“Check the severity. If it’s a minor flag then he can still be your go-to guy. In fact, that will just add fuel to the fire.”
“Roger that.” Darren hung up the phone and woke his computer from slumber. He entered his password and waited for his clearance to grant him access to the numerous data bases within Homeland Security.
Once he was inside, he switched his user profile to that of an unknown analyst with top secret level 9 clearance to cover his footprints and began his search. He typed in Bridger’s information and waited for the fields to populate.
Page after page of information began collating across his screen. Darren searched for the flag and couldn’t find it. He knew it had to be in there somewhere. It had appeared in the briefings. He reached for the file and sifted through the short stack of papers once more. Pulling out the flag, he searched for the numerical identifier that would tell him which agency had flagged him; along with that code would be embedded a file number and a threat evaluation.
Darren punched the code into the search bar and waited for the original flag to populate. What showed up on his screen left him nearly speechless. “He’s still one of ours.” He scanned through the flag, posted by the FBI and authored by Special Agent Wallace. “Bobby Bridger is cooperating as an undercover agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Domestic Terrorist Threat Assessment Team, Central Division in the identification and classification of various ‘patriot group’ threats and online communications not currently under direct surveillance through normal electronic media. Mr. Bridger is being flagged as a voluntary, participating, cooperating witness and shall not be flagged by other agencies for activities performed in the line of duty.”
Darren leaned back and studied the screen. “Son of a bitch.” He crossed his arms behind his head and swiveled his chair slowly as he stared at the computer. “So, Mr. Bridger is an honest to god good-guy.”
Darren picked up the phone again and mashed the button for his supervisor. “Colonel, you aren’t going to believe this.”
“Spill it.”
“Let me give you the short and sweet. The very actions that brought our guy into our crosshairs is what flagged him…as a cooperating agent with the FBI.”
Colonel Nelson was silent for a moment on the other end. When he finally spoke, his voice was low. “What’s the flag report ID number?”
Darren recited the number and waited for his boss to read Special Agent Wallace’s notes. Almost immediately, his screen blanked out and a message appeared. Error: No correlating numerical identifier. Darren leaned forward and refreshed his screen. The same message appeared. He adjusted the phone next to his ear, “Sir, did you…”
“You may proceed as planned, Agent Chesterfield. Your go-to guy is no longer flagged.” Darren heard the click and the drone of the dial tone in his ear as his eyes continued to stare at his screen.
He cleared his throat and got an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. If Bobby Bridger is working for the feebs…and they set him up as the fall guy for this op, it could seriously hit the fan. And what was it Jameson told him at the end of the meeting? It wouldn’t be his career on the line…it would be his nuts.
3
Wood County, TX
BOBBY WATCHED SCOTT drive away then turned and trudged deep into the woods. He approached what looked like any other stand of brush on the property and reached to the ground, grabbed the camouflaged tarp, and pulled it off of the aluminum frame that held it. The frame was set over a depression in the ground and lined with gravel; parked atop the gravel was his 1995 Ford Bronco.
Bobby opened the door and prayed the batteries were still good. He inserted his key and watched the dash come to life as he turned it then listened to the motor turn over.
A moment later, black smoke belched out the back as the large diesel engine roared to life. The first thing Bobby had done when he bought the 4X4 was have a first generation diesel engine pulled from an older F250 pickup and replaced the gas engine of the Bronco. Besides having more torque, the diesel nearly doubled his fuel mileage and best of all, there was no computer or electronics needed to run it. In the event of an EMP, either from a solar flare or (heaven forbid) a nuclear blast in the atmosphere, the old truck would still start and run.
Bobby pushed in the clutch and shoved the manual transmission into first. Easing the Bronco out of the depression, he slowly crawled the beast back through the maze of trees and to his house. He parked the monster by the back door and shut it down.
Bobby hopped down from the lifted 4X4 and dropped the tailgate. He stood at the back of the truck and stared at the grassy hill that was the roof of his house. “All this crap has to go.” He marched to the top of the roof, lifted the portable satellite dish, then tossed it to the ground behind the truck, the cable spooling into a messy pile behind it.
He went into the house and grabbed the laptop from the table. He jerked the charger from the wall and wrapped it around the computer as he marched back outside and tossed it into the back of the truck. He darted back inside and grabbed the black box wifi unit from the counter, unscrewed the cabling, yanked the power supply from the wall, wrapped it all together and tossed it into the truck bed.
Bobby stood in the center of his home and scanned for anything else that didn’t belong to him. Satisfied that he had everything, he walked to his gun cabinet and pulled out a box of 10MM ammunition and
