Flags of The Forgoten Read online

  Bobby laid the rifle across the passenger seat carefully then placed the BoB on top of it to prevent it from sliding into the floor board and out of reach. Back at the rear of the truck, he wrapped the cabling around the dish and slipped the base into the back of the Bronco. He frowned at the load; the dish was slightly too big to fit with the arm sticking out the front so he did what any technologically minded person would do. He rolled the dish onto its side and bent the arm up and out of the way then shoved the entire mess forward and slammed the tailgate.

  “I have just the place to dump all this crap.” He slipped in behind the wheel and started the old diesel engine again. Bobby threw a dual rooster tail of dirt as he goosed the truck past his house and down the driveway. He had a few errands to run and he did not want to be late.

  Karachi, Pakistan

  * * *

  MAMOON HAD BOTH Sameer and Balil trying to assemble the rack on the bottom floor of his building. The two men argued over which piece should go where and in which order. He stepped from his tiny office and yelled at the two, “Why do you bicker like old women? Read the instructions!”

  Sameer shook the paper at him. “They are written in Chinese! How well do you read Chinese?”

  Mamoon rolled his eyes and marched to the spot where the two men now fought. “Let me see them.” He pulled the instructions from him and flipped them over. “Ah, see. Here.”

  “Oh, that is much better. This side is English. Do you read English?”

  “As a matter of fact…” Mamoon pulled the sheet back and stared at it. “No.” He wadded the instructions and dropped them to the floor. “Just look at the picture and see that it looks like that.”

  “That is what we are doing, oh wise and powerful one.” Balil gave a mock bow, his cigarette threatening to fall. “But the picture looks as though Tariq drew it.”

  Mamoon studied his watch and bent to pick up the paper again. “They will be here in two hours. This must be complete or the material will be sitting on the floor.”

  “This must be complete or…you think we do not know this?” Sameer threw his hands into the air. “I say, put it on the floor. We can roll it out and cut off what we need.”

  “This floor? Have you seen the floor?” Mamoon asked. “Oh wait. No, you haven’t seen your own feet in how many years?”

  Balil burst into laughter and Sameer sneered at him. He slapped at his thick middle. “This is muscle.”

  “Table muscle,” Balil prodded. “Come now. We must finish this.” He handed Sameer the wrench and picked up another piece of angle iron.

  “You two think you are being funny, but you are not.” Sameer rubbed his stomach again and pointed at Balil with the wrench. “You can be replaced with a mop.”

  “You don’t know how to use a mop.” He nodded toward the pile of metal. “And you don’t know how to use a wrench either. Go. Tighten these bolts.”

  “I’ll tighten your bolts.” Sameer continued to mutter under his breath while Balil tried to fit the different pieces to the monstrosity they were building.

  Tariq ran into the room, his eyes wide. “They are here. They’re early!”

  Mamoon came out of his office and stared at the mess that was the rack. “No…” he groaned as he walked past the two men. “You two keep working.” He maneuvered his way to the alley behind the shop and watched as the truck backed through the maze of trash cans and ruined furniture. Mamoon trotted up toward the vehicle, his hands waving in the air. “Wait! Stop! You are early. We do not have the rack completed yet.”

  The driver slammed on the brakes and glared at Mamoon in the side mirror. “Look at this fool running up behind me like this.” He opened the door and twisted in his seat. “What are you saying?”

  “You are too early. We do not have the rack constructed yet. We have no place to put the material.” Mamoon stopped and bent over, his hands on his knees while he caught his breath. “My men are attempting to put it together now, but they are lost with the instructions.”

  The driver nodded. “Ah. I bet it is the oversized, blue metal frame that they sell in the southern market, yes?”

  Mamoon nodded. “Yes. How did you know?”

  “The instructions are foreign.” The driver turned to his partner and waved him out of the truck. “We will help your men put the rack together. This will be okay here, yes?”

