IT HAD TAKEN almost no effort to convince Rielly.
Adams actually made several attempts to douse her enthusiasm, but she would have none of it. She was in. Rapp wasn't sure if she wanted to do it out of patriotism, sympathy for the remaining hostages, or professional greed. He hoped it was one of the first two and not the latter.
The plan came together in short order. Adams was a natural problem solver with the tedious mind of an engineer.
Rapp, with his practical experience, tried to simplify every aspect of the operation, knowing that the more complicated it became the stronger the chance that it would fail. For her part, Rielly listened well and asked pointed questions when needed.
Rapp had told them, "This is simple recon. Nothing fancy, just take a look and then get out." He then went on to brief Rielly on how they would proceed, and then before leaving the stash room, he gave her one more chance to back out. She didn't waver for a second. With everything covered and the clock ticking, Rapp grabbed the proper gear and gave Adams the go-ahead signal.
Adams slid back the bolt, and Rapp was the first one into the closet.
Having already checked the surveillance units, they knew no one else was currently on the second or third floors.
They moved quickly and quietly across the hall and into the small elevator. Rielly was in sweat socks and made no noise. When they arrived in the first basement, the doors slid open and Adams went to work with the snake. Rapp and Adams were working well as a team, but now with Rielly as the third wheel, it was another variable to worry about.
Adams retracted the snake, and over his shoulder he whispered, "All clear." Rapp asked, "We go to the right, halfway down the hall?"
"Yep."
"Good," whispered Rapp.
"Here's the routine." Rapp looked to Rielly, who was no more than a foot away.
"When we open this door, I step out first. I sweep to the left and then the right. When I give you two the signal to move out, you go.
Milt in the lead; you with your right hand on his right shoulder."
Rapp was happy to see that her eyes were open wide, a sign that she was paying attention.
"You keep that hand on his shoulder and keep your eyes on the back of his head. If he speeds up, you speed up; if he slows down, you slow down; and if he crouches, you get down. If I have to start shooting, I don't want to worry about you jumping out in front of me."
Rielly nodded and then blinked for the first time in a while. All of a sudden she didn't think this was such a good idea. Either it was colder down here or she was getting the chills from fright. Rapp asked her something, and she stared back at him with a blank expression.
"Are you nervous?"
Rielly nodded, eyes wide open.
"Good." Rapp grinned.
"You should be." He grabbed her right hand and placed it on Adams's shoulder.
"Just follow Milt, and everything will be fine."
Rapp cracked the door just an inch at first and looked down the hallway.
With nothing in sight, he opened the door another foot and peered in the other direction. With his MP10 leveled in his left hand, he opened the door the rest of the way and stepped out into the hallway. After checking both directions again, his right hand shot up and pointed for Adams and Rielly to move out.
Adams started out on cue, his bald head scrunched down between his shoulders as if bullets might start whizzing over his cranium at any moment, the all important S-key in his right hand. Rielly mimicked his posture and scampered behind him on the balls of her stockinged feet. As soon as they were clear, Rapp closed the nondescript door that concealed the elevator and fell in behind them. Within seconds Adams had stopped at another door and was inserting his key.
He fumbled with it for a second, his hands shaking slightly.
After one misfire, he stuck the key all the way in and turned the knob.
Adams yanked the door open and was immediately pushed inside the room by Rielly, who was being pushed by Rapp.
Rapp pulled the door shut and looked around the rectangular-shaped storage room. Rielly was doing the same and whispered,"I thought we were going to the China Room."
"No." Adams shook his head.
"The china storage room."
He approached one of the many wheeled gray plastic containers that stood about four feet tall. Adams pulled off the protective cloth cover and revealed a collection of plates, saucers, and cups.
"These things are spring-loaded." Adams picked up a china dinner plate.
"When they decide which china they want for an event, they just wheel this whole thing into the kitchen elevator and they take it upstairs."
Rielly looked around the room.
"All of these contain sets of china?"
"Yep."
