Flags of The Forgoten Page 2

  Bobby really didn’t want to get involved. Hell, he made it a point to not be online or even have a cell phone that was traceable. He didn’t trust the government anymore, and the idea of working for them simply didn’t set well with him. But when Roger Wallace tracked him down and asked him to do this, he couldn’t say no. Roger had been a friend since they both wore uniforms and did things they shouldn’t. Roger was one of the few people that Bobby trusted, no questions asked.

  “Don’t you guys have, like, a supercomputer complex that does that crap for you?” Bobby watched Roger, looking for any telltale signs that he was lying.

  Roger nodded as he sipped his coffee. “That’s the NSA, of course. But buddy, it’s not the same as actually being in there and seeing how these guys interact.” Roger didn’t give off any indication that he was less than truthful. “The computers are set up to track key words and most of these nuts know what those words are, so they avoid them. Rather than say ‘president,’ ‘POTUS’ or even ‘eagle,’ they’ll use a code word. Heck, it might be Humpty Dumpty. You just never know from day to day what they’ll use. It’s nearly impossible, and with all of the online forums and chatrooms?” He shook his head and stared at him. “Honestly Bobby, it’s the chatrooms that are problematic. We can’t really get in to them to track the coms. The forums? Yeah, no problem. We don’t even need to sign up to see what they write, but the chatrooms clear themselves at short intervals.”

  Bobby rubbed at the back of his neck as he considered what the man was asking. “Ya know, I don’t even own a computer…”

  “Lucky for you I brought a spare.” Roger was smiling now.

  “I don’t even have a phone line at my house, Roger. Have you not seen it? It’s literally a hole in the ground.”

  “I brought a satellite uplink with a paid internet account. All you have to do is place the dish in your yard, point it at the southern sky until you get signal and voilà! You’re online.”

  “Jeezus. You sound like you weren’t leaving until I said yes.” Bobby narrowed his gaze at his onetime friend.

  Roger finished his coffee and set the cup down gingerly. “Bobby, there’s not many people I’d trust to do this. We had a coworker give it a shot and they sniffed him out. He was outed and his family was threatened.”

  “And since I have no family to speak of…”

  Roger shook his head. “That’s not the only reason. Another guy got sucked into all that conspiracy crap. He actually believed that the government had built concentration camps all over the place and was just waiting for the proper ‘trigger’ before they outlawed everybody’s guns and started rounding up patriots.” Roger sighed and leaned back in his chair. “I trust you because you’re not stupid, Bobby. You know how to play into these guys without losing yourself.”

  “Sucking up will get you nowhere.” Bobby smiled at the man and held his coffee cup in the air for a refill.

  “Did I mention that we’ll pay you for your trouble?”

  “Won’t be the first time I put my time in on Uncle Sam’s dime.” Bobby stared at the man and shook his head. “How is it you can talk me into doing things I swore I’d never do again?”

  Roger chuckled. “You mean like that time you finished the tequila bottle and swore you were gonna…”

  “Stop. No blackmail or I walk. I mean it.” Bobby held the cup out while the waitress refilled it. Roger held a hand over his cup and shook his head when she tried to refill his. “I swear to god, the people you work for better not know about that.”

  Roger shook his head and reached for his wallet. He stood and dropped a ten on the table. “Take the night and think about it. I’m leaving Texas tomorrow at noon.” He clapped Bobby on the shoulder as he started to leave. “Just consider it a personal favor for me.”

  Bobby nodded and watched as Roger walked out of the diner. He sipped his coffee and considered the pros and cons of the request. His mind tended to go off the deep end as he weighed the cons, but he was smart enough to know where the fantasy ended and reality truly sat. He set his coffee cup down and stood up. He glanced around the diner once more then hitched up his pants. “I guess it won’t kill me.”

  Now, as he sat in front of the computer screen and read the rantings of the men in the chatroom, Bobby glanced at the three dead bottles in the trash and shook his head. “This shit is going to be the death of me.”