  “Yes, yes, the other shops are closed. The buildings are abandoned.” He waved them down the alley. “I thank you very much for your assistance with this. I am afraid that, while my men are very talented painters, they lack the skills to do anything mechanical.”

  “No problem.” The driver and his partner followed Mamoon and disappeared into the building. As the three men went inside, four men wearing shalwar kameez, their heads topped with a topi, quickly trotted down the alley and surrounded the truck.

  Two climbed up onto the back and uncovered the wide, heavy roll of muslin while the other two mixed two containers and poured liquid into garden style sprayers. They shook the containers then tossed them up to the men on the back of the truck. The two men on the ground then went to the back of the shop and stood guard while the other two wetted down the fabric. “Double time it. I have no idea how long it will take them.”

  “Beats breaking in tonight, doesn’t it?” one man asked as he sprayed the material, careful to soak the ends of the roll as best he could. “Do you think they’ll notice it’s wet?”

  “It’s supposed to dry in moments. Just spray it as evenly as you can.”

  The two men continued spraying back and forth, overlapping each other until the entire roll was saturated. The sprayers began gurgling, their contents empty. “Done!”

  The two men dropped to the ground and began walking to the opening of the alley, taking apart the sprayers and dropping pieces of them along the way into different trash cans. The two men standing guard by the shop trotted up behind them. “They’re still inside. Hurry back to the café while we call this in.”

  At the main street, the four men split into two different groups and disappeared in opposite directions. Twenty minutes later, the driver and his assistant walked back out of the shop. “Those two are idiots.”

  The assistant laughed. “Did you see how they used the arms for the base? That thing would have fallen over if they’d put anything on it.”

  “The fat one kept telling us we didn’t know what we were doing.” He climbed into the truck and started the engine again. “Until I finished putting it together and then he says, ‘oh, I could have figured that out.’”

  “Let’s get this unloaded and go eat. I’m starving.”

  They backed the truck to the rear shop entrance then set the brake once more. “Get the cart.”

  The assistant pulled a lever, releasing the cart, and rolled it to the side of the truck. “Hey…the cover blew off.”

  The driver reached across and patted the roll of material. “At least it didn’t get dirty. Come let’s get this inside and be done here.”

  “You’d think Mamoon would have offered to pay for our assistance.”

  “Ha! Not him.” The driver kicked the material loose from the blocks holding it in place and rolled it to the edge of the truck. He swung the boom over and hooked the rope to the arm. Using the air powered lift, they raised the roll and swung it off and onto the cart. “Roll this inside and let Mamoon’s men figure out how to put it on the rack. I’m not lifting it.”

  The assistant rolled his eyes and got behind the cart to push it. “Then you know they’ll expect me to help.”

  The driver smiled at him, flashing his gold tooth. “Just tell them you have a bad back.”

  The man muttered a string of curses as he rolled the cart through the rear door of the shop while the driver secured the boom arm back into the truck. As he folded the tarp, he felt something wet on his hands; he rubbed his fingers together and brought his hand to his nose to sniff. His nose smelled nothing; whatever it was evaporated as soon as it was exposed t
o the air. He stared at his hand for just a moment then stuffed the tarp into the box behind the cab.

  He walked toward the door of the shop, taking his time lest he be asked to help. He heard the cart rolling toward him and he smiled. He opened the door for his assistant and waited while the man put the cart away. “Let me guess…”

  “Of course. They needed help lifting it into place.” He cursed as he shoved the cart back into position. “No more, I say. Next time you can help them.”

  “I would, but my back…” He smiled at the assistant as he climbed into the cab.

  “When I shove my foot into your ass you won’t be so worried about your back.”

  FBI Field Office, Dallas, TX

  * * *

  ROGER WALLACE HAD just returned to his desk and sat down, his computer blinking at him. He stared at the stacks of paperwork in front of him, and just the thought of it all made his head throb. He reached for the bottle of headache formula, shook out two tablets, tossed them to the back of his throat and washed them down with cold coffee just as his phone rang.