"That's great." Rapp was already moving several of the containers out of his way so he could get to the wall where the vent was located.
Adams joined in, and they passed the wheeled containers from one to the other. While they were doing so, Rapp looked at a second door, located on the wall to his right, and asked, "Is that what I think it is?"
"Yep." Adams nodded as he looked up for a second.
"Good. I think it's gonna come in real handy." Rapp moved the last container and saw the vent cover on the bottom of the wall. It looked to be about a foot and a half wide and maybe a foot tall. Rapp stepped out of the way, and Adams moved in. Dropping down to one knee, he pulled out a small cordless drill and quickly backed out both screws.
With his fingers, he pulled the slatted cover off and dropped all the way down to his stomach With a flashlight in hand, he stuck his arm in first and then half of his head. After bouncing the light off the duct work for a couple of seconds, he found what he was looking for: the down chute that led to the lower floors and eventually to the HVAC unit in the basement.
Adams pulled his head out and looked at Rapp, who was kneeling next to him.
"It's right where I thought it was. Ten feet down this way, go straight down two floors, and she has to crawl about a dozen feet, and there's the vent."
"Which way does she go when she hits the third level?"
Adams jerked his thumb.
"She keeps going the same way." Rapp looked at his watch and said, "All right. "Then turning to Rielly, he said, "Last chance to back out."
Rielly grinned reluctantly and looked at the small opening that Adams was lying next to.
"I'm ready."
Rapp looked at her and again wondered what her motivation was. Standing there in the president's oversized West Point sweats, she did not fit the image of the brave and bold. Rapp thought she looked scrawny. He had to hand it to her, though; whether it was professional motivation, sense of obligation to her fellow hostages, or just good old Catholic guilt, the woman was tough. She'd had the crap kicked out of her, was almost raped, and yet here she was, willing to go right back into the fray.
Rapp nodded at her with admiration and said, "Give me a couple of minutes, and we'll get you on your way."
Rapp took off his fanny pack and laid out the climbing rope and one of the surveillance units.
"Is she going to have enough light in there?"
Adams thought about it for a second.
"Yeah. It spills through the vents about every ten to fifteen feet."
"Good." Holding the rope up, Rapp turned to Rielly and said, "Go lie down over there by the vent, and we'll tie this around your ankles."
Rapp cut a four-foot section from the end of the rope and tied one end to Rielly's right ankle and the other to her left. When he was satisfied with the knots, he tied the rope to the middle of the four-foot section.
This allowed Rielly to move her legs independently, which would have been impossible if her ankles were tied together.
After asking her how the knots felt, Rapp asked, "Any questions before we get started?"
Rielly looked up from her position on the floor.
"Yeah, how in the hell do I signal for you guys to pull me back up?"
Rapp frowned.
"That's a good question. How about if you tug three times on the rope?"
"How?" Rielly craned her neck backward and looked into the duct.
"There isn't enough room for me to do that."
"Yeah, I suppose you're right." Looking to Adams, Rapp asked, "Any ideas?"
Adams thought about it for a second, his lips scrunched up.
Finally he said, "Yeah. I got one." Adams then sat and began taking his boots off. He took out the left boo dace then the right, then tied them together. He tied one end to the long rope and the other one he loosely knotted around Rielly's neck.
"When you want us to take you back up, tug on this three times." Rielly nodded and Rapp said, "Good thinking. Milt." Then looking down at Rielly, he said, "Down this way about ten feet and then straight down until you hit the bottom. Now, remember when you reach the third level, you're going to need to turn yourself around one hundred and eighty degrees so you can bend at the waist. Then once you get back into the lateral duct, you can spin back onto your stomach."
Rapp mimicked the maneuver with his hand. "From there, you crawl down to the first grate, and that's where you should have a view into the room just outside the bunker. Don't hang around long. This should take no more than a minute. Note how many people you see, if any, and what type of equipment. Then tug on the shoestring, and we'll pull you right back up."
Rielly nodded, her face tense with nervousness.
"And don't forget to flip back over on your back so you can make the turn when we're pulling you back up."