  He copied the Word document and sent it off in an email to Roger. He clicked on the IM button and highlighted Roger’s name. “Roger, these guys are so misguided that any voice of reason is considered godlike. I’ve only been doing this for a couple of months and now once the monkey-poo fight starts, the first thing they do is call for me and ask my opinion.”

  “Voice of reason? More like voice of experience, and these guys can tell that you aren’t full of shit,” Roger replied.

  Bobby grunted as he read the message. “How much longer do I need to do this? Don’t you have enough on these asshats?”

  A moment later his computer dinged and Roger’s reply shown in the dialog box. “Shouldn’t be much longer. Right now all we have is a lot of talk. DTM thinks some of these guys are just stupid enough to try something. Hopefully soon.”

  Bobby groaned as he clicked the box off and stared at the chatroom chatter again. Talk about “putting bounties on the ragheads and letting rednecks loose on them” always seemed to crop up as the fervor died down. Someone always suggested lubing the soldiers’ weapons with bacon grease or lard. It never failed. Bobby knew better than to save any comments like those.

  “I wish we could taint the flags they burn with a chemical that would kill everybody near it.”

  Bobby’s interest was piqued. That was a new one. He glanced at the user name but it didn’t ring any bells. Who was GabrielsButler_72? He hovered the mouse over the name and comment for just a moment as he weighed whether or not he should copy it to his Word document. Just as he was about to click it, both the name and the comment disappeared from the chatroom. Bobby stared at the screen in disbelief. “Where the hell did you go?” He scanned the entire page and didn’t see anything similar to the user name again. He checked the check in/check out log and there was no user by that handle to be seen.

  Bobby leaned back and debated what to do. He stared at the screen a moment and tried to clear his mind enough to think. He found his hands reaching forward, his fingers stroking the keys. “I like that idea, GabrielsButler_72. Too bad there isn’t something like that out there, huh?” Enter.

  Bobby watched as other members of the chatroom commented on his message. “wotchumean BoBriger?” “what sounds good BoBriger?” “wat u lookin 4 BoBriger?”

  Bobby groaned as the messages began piling up. He clicked the board again and typed, “Didn’t you see the msg from GabrielsButler_72?”

  A round of negatives filled the screen and Bobby swore. “Fucking great. Everybody go take a piss at the same time or what?” He pushed away from the computer and stormed into his kitchen. He opened the fridge and his hand instinctively wrapped around the cold neck of a beer. He hesitated for just a moment then put it back. He reached behind and grabbed a bottle of water instead. “I need my head on straight.”

  Bobby marched back in and sat at the computer. The conversations had moved on to other hate filled topics and Bridger wanted no part in it. The only members participating now were bit players. The heavy hitters had already logged out or went inactive. Bobby closed the lid and unscrewed the cap on the bottle of water. He stared at the closed laptop and sipped the water. “Who the fuck are you, GabrielsButler?”

  Karachi, Pakistan

  * * *

  MAMOON-UR-RASHEED yelled into his cell phone, “I do not care! I need those paints now. I have an order going out tomorrow and my man cannot fill it without the paints.” He glared out the small window of his office and the busy street beyond. He pounded his fist on the desk as he yelled again. “I do not care about your delivery driver. I will send my boy to get them. I need them
now!”

  He smiled to himself as the voice on the phone relented. “And I expect a discount if I am to come and get them.” He listened again then nodded. “Good. Tariq will be there within the hour.” He flipped the cell phone closed then stuck his head out his office door. The litter and dirt throughout the shop would give the odd passerby the perception that the shop was abandoned if it weren’t for the small generator running in the back.

  “Tariq!” the shopkeeper yelled. He watched the young man scamper down a flight of broken stairs and slide to a stop.

  “Yes, sir?”

