Flags of The Forgoten Read online

  Flags Of The Forgotten

  Heath Stallcup

  Contents

  Author’s Note

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Thank you

  Also By Heath Stallcup

  About the Author

  Also By Devil Dog Press

  You May Enjoy

  Flags of the Forgotten

  ©2018 Heath Stallcup

  * * *

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living, dead, or otherwise, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  * * *

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of the author.

  * * *

  Printed in the U.S.A.

  * * *

  ISBN—

  Created with Vellum

  For all of my gun buddies who cheered me on and especially those that allowed me to use their persona in the story.

  I hope it measures up.

  Author’s Note

  It seems that every time I turn around another new idea pops into my head. A new story possibility. Some are just seeds…or a scene that could possibly be used in any myriad of stories. Some scenes are too cool not to use somewhere. Others are too corny to use, but they amuse me nonetheless.

  The idea for this one has been floating around in my noodle for quite some time and since I’ve wanted to jump genres for a while, I did what I always do. I went to my peers and asked for advice. Once Mark and Tracy told me to go for it, I knew I had to at least test the waters.

  I bounced the idea off my beloved and she loved it. I bounced the idea off a couple of others in the industry and they love it. My worry is…can I do the genre justice? I suppose we’ll find out.

  Here’s hoping you enjoy my first real attempt at a pseudo-political thriller.

  Prologue

  Istanbul, Turkey

  1996

  * * *

  THE WOODEN FRAME of the doorjamb exploded into fragments just above Bobby Bridger’s head. He tucked and rolled from the opening and settled in behind the wall of the second story safe house. He tried to clear his head and listen for the footsteps that he knew were coming.

  The shooters were using suppressed weapons, but the spit-hiss of the shots being fired told him they were inside and not shooting through a window. He pulled his own suppressor from the thigh pocket of his pants and screwed it into the barrel of his 10MM pistol. He patted his vest pocket and assured himself that the extra magazines were available.

  Bobby screwed up his courage and did a roll across the open doorway. He came up on his feet and pointed the barrel down the empty hallway. Slowly he came up to a standing position and eased his head out, looking for the source of the shot. With his free hand, he pulled the ear piece up from his collar and pushed it into his ear. He clicked the transmit button and whispered softly, “They’ve made the safe house.”

  “Get your ass clear, Vulture!” The volume of the speaker was high enough that Bobby winced.

  “Copy that. Only one problem.” He glanced out the hallway and shots came from the opposite side, splintering the heavy wooden door opposite him. “They’ve got me pinned down. I can’t make the shooters.”

  “Standby Vulture. Cleaners are en route to your location.”

  “Tell them not to stop for red lights.” He clicked off the transmitter and squatted back down. More shots splintered wood, sprayed plaster, and he could just make out the sounds of booted feet coming down the stairs from the roof access above him.

  He clenched his jaw and reached into the duffle at his feet. He really didn’t want to do what he was about to. His hand wrapped around the smooth cylinder of the CS fog grenade and he lifted it from the bag. He took the ring in his teeth and pulled the pin, still holding the release tight. He counted to himself, let the release spring loose, then flung the canister down the hallway in the direction of the shooters.

  He closed his eyes and counted while the hallway filled with gas. When he heard the first dry coughs, he lunged out into the hallway and landed hard on his ribs. The CS gas was concentrated at the end of the hallway but enough had worked its way toward the open door that his eyes immediately began to water. He found his target just as he hit the floor and fired three rounds: two to the chest, and one to the head.

  The shooter crumbled and fell back against the wall, his weapon clattering between his outstretched legs. Bobby waited just long enough to ensure that those stuck on the stairs didn’t rush into the fog before he scrambled to his feet and quickly made for the stairs at the other end of the hallway. He checked the stairwell and verified it was clear then slid down the handrail to the landing below.

  He checked the lower floor then made his way to the rear of the ancient safe house. He could feel his eyes watering and his cheeks burned, but he knew better than to rub them. He pulled the duffle up and slung it over his shoulder. For a brief moment he considered holing up and using the sodium bisulfite solution to decontaminate his face.

  The sounds of excited men scrambling through the house negated any thoughts of stopping. He knew that they had to be professionals if they took the time to make a roof entry and use suppressors. They also had to have some kind of inside information to have found the safe house to begin with.

  Bobby chanced a quick glance back then cut around the corner and into the alleyway. He keyed the transmitter again as he hurriedly made his way to the open street. “I’m out. Headed south.”