"All right, let's get going before I change my mind." Rielly rolled over onto her stomach and started squeezing into the vent.
"Three tugs." That was it, and then she wiggled her thin body into the air duct.
It was cramped and dusty. Rielly doubted that Rapp could have fit in the duct, and if he could have, there wouldn't have been any room left for him to maneuver. It didn't take long to reach the shaft. As Rapp had said, it was maybe ten feet. Rielly paused at the top, only her fingertips and chin hanging over the edge. There was just enough light for her to see the bottom. It wasn't as far as she had expected. Slowly she started down. Her arms first, her head, then her whole upper body.
After that the rope became tight and Rapp and Adams began to lower her.
Rielly remembered what Rapp had said, and when she neared the shaft she spun herself around so she could bend at the waist and make the turn.
She pulled herself into the lateral duct and rested for a second.
The knots felt a little tight on her ankles, but were bearable.
After gathering herself, she spun back onto her stomach, and that was when she heard it. A whining noise. The sound of machinery working. The sound of a drill. Rielly's heart rate quickened. The first vent was just ahead on her right. From where she was positioned, she felt as though she could almost reach out and touch it.
With some reservation she inched forward several feet and stopped. The noise had not gone away. As slowly as she could, Rielly scooted forward an inch at a time, using all other concentration to make sure no noise was made. The duct became brighter with the light from the hallway. As she neared the grate, she grew nervous at how well she could see her hands.
Approaching the vent, she could start to see the off-white wall of the hallway. The cover had a series of vertical slats that were angled to force the air down. Rielly laid her head flat so she could try to get a look straight down the hallway and into the bunker. What she saw caused her to hold her breath.
Straight ahead, just down the hall, was the shiny vault door to the president's bunker, and attached to it were the objects that were making the noise she had been hearing. Drills of some sort. Three of them. One big and two small. Rielly moved her head around and tried to get better angles of the anteroom but could find none. On the floor there appeared to be a variety of toolboxes and some tanks. She could see only part of the room because the first door was not swung all the way open.
Rielly was finishing her inventory of what little she could see and was preparing to reach for the string around her neck when a man appeared.
He came into her view from a part of the room that she could not see.
Rielly's first reaction was to move back a little out of fear that he might be able to see her.
She quickly realized this was stupid and told herself to calm down. The man, who looked more like a plumber than a terrorist, approached the drills with a cup in his hand. He touched the casings of each one with his hand and then went about measuring their progress with a tape measure.
Oh, this was going to be one hell of a story, Rielly thought to herself.
She watched the man for another couple seconds and then tugged on the shoestring three times. After a slight pause she began sliding back down the vent.
JACK WARCH HAD decided on a course of action. He wanted to build a consensus among his agents first and then bring his plan to the president. He didn't want any surprised faces if the president asked them for their opinion. Warch had taken a minute or two with each agent, and all of them had enthusiastically backed their boss's idea.
Now came the hard part. President Hayes was sitting next to Valerie Jones on one of the couches playing a game of gin.
Before walking over, Warch checked the door one more time.
All indications were that they were running out of time.
Walking across the carpeting, Warch stopped just on the other side of one of the longer couches and cleared his throat.
When the president looked up, he said, "Excuse me, sir. Do you have a second?"
The president looked back at the discard pile and said, "Sure." Hayes closed his hand up and set it facedown on the table.
"Excuse me, Val." After getting up, he walked around the couches and join ed warch, who had walked over to the corner by the bathroom.
"What is it. Jack?"
"Sir, I want you to hear me out before you say anything." Warch gave his boss a stern look that told him he was very serious. Hayes nodded, and warch continued. "I have an idea. One that I think will work, but it's going to take some balls on our part and a little bit of risk."
"Okay, let's hear it."
"I want to start out by saying that just sitting here is not a good option. Every one of my agents is willing to sacrifice his life for you, so I want you to stop thinking about us. We volunteered for this duty and we all knew what the risks were when we signed."
Hayes started to shake his head.