  The young man was breathing hard and his eyes were wide as he waited for Mamoon-ur-Rasheed to count out money. He held it out to him carefully. “Go to Kashif’s and bring back paint. We have an order for fifteen Israeli flags and we are out of blue.” He shoved the boy toward the back door. “Go. And hurry. They must be done before noon tomorrow.”

  He watched the boy run out of the shop then he turned and yelled up the stairs again. “Sameer, Bilal! We have more flags to paint for tomorrow.”

  Sameer leaned over the railing of the third floor and glared at the man below. His cigarette hung precariously from his lower lip as he yelled back, “Which flags do we make?”

  “Israeli! Fifteen flags by noon.”

  Sameer threw his hands into the air and let loose a string of epithets. “We have no blue paint! How can I make Israeli flag without blue paint?”

  “Tariq is gone to Kashif’s to bring you paint.” He pointed a finger at the designer and shook it. “And watch your tongue. If you are heard by the wrong people, it could be lashes for you!”

  Bilal threw a dirty rag down from the fourth floor. “These Indian flags drive me insane! Orange everywhere!” He stomped as he came down the stairs and walked into the makeshift kitchen. He poured hot water into a press and prepared to make a coffee. “I need a break before I burn the cursed things myself.” He set the press to the side and approached Mamoon. “We are running dangerously low on fabrics. We need to buy bulk, I tell you.”

  Mamoon glared at the man. “When you are running things here, then you can make those decisions.” He pointed back to his office. “I have three other businesses to run. I cannot always be thinking ‘flags.’”

  Balil waved his hands mockingly. “And when we get a large order and you want to use that fancy screen print of yours, all you will need is the fabric. Oh, but wait…you won’t have it because you wait and buy scraps because you think it will save you money.” He nodded and turned back toward the kitchen. “I forget that you know what you are doing.”

  “You can be replaced, Balil.” Mamoon glared at the man as he walked away.

  “And you should listen to others, Mamoon. If you buy the fabric now when you don’t need it, you can negotiate a lower price. If you have to wait until you do need it, they know you are at their mercy and you must pay more than what it is worth. They always smile to see you coming.” He placed a hand on the man’s cheek and patted it. “Just once, listen to another who is thinking of you first. Browse the different fabric shops until you find the best price.”

  Mamoon groaned and rolled his eyes at the man. “Fine! I will go out after I have eaten. But you will see. None will offer a discount for buying bulk. They all know what this is for. This thin fabric is only good for one thing and that is burning.”

  “Then tell them you are shopping for the best price. Let them compete.” Balil poured his coffee into the stained cup and sipped it. “One of them will undercut the others just to sell a whole roll. Trust me.”

  Langley, VA

  * * *

  “AS YOU ARE well aware, the target is Syrian born terrorist leader, Muhammad al-Abadi. We have intel that he is holed up in Pakistan and is about to stir up anti-Western protests again. Historically, within weeks of his protests, Western states see a marked increase in terrorist activities. We still aren’t positive if al-Abadi is directly tied to the terrorists or if they just get stirred up by his actions. Either way, Operation Ashtray has had the groundwork laid. Operatives have identified three possible groups of domestic terrorist organizations that could possibly be utilized as antagonists.” Agent Darren Chesterfield handed out copies of an inter-agency memo to those assembled. “This is an eyes only, Top-Secret operation and nothing is to leave this room. There is a shredder at the door that has been made available prior to your leaving.”

  The men flipped through the memos and each made their particular notes. “Where, exactly, will this operation be taking place?”

  “Karachi is where the insertion will be made. Once the media has been applied, our team will exit and simply wait.” Chesterfield stood at the front of the room and eyed each of those assembled.

  Another suit raised his eyes to meet Darren’s. “How does this not throw suspicion directly back upon us or one of our allies?”

