Black Flagged Redux

Chapter 29





6:40 AM

Edgewood Chemical Biological Center

Edgewood, Maryland





Kristin Flaherty checked her watch again and took another sip of her lukewarm coffee. She had been asked by the lab’s assistant director to report with another researcher at two in the morning to prepare a biological test panel for an incoming biological specimen. The center's Sample Receipt Facility (SRF) was still a few years away from completion, so they would run the panel in the Biosafety Level Three facility. She knew not to ask questions about the source of the specimen, and given the timing, she knew it must be important.

Gary Pierce had arrived thirty minutes ahead of her, and by two-thirty, they were ready to run a full battery of tests on whatever arrived. Four o'clock passed unceremoniously, stretching to five o'clock, and after two pots of coffee, the clock hit six without any sign of a courier delivery. She started to become annoyed at six-thirty, when a walk to the front lobby to check with the security guard showed sunlight peeking over the trees beyond the empty parking lot. At six-forty, she snapped.

"I think it's time to call the contact associated with the specimen. They should have been here nearly three hours ago," she said.

Gary yawned and nodded.

"Concur. Either way, they need to know it didn't arrive."

She picked up the clipboard with the classified order sheet and searched for the contact number. She was to only identify herself as "Edgewood Laboratory," using a predetermined and secure outside line. The contact would mention "Mount McKinley" in his first phrase, or she was to hang up and call her director. She walked over to the encrypted phone and dialed the number.

"Mount McKinley Dry Cleaning. How may I help you?" the voice answered.

"Good morning, this is Edgewood Laboratory. We have a slight problem," she said.

"Have you identified the sample?"

"No, it hasn't arrived. That's the problem."

"Are you absolutely sure the sample hasn't been delivered?"

"Absolutely. We've been here since one-thirty. Nothing arrived before us."

"Understood. You'll need to standby for instructions from your director."

"Do you know when that might be?" she pressed.

"I'll be in touch with him shortly."

The call was abruptly cut short, and Kristin glared at the phone. How about a little common courtesy?

"We're stuck here, and I get the feeling that we're the least of this guy's priorities right now."

"Wonderful. I'll grab some breakfast at McDonald's if you don't mind holding down the fort."

"Sounds like a plan," she said, "and grab me a large Diet Coke."



**



Karl Berg placed his cell phone on the desk.

"Damn it," he muttered.

This didn't bode well at all. The agent assigned to the flight had strict instructions to call him if anything changed regarding the flight's itinerary. He had access to the aircraft's satellite phone and had been issued a GSM enabled cell phone. The eight-hour, direct flight pushed up against the Gulfstream 550's cruising range of 7,500 miles, but they had been assured that the aircraft could continue on to Chicago without refueling. Why the f*ck had they waited so long to call him? At least he was in the right place to make some calls.

He had just driven back to the office after a few hours of sleep in his apartment, to monitor the setup phase of the Monchegorsk operation and help Audra prepare a presentation for the National Clandestine Service director. Based on the intelligence passed to them by Sanderson's team, Audra's presentation could be one of the most important threat assessments delivered in CIA history.

Sanderson's team would cross the Finnish/Russian border at first light tomorrow and proceed on snowmobiles to the outskirts of Monchegorsk. The total distance spanned roughly one hundred and fifty miles of infrequently travelled snowmobile trails. They would avoid the common routes used by recreational snowmobilers out of Finland. Once there, they would watch from a distance and wait for dark to enter the city, which would be a long wait. One hundred miles north of the Arctic Circle, the sun wouldn't drop below Monchegorsk's horizon until ten in the evening.

Now, everything hinged on the performance of a rogue mercenary team led by two men at the top of the FBI's Most Wanted list. The irony wasn't lost on him. The sooner Audra brought everything to the National Clandestine Service's director, the better. This had already spiraled well past his own pay grade, and he suspected Audra had started to overreach her own authority. He called up a screen on his computer and picked up his office phone to dial the number provided for AeroStar Global, the charter company that had provided the aircraft. The call was answered within three seconds.

"Anton Moreau, senior vice president for Client Relations. How may I help you today?" a thickly French-accented voice answered.

"Good afternoon, Anton. I'm calling to check on flight Alpha Sierra 310, which carried one of my clients. I'm concerned that the aircraft may have been diverted, since my client is nearly three hours late."

"Ah, yes. I'm afraid we are still trying to ascertain the status of this flight. It is of quite a concern to us, as I am most sure it is to you. The flight departed Astana, Kazakhstan, on schedule at six in the evening. We lost satellite tracking of the flight over Russia, near Volgograd, less than two hours after takeoff. We're doing everything we can to determine the status of the flight."

"The flight vanished six hours ago?"

"That's when we lost our global satellite connection, which isn't altogether unusual. The flight missed both of its check-ins over Europe, which raised alarms, but the rest of the flight transited over the Atlantic, so we couldn't draw any conclusions. For us, a flight more than one hour late is considered missing. Alpha Sierra 310 was declared missing two hours ago. I apologize that you were not immediately contacted, but the contract instructions denied active contact. We were to wait for you to call us," the extremely polite executive said.

"I understand. What is your company doing to locate the jet?"

"Everything. The aircraft is equipped with the latest generation emergency beacon system, and we are working with national authorities along the route to search for the beacon. Unfortunately, if the aircraft was lost over the water, we are unlikely to ascertain its fate. I can't stress enough how sorry I am. Let us pray for the best."

"Thank you, Anton," he said and hung up the call.

He had his theories, none of which he would be able to conclusively prove at this point. He assumed that the Russians had identified the flight out of Astana and had scrambled fighters to intercept the jet. They had gambled on the quick transit over Russia, from Kazakhstan to the Ukraine. A four hundred mile, thirty minute stretch. They couldn't take the flight south of Russia, since they didn't have clearance to transit Iran's airspace. They could have routed it through Azerbaijan and Georgia to break open onto the Black Sea, but Berg had the feeling the result would have been the same. The Russians had no intention of letting that flight land anywhere. He'd like to think the act was simple revenge for the loss of two helicopters and a platoon of soldiers in Kazakhstan, but he knew it was something more sinister. For some reason, the Russians were hell bent on concealing Reznikov's secret. He wondered if Kaparov knew more than he had been willing to reveal yesterday.

His next call would be to Audra. She had planned to meet him in the Operations Center at nine to examine Edgewood's report, so she would probably be awake at this point. Even if she wasn't, this news couldn't wait. The deliberate targeting of flight Alpha Sierra 310 could very well mean it was time for her to make some difficult phone calls.