Free Black Flag: A Taskforce Story by Brad Taylor Page B

Denver International Airport.
    A flight attendant came by checking seat belts at a leisurely pace, then another rushed up and whispered in her ear. They both speed-walked in the direction of the cockpit, the original flight attendant’s face pale.
    Joshua didn’t give it much thought, returning his attention to the window. He placed his hands on either side of his face to block the glare and began scanning. On the ground below he saw a small private plane taxiing. With as much conscious thought as someone recognizing a vegetable, he knew it was a Cessna 182.
    The Boeing 757 continued to descend and began to overtake the Cessna. Strangely, the Cessna continued taxiing. With a start, Joshua realized it had taken off, directly underneath them. He watched it rise in slow motion, closing the distance to their fragile airship.
    He turned from the window and screamed, “Plane! An airplane!”
    His mother said, “What?”
    The Cessna collided with the left wing just outside the engine, a jarring bump as if the 757 had hit a pocket of turbulent air. Passengers began to whip their heads left and right, looking for someone to explain what had happened.
    Twenty feet of wing sheared off as the Cessna chewed through the metal like a buzz saw, exploding in a spectacular spray of metal confetti, followed by a fuel-air ball of fire.
    Joshua knew the wing would no longer provide lift. Knew they were all dead.
    He was the first to scream.
    The aircraft yawed to the left, seeming to hang in the air for the briefest of moments, then began to plummet to earth sideways. The rest of the passengers joined Joshua, screaming maniacally, as if that would have any effect on the outcome.
    The fuselage picked up speed and began to spin, the centrifugal force slapping the passengers about, one minute right side up, the next upside down, filling the cabin with flying debris.
    Four seconds later, the screams of all one hundred and eighty-seven souls ceased at the exact same moment.

3
    Three Days Ago
    “They’re here. I just heard the door open and close.”
    Even though the door in question was to the adjacent hotel room, the man whispered as if they could hear him as clearly as he could them.
    “Jack, for the last time, as your editor, this is crazy.”
    “You didn’t say that when I began.”
    “That was before you started playing G. Gordon Liddy at the Watergate!”
    Jack heard voices out of the small speaker on the desk and said, “I gotta go. Stay near your phone in case I need help.”
    He heard “Jack—” but ended the call without responding.
    He checked to make sure the digital recorder was working, then leaned in, waiting on someone to appear on the small screen. The thin spy camera had slipped out of position just a bit, making the room look tilted.
    A hefty Caucasian sat down in view, wearing jeans and a polo shirt that was a size too small.
The contact.
    Another man began speaking off camera, in flawless English with a slight Spanish accent, which, given what Jack was investigating, was to be expected. The words, however, were not. Nothing the man said had anything to do with the drug cartels or America. It was all about technology.
    Eventually, the contact spoke. Jack leaned in, willing him to say what he wanted to hear. Wanting to believe his insane risk had been worth it.
    He, also, said not a word about drugs, but blathered on about the right of the masses to digital technology and the developed-world governments’ undying interest in monopolizing information.
    Jack rubbed his eyes.
What the hell is this all about? Who gives a shit about information flow?
    The guy sounded like an anarchist, not a connection for the expansion of the Sinaloa drug cartel into America. The contact droned on about his ability to free up information, then said something that caused Jack to perk up. He mentioned the US Air Force in Colorado Springs.
    Now we’re getting somewhere.
    Colorado Springs was just outside Denver and was the American