  Chesterfield smiled. “So what if it does?” He paced the front of the room slowly and watched as each man gradually looked up and stared at him. “The point of this operation is to target al-Abadi and show the extremists that we can slip in and out without detection. That we can ‘slit their throats while they sleep’ without even being in the same room. That we don’t need to rely on drones or ‘boots on the ground’. That we can play just as dirty as they do. Of course, we will have plausible deniability…we’ve never cared if they did this sort of thing before, right? I mean, hell…our own people do this right here on American soil and, while we may not care for it, we celebrate their right to freedom of expression. Or am I mistaken?” His sardonic smile was not wasted on the assembled crowd. “So even if they do blame us, and believe me, they will, our own people, including the press, will decry the act as a way to draw attention to their weakening status in their own homeland.”

  William Jameson, Director of the Central Intelligence Agency pushed his chair back and crossed his legs. “It sounds to me like you have all your t’s dotted and i’s crossed.”

  Darren tried to hide his smirk as he addressed the director. “Sir, I won’t try to blow smoke up your ass. There are still a few details to iron out, but as it stands, we have everything in place and ready to go. All we really need is a green light from this assemblage to proceed.” He motioned toward the collection of memos he had handed out previously. “If you’ll refer to the list of domestic terrorist groups in Appendix B? We can choose any of those groups at will.”

  “And which of these groups have personnel available with the resources to travel to Pakistan?” Robert Ingram, Assistant Director of the NSA couldn’t help but try to put Chesterfield on the spot. If the man was to come in and state that he was prepared, he’d better damn well be prepared. If he couldn’t handle minor questions from a group like this, he’d never stand up to public scrutiny if things ever went south.

  “Two of the aforementioned groups have personnel who claim to have traveled there in the recent past. I have a man on that now, verifying it.” Darren stepped closer to the table and never broke eye contact with the Assistant Director. “However, even if none of them had actually traveled there before, we both know how easy it would be to make it look like they had.”

  Ingram nodded. “True enough. But you’d better make damn sure that if you end up going that route that they can’t come back and show you home movies of their family vacation to Big Sur taken the same time they’re supposed to be overseas.”

  “Understood, sir. I promise you, this isn’t my first rodeo.” Chesterfield moved back to the front of the room and pulled a remote from his pocket. With the click of a button, a white screen descended from the ceiling. “If you’ll turn your attentions to the screen up front…”

  Darren began clicking through slides and explaining the different steps that the operation would be taking. He had allowed each step of the operation to have three possible outcomes and each of those outcomes to eventually lead back to the main goal. As he finished his outline, he clicked the slide projector off and turned back to the assemblage of men. “
Any questions?”

  “One.” Jameson watched the man cautiously, his finger gently tapping the memos. “What is your timeline on this operation?”

  “We can be ready to implement by Monday of next week. If everything goes as planned, you should see the end result by Friday at the latest.”

  Ingram turned to Jameson and whispered in his ear. Jameson nodded and mumbled back, “With the unrest in that region, we could see results much earlier.”

  Ingram nodded then turned back to Darren. “You have your green light, agent Chesterfield.” He stood and slid the memos across the table. “But if you screw the pooch on this, it will be much more than your career on the line.”

  Jameson nodded as he stepped past the ambitious young agent. “It will be your nuts.”

  2

  Wood County, TX

  * * *

  BOBBY CONTINUALLY SCANNED the different chatrooms, searching for the ever elusive GabrielsButler_72. The user couldn’t be found anywhere in the chatrooms or any of the forums that Bridger had been associating with. Bobby leaned back in his chair and stretched his neck and shoulders. The cramps he had developed from bending over the stupid machine were enough to give him headaches. He honestly could not understand how anybody could stand to be on a computer for more than a few minutes at a time without permanently slumping their shoulders and curving their back.

  He pushed away from the machine and shut the lid. He needed to get outside and get some fresh air. This type of “surveillance” sucked balls and he was getting sick of it quickly. Bobby pulled another water bottle from the fridge and slugged down half of it, hoping to clear his headache and purge the rest of the alcohol from his system from the prior night.