  “Cleaners will be there inside a minute, Vulture.”

  Bobby grunted to himself as he broke from the alley and into the semi-crowded street. “Minutes away when seconds count. Story of my life.”

  He slipped into the crowd and pulled a ball cap from the bag. He tugged it down low and felt the irritated skin of his forehead break into a sweat from the pain. A panel van screeched to a stop beside him and the side door flew open. His eyes were having trouble focusing, but he saw the shadowy forms of two men reach out for him and pull him into the waiting vehicle.

  Bobby knew better than to struggle but breathed a sigh of relief when he heard an American voice announce: “We have him. Cleaners engage.”

  Bobby collapsed onto the floor of the van while one of the men cursed. “Open your eyes, Bridger.”

  The spray that hit him had him squeezing his eyes shut, but he fought to keep them open. The decontamination spray brought an almost immediate relief to his skin and he tried not to inhale the alkaline solut
ion.

  “Get that jacket off!” The man tugged at his clothes and tossed them to the rear of the van. “Jesus…my hands are on fire.”

  “You should see the other guy.” Bridger used a towel to mop up the spray, doing his best to dab and not rub. When he opened his eyes he saw the change of clothes being dumped at his feet.

  “What the hell happened?”

  Bobby turned to stare at the man in the dark suit who glared at him. He shook his head. “I have no idea. One minute I’m settling in at the safe house, the next minute I hear glass breaking and I’m being shot at.”

  “They must have followed you.”

  Bobby gave him a Go to Hell glare. “No, they didn’t. I know how to spot a tail. I went in clean.”

  “We’ve been using that safe house for nearly three years. There’s no way they just stumbled on it.”

  Bobby threw his hands into the air. “How the hell do I know? I didn’t think to ask them before I returned fire.”

  “This op is burned.” The suit picked up a headphone and spoke into the lip mic. “Switch to alternate.”

  “Alternate? We don’t know that they were on to us. This could have been something entirely unrelated.”

  The suit gave him a deadpan stare. “We can’t risk it. I’m ordering the bug installed.”

  THE TECHNICIANS EXITED the side of the building and put their tools into the plain white work van. The two men paused long enough to smoke a cigarette and waited for their colleague. Downstairs in the air conditioned computer server room, a man in light blue coveralls slipped open an access hatch and jumpered two points on the motherboard. He pulled a small device from his jumpsuit and connected it to the wires.

  “I’m in,” he whispered as data began flowing across the screen of the device.

  “Copy that Bluebird. You have forty-five seconds,” the tinny voice in his ear responded.

  The man leaned out and checked the doorways once more then urged the small device to run faster. His eyes scanned the rapidly downloading data, unable to decipher it, but he could follow the progress bar across the top of the screen.

  “Come on, come on…” He checked the doorway once again then turned back to the device. It was almost finished and his hand hovered over the alligator clips holding the wires in place.

  The moment the progress bar read 100%, he heard the door open and he pulled the wires, shoving the device into his jumpsuit as he reached for the access door.

  “Oh my god! You startled me.” The secretary stood at the end of the servers and stared at him with wide eyes.

  “Just finishing up. The cooling fan on this one didn’t come on right away so I checked it. Just a loose connection.” Gregg Soares gave her a bashful smile then placed the access door back on the server housing. “Should be running good as new.”

  She smiled and gave him a curt nod. “I thought you all had left. I wouldn’t have bothered you if I—”

  “No bother.” He stood and picked up the small duffle full of tools. “All done now.”

  She stepped aside and allowed him to walk past. He tipped his cap to her and she blushed. She followed him toward the door and held it open for him.

  “If you have any more problems, please, don’t hesitate to call.”

  “I am certain the Deputy Prime Minister will have you back out at once if it acts up again.”

  Gregg joined the other two at the van and quickly put his tools away. “You were seen,” the voice in his ear stated.

  “Just a secretary. Nothing to worry about,” he muttered into his sleeve.

  “You should have removed the witness.”

  Gregg sat in the back of the van and stared at the stacks of equipment on the homemade shelves. He couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing at the moment. He tapped his coms and whispered, “Say again?”

  “You should have removed the witness.”

  He stared at the buildings zipping past as the van quickly worked its way through town. He shook his head at the stupidity of the person overseeing the mission.