  He picked up the receiver. “Wallace.”

  “Dirty fucking trick you pulled on me, Rog.” Bobby didn’t bother announcing himself.

  Roger pulled the phone back and stared at it. “Um…excuse me?”

  “You heard me, you little prick.”

  “Bobby?” Roger lowered his voice and leaned across the back of his desk to push his door closed. “What the hell are you talking about, man?”

  “I’m talking about flagging me, you asshole!”

  Roger leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing as he tried to think what in the world Bridger was going on about. “Flagging you? Bobby, I didn’t flag you. I mean, not like a real flag. I sent out an interagency flag for you.”

  “What? What the hell are you saying?” Bridger stared at his watch, counting the seconds of their conversation so that he could hang up at the two minute mark. He didn’t want the call traced.

  “An interagency flag protects you, man. It keeps your activity online off other agencies’ watch lists by letting them know that you’re a cooperating witness in our employ. That’s all.”

  “Then why the hell did the Sheriff come out to my place and tell me that he’s supposed to keep an eye on me and report any suspicious behavior?”

  Roger groaned. “Damn. That didn’t come out right…”

  “You have thirty seconds and I’m hanging up.”

  “No, Bobby…look. Remember when I told you about the other agents who’d tried to do this and they got sucked in? Well, because of them, there’s this boilerpot language attached to all flags now for people who do what you do. Just…just in case. You know?”

  Click

  “Bobby?” Roger stared at the phone. “Aww…son of a bitch.” He set the phone back in its cradle with a heavy sigh. “Why do you have to be so damned paranoid?”

  Roger’s head dropped and he desperately wanted to bang it against his desktop. Suddenly he jerked up and reached for his mouse. “I’ll show you.” He moved the mouse, waking his computer. He typed in his user name and password then navigated to the flags. He typed in Bridger’s name and it came up empty.

  Roger stared at the screen and rubbed at his chin. “Did I type it in wrong when I entered it?” He tried two or three variations of Bobby’s name but they all came up as “no such file.” Finally, Roger pushed away from his computer and went to his filing cabinet. He pulled the file for the case and sat back behind his desk. He rifled through the paperwork until he found the hardcopy of Bridger’s flag. He pulled the sheet and set it next to his computer. Entering the ID number meticulously, Roger hit ENTER and leaned back waiting for the screen to populate.

  He suddenly leaned forward again as the message caused his guts to tighten into a knot. Error: No correlating numerical identifier flashed across the middle of the screen. Roger went back to the ID number and entered it a second time, double checking that each digit was correct. As soon as he mashed ENTER, the same message appeared: Error: No correlating numerical identifier.

  Roger swallowed hard and reached for his phone.

  Langley, VA

  * * *

  DARREN CHESTERFIELD HUNG up his phone and smiled. He jotted a quick email to his boss to let him know that the ball was in motion. The deed was done and nobody’d been seen, nobody had to break in, and the agents were already in the wind. All in all, he felt like it was going to be a good day.

  He was snapped out of his reverie when his computer chimed, announcing that his attention was necessary. Darren woke up the screen, entered his password then scrolled through the alerts and found the one for him. He read the warning; a cold chill ran up the back of his neck. Somebody was trying to throw a monkey wrench into his good day and he wasn’t liking it.

  He clicked on the notification and read the details. Somebody had checked on the now non-existent flag for Bobby Bridger, and that somebody was in the FBI headquarters. Darren nodded, certain he knew who that somebody was.

  He pulled the printed copy of the original flag and read the inputting agent’s name. Wallace. “Well Agent Wallace, I think it’s time you dropped this.”

  Darren switched screens and began his memo. He knew that Colonel Nelson would want to be made aware that somebody was sniffing around the flags for their scapegoat and he damn sure didn’t want to be the one caught holding out on the colonel. His nuts had already been threatened by the Director of the CIA, and he was partial to them being where the good lord hung them.

