the SEALs gave to the LZ Alpha. Sanderson. Sand Box. They like to keep things interesting for us," Gerry said.

Shelby was pretty sure that most of the SEALs and marines on this mission would smash a beer bottle over this prick's head if they ever ran into him in a dark bar. He glanced down the table at Brigadier General Lawrence Nichols, who had caught Gerry's comment about the SEALs and looked like he was having the same malicious thoughts. Nichols made eye contact with Shelby and shook his head.

The door to the room opened suddenly, and two serious looking Secret Service agents walked in, appraising the dozen or so people occupying seats. After a few seconds, one of them spoke into a handcuff microphone, and the missing members of the room filed back in, followed by the president of the United States.

"The president of the United States," was announced by someone, and everyone stood.

"Please. Don't let me interrupt," he said in a southern accent and motioned for the national security advisor to sit closest to General Gordon.

The president rolled an empty chair from the wall and tucked himself just behind and between General Gordon and Brigadier General Nichols. He shook hands with both of them and exchanged a few pleasantries. Several seconds later, he locked eyes with Director Shelby and stood up, motioning for him to come over. Director Shelby stood up from his chair and made his way through the small crowd that had followed the president's entourage into the room.

"Mr. President. Always a pleasure. What brings you down for our little operation?" he said, gripping the president’s hand in a vigorous shake.

"Busy night, Frederick, and the pleasure is all mine. Fantastic work on this. Only God himself knows what Sanderson is capable of. Your diligence helped put a dark chapter behind us. I'll be relieved when he's off the grid," the president said.

"My sentiments exactly, Mr. President."

"I'm told we might be a few minutes ahead of schedule. I guess it's in the capable hands of our nation's finest," he said and patted General Gordon on the shoulder.

"This is the most sophisticated Special Forces strike package ever assembled, Mr. President. In seventeen minutes, Sanderson will be on his knees, zip tied in front of that monitor," General Gordon said.

"Grab a seat," said the president, motioning for one of the Secret Service agents.

Within seconds, he was sitting next to the president, with a bird's-eye view of the entire operation. This was much better, he thought, though he still couldn't shake the feeling that something big was going on without his knowledge. On his way to their conference room, he saw that every station on the Watch Floor was occupied, which struck him as unusual this late at night, even during a major operation. At least one of the smaller conference rooms had been in use, which was also unusual, and the primary conference room was clearly being reconfigured for a major operation. All an unusual amount of activity outside of daytime hours, which made him wonder what he didn't know. As the leader of the nation's domestic law enforcement and intelligence arm, he didn't like to be out of the loop.

Chapter 53

1:20 AM

CIA Headquarters

Langley, Virginia

"Ms. Bauer, you have a call from the White House Situation Room. Line eight," the operations watch officer announced.

Audra walked over to one of the semi-private computer stations near the wall that separated the Fish Bowl from the rest of the operations center and picked up the phone handset, pressing the button for line eight.

"Audra Bauer."

"Audra. It's Alex. Any word on Reznikov?"

"He's still alive. They're still about twenty minutes from arriving at the safe house. The team collected some scraps of paper that look like they were torn from a notebook belonging to Reznikov. The scraps contain cities and addresses in Europe. One right in Stockholm. Reznikov is still unconscious, so we can't get an explanation. We're compiling a list of these addresses right now for the White House."

"All right, I'll pass that information along. They're reconfiguring the main conference room here to handle the situation as it expands. Hey, thanks a lot for the warning about our VIPs. I looked like a crumpled bag of shit when the president walked in. I didn't even have a sport coat."

"The president monitored the operation?"

"Along with the national security advisor and secretary of state. I almost fell out of my chair."

"Kestler didn't give you a heads up?"

"She's been popping in and out of here all night like this is some kind of side show. She dashed in here with the big three a few minutes after we got Reznikov's address. They all vanished as soon as the team hit the road in the transfer van. There's some kind of big military operation going on. I saw a bunch of Special Operations brass earlier, including Lieutenant General Frank Gordon, JSOC commander. Oddly enough, Frederick Shelby was chumming around with them."

"The director of the FBI?"

"The one and only."

"He's there?"

"Unless he left. It was about ninety minutes ago."

"You didn't assign another liaison for a second operation?"

"No. I was not aware of another operation that required CIA support. Shit, I hope I didn't miss something. I've been preoccupied with the Stockholm op."

"I didn't see a bulletin, so I don't think you missed anything."

"Let me do a little poking around. I'll call you right back," Alex said.

"You know where to find me," she said.

Alex Holstein had served as the CIA's senior White House liaison for three years and spent a large portion of his time in the White House Situation Room. The fact that he was at a loss to explain the presence of General Frank Gordon and the director of the FBI at one in the morning in the White House Situation Room left Audra with a strange feeling that she was missing something. She checked on Berg's progress compiling Petrovich's list of addresses. They were a few minutes away from having a complete list. So far, the locations presented no particular pattern, aside from the fact that they were clustered in central Europe, the United Kingdom and Scandinavia. Eighteen addresses had been identified from Reznikov's writing.

Three minutes later, the watch officer announced another call from the White House.

"Audra Bauer," she answered.

"It's Alex. I confirmed that Kestler is preoccupied with another operation, but I couldn't get any more information from the Watch Floor. I don't have the same rapport with the night shift, and their new tiered seating arrangement doesn't allow for the same easy, over-the-shoulder access to their monitors. I did manage to see which time zone locations are being actively monitored. Washington, D.C., Stockholm and Zapala. The last one stumped me. I just checked, and it's in the Nuequen Province of western Argentina."

Audra Bauer felt her chest tighten and her pulse quicken. It all suddenly made sense to her.

"Thanks, Alex. I'll get right back to you with that list," she said and hung up before he could respond.

She pulled a small paper day planner out of her suit jacket and opened it to the first page, which contained two hastily written satellite telephone numbers. She picked up the phone again and selected an encrypted line. She entered her telecommunications security code, which would allow her to place a call out of the center. The call would be flagged for the watch officer and recorded. Once the line went live, she dialed the number and waited. She let it ring for a minute and tried the second number with the same result. No answer.

"Are you talking to the team leader?" she yelled to Berg, careful not to use Petrovich's name, though she suspected it wouldn't matter soon.

"Yeah," Berg said.

"I need to talk to him immediately," she said, and her tone attracted the attention of Thomas Manning.

"Something wrong?" he said, walking over to meet her near Berg.

"Possibly. Thomas, I'm going to need some privacy."

He looked at her quizzically.

"For your own protection," she added.

"I think we're well past the point of plausible deniability. I just authorized and witnessed a covert operation that left twelve dead bodies on a city street in Stockholm. I think I'm fully vested in whatever mess the two of you have created, though I get the distinct impression that this would have gone down with or without my approval."

"Fair enough," she said and took the phone from Berg.

"This is Audra Bauer. National Clandestine Service deputy director. Have you talked to your boss recently?"

"I briefly spoke with him less than five minutes ago. We've been a little preoccupied if you haven't noticed."

"I just tried both of his satellite numbers, and he didn't respond."

"Then have Berg call. He may not pick up unknown numbers. Especially government lines."

"I have reason to believe he might have company at the compound very soon. It's possible that he's already entertaining them," she said.

"He sounded fine to me. What has you so spooked, if you'll pardon the expression?" Daniel said.

"I just learned that the president of the United States and pretty much his entire National Security Council just went into a sealed situation room with the director of the FBI and JSOC's commanding general. One of the time zone clocks somewhere in the White House Situation Room is set to a small town named Zapala. Ever been there?" she said.

"I need to make a call," he responded.