  “Remove a secretary from the Prime Minister’s office? You don’t think that would have sent up alarms?” The voice started to respond but he cut it off. “She had no idea what she was seeing and as far as she’s concerned, I’m just another Turkish computer technician. Your software is uploaded. There’s no need for bloodshed.”

  “You had orders, Slip. No witnesses.”

  Gregg leaned back and ran a hand through his thick hair. He glanced at the other two men in the van and shrugged. “What the hell?”

  Deric Bundy tossed his headphones aside with disgust. “Something must have happened.”

  Steve Gibbons glanced into the rearview of the van. “Screw ‘em, Slippy. They got what they wanted. The PM’s computers are bugged. Nobody died.”

  Gregg slumped in his seat and clenched his jaw. “They’re so concerned that somebody in the Prime Minister’s office is working the blackmarket, they should just send somebody in to make a buy.”

  Steve slipped out of the workman’s coveralls and pulled his tactical vest back on. “I think that’s why they wanted the computers bugged. They can narrow down who it is and then try to set up the sting.”

  Deric raised his voice to be heard over the engine, “You know it won’t be us doing the buy. I’ll lay two to one odds they pack us out as soon as we get back.”

  Gregg gave him a dirty look. “Just because I wouldn’t drop a secretary?”

  “Negative, Sir Slippyfist.” Deric slowed the van and prepared to pull into the warehouse they were using as a base. “Because we already know too much about what the hell they’re doing here.”

  He stopped the van and watched as the overhead doors rolled shut. Before he could open the door to the van, a man in full tactical gear pulled it open and handed him an envelope. Deric raised a brow and gave him a lopsided grin. “Let me guess…marching papers?”

  “You have three hours to be out of Turkey.”

  Gregg moaned from the back of the van. “I’m getting sick of this crap.”

  Deric shrugged. “I told you not to unpack.”

  Steve pulled open the side door and stepped out. “Kiss this duty goodbye.”

  As he and Gregg walked away from the van and toward where their gear was stowed, Deric trotted up beside them. “You know, that offer from Jim and Jay is starting to sound pretty damned good right about now.”

  Gregg shot him a sideways glance. “Merc duty? No fuckin’ way.”

  Deric shrugged. “Hey man, the money is real and there should be a lot less bullets.”

  Steve paused and turned to him. “That offer still stands?”

  Deric nodded. “As long as we have heartbeats, the offer stands.”

  Gregg sighed. “Make the call.”

  1

  Present Day

  North Texas

  * * *

  BOBBY BRIDGER STARED at the television, his eyes bloodshot from too much alcohol and from staring at the screen in the dark. Angry young Middle Eastern men raised an American flag into the air while a young boy held a match to it. The flag went up in flames and the men all appeared to be cheering while hefting the burning flag above their heads, marching through the streets.

  Bobby lifted the remote and turned the volume up again as the talking head’s voice was being drowned out by background noise. “…another anti-American protest here in Libya as American forces prepare to move into areas where militant extremists have dug in and prepare to face the occupiers. The freedom fighters…” Bridger clicked off the television and tossed the remote to the side. He was adept at reading body language and he knew from years of experience that the commentator on the scene was having all kinds of difficulty choking out the “politically correct phrase of the day” that the American politicians had previously approved.

  He reached across his end table and lifted the bottle of cheap whiskey only to find it empty. With a grunt he tossed it into the small trash can beside his recliner. “This is fuck
ing nuts.”

  Bridger pushed up out of his chair and stretched, his body protesting from the lack of sleep. He looked to the laptop sitting on the desk in the corner of the room. With a deep sigh, he trudged over to the chair and plopped into it. He lifted the lid and waited for the little computer to wake up. When it did, he clicked on the desktop logo that took him online. He hit the favorites button and dropped down to the online chatroom he had been spending so much time in lately. It was already alive with armchair commandos giving their play by play of the events unfolding overseas.

  Bridger ran a hand over his stubbled face and clicked on one extremely busy chatroom. He scanned through a handful of the comments and yawned. These guys were something else. He was certain that ninety percent of them had never served, but nearly every one of them claimed to be ex-Green Beret, SEAL, or Marine Force Recon. With so many special forces online, who’s fighting the damned wars? Bridger chuckled to himself as he scanned the comments.

  A few caught his eye and he quickly highlighted and copied them to a Word document, along with their user names. He’d been asked by a friend who now worked domestic terrorism with one of the alphabet soup groups to take a look at some of the chatrooms for anything that they should be aware of.