  4

  Wood County, TX

  * * *

  BRIDGER BACKED THE Bronco next to the large metal dumpster of a known drug dealer and dropped the tailgate. He didn’t bother to lift the lid on the dumpster. Meth heads loved taking apart radios, televisions, toasters…cars, anything mechanical, just to see how they worked. The hard part was getting it put back together…without having a box full of spare parts left over.

  He strategically placed the satellite dish, the modem and the black box power supplies where they would be visible then closed the tailgate to the truck. He could almost feel the eyes on him as he slipped back in behind the wheel and pulled away. He glanced to the rear view mirror and watched as bodies crept from the shadows and slowly approached the devices, their eyes wide with wonder. If there were any kind of tracking devices inside those things, they’d be scattered to the winds in no time.

  Bobby cruised the back roads as his mind worked around the problem. He had been out of the game for so long that he didn’t have any real contacts that were still active. Wallace was his only “inside man” and he considered him burned. He didn’t know for sure what was going on, but it couldn’t be good. It was just a feeling, but his survival instincts had kept him alive in the past and every internal alarm he had was screaming at him now.

  He pulled the Bronco through a mom and pop coffeeshop and ordered a tall Americano. While the barista prepared his brew, he popped open the center console and pulled out the disposable cell phone he kept in case of emergencies. Considered archaic by modern standards, this dinosaur could both make phone calls and text. He slipped the battery in and snapped the back into place. Pressing the power button, he noted that that he had better put it on a charger quick.

  He fumbled with the heavy cord and shoved it into the cigarette lighter just as the barista came back to the window and handed him his dose of caffeine. He slipped her a small wad of crumpled ones and mumbled “keep the change” as he pulled out.

  Bobby knew that keeping a low profile was going to be tough. He had the truck registered in his mother’s maiden name. He also had a set of IDs made just for bugging out. But being on the lamb in today’s world without some kind of backup was nearly impossible.

  He pulled the old Bronco into an empty car wash and dug through the glove compartment; he found the receipt he was looking for. Encoded in the receipt itself were contact numbers for people he trusted. People he swore he’d never call on again. Ever.

/>   He stared at the faded slip of paper and sighed heavily. The old cell phone suddenly felt very heavy in his hand as he punched the first number in. He stared at the green call button for a long moment before he allowed his finger to press it.

  “I hope I don’t regret this.” Bridger clenched his jaw as he listened to the phone ring. He could feel his pulse quicken with each buzz and was about to end the call when he heard the other line pick up.

  “Gibbons.”

  Bobby cleared his throat and stared out the windshield. “I need to call in a marker.”

  “Jeezus. Did Hell freeze over?” Bobby heard the rustle of the phone shifting and he prayed that Steve didn’t say his name out loud.

  “Possibly. I think I’m in a pickle. I need to get the band back together. Tell me you know how to reach the others.” Bobby let his breath out slowly and continued to pray.

  “Brother, the band still is together. You were the one who left.”

  Bobby felt a huge weight leave his shoulders and he could breathe slightly easier. “What’s your twenty?”

  “We’re based in Dallas. I have no idea how far out you are, but I can send you the coordinates. We’re at a—”

  “Negative,” Bobby interrupted. “Not over an unsecured line.”

  Both men listened to the silence a moment before Gibbons asked, “That bad?”

  “I think so.”

  “Okay. Gather what intel you can and bring it with you. We’ve got pretty good security. Let me know when you get close and I’ll escort you in.”

  “Thanks buddy.” Bobby clicked the end call button and turned off the phone. He leaned back in his seat and sipped the cooling coffee. He hated the idea of dragging his old friends into this mess, but he had a sinking feeling that he was in over his head and he needed the best in his corner if he had any chance of coming out of this alive.