"I'm not going to change my mind. Jack. There's been enough bloodshed.
When that door opens, we are going to surrender peacefully and take our chances."
Warch snapped at the president, "Let me finish!"
Hayes backed up a half a step in surprise and nodded his consent for the special agent to continue.
Warch composed himself and started again.
"We," he said, pointing to himself, "are not what is at issue here. You are what is at issue, and not just you as a person but you as the president.
In the big picture, all of our lives"—Warch pointed to the other agents in the room—"don't add up to one president. The president must be protected at all costs. That's my first point."
Warch held up his forefinger.
"My second point is that just laying our weapons down and surrendering doesn't guarantee us anything. Who's to say they won't line us up and shoot every single one of us, including you?"
The president thought about it for a moment and then said, "There are no guarantees. Jack, but I don't see any other alternative."
"I have one. It's a little daring, but it's a heck of a lot better than sitting around and waiting for them to open the door."
"What is it?"
"It's something they'll never expect. We have nine highly trained agents in this room. Three of them. have served on the Counter Assault Team and have extensive training in hostage situations. My proposal is"—Warch paused and took a big breath—"that instead of waiting for them to get this door open, we open it ourselves and catch them off guard."
The president frowned.
"Hear me out, sir. We have the firepower to get you out of here, and we'll have the element of surprise on our side."
Hayes folded his arms across his chest and thought about it for a moment. Looking at Warch, he said, "Tell me more. If we're going to do this, we need a game plan."
WHEN THEY PULLED her out of the vent, her black sweat suit was covered in dust, as was a healthy portion other ponytail. Rielly flipped over onto her back and sat up. Rapp and Adams were poised just above her, eagerly awaiting the report.
Remembering to keep her voice at a whisper, Rielly nodded her head vigorously.
"They're doing it. They made it through that outer door you told me about, and they're working on the big shiny door that leads to the bunker."
"With what?" asked Adams.
"I'm not sure." Rielly gestured with her hands.
"I think they're drills. At least that's what they sounded like. The guy who's down the're pulled out a tape measure and held it up to the door."
Adams tried to ask another question, but Rapp stuck his hand out and stopped him.
"From the top," he said to Rielly.
"What did you see?"
Rielly took a deep breath and let her hands fall to her lap.
"I saw three objects attached to the door. Like I said, I think they were drills. On the floor there were two boxes… like toolboxes. One was red and the other one was gray." Rielly stopped and tried to remember every detail.
"There was one man. He walked from the left side of the room, where I couldn't see him because that first door isn't swung all the way open."
Rielly's eyes danced over her story as she pictured it.
"The man had a cup in his hand—it was probably coffee—and he walked over to the drills." Rielly's left hand was cupped as if she were carrying a mug and the right was held flat.
"He placed his hand on the drills… I think he was checking to see how warm they were."
Adams nodded knowingly.
"He's afraid they're gonna burn out on him."
Rielly shrugged.
"Well, after he was done doing that, he pulled out a tape measure and held it alongside each drill."
"What did he look like?" asked Rapp.
"Not like the others."
"You didn't see him when you were being held in the mess?"
"No."
"How did he look different?"
"He was"—Rielly searched for the right adjective-"pudgy and I guess a little older."
"How old?"
"I'd guess late forties to fifty."
"Was he armed?"
This one stumped Rielly. Her eyes looked to the ceiling while she tried to remember. After a moment she shook her head and said, "I'm not sure."
Rapp accepted the answer and tried to think if he was missing anything.
"Did you see anyone else? Hear anything else? Anything you can think of?"
Rielly shook her head.
"Nope. I wasn't down there very long."
Rapp reached down and started untying the rope.
"Nice work, Anna. Now I want you to wait here while I go back upstairs and report in. I think we're gonna have some more work to do, but I have to let them know that their hunch was right."
Rapp finished untying the rope and stood. Reaching for his gun, he said,
"Milt, let's go."
Adams struggled up from one knee and pointed at his feet.
"What do I do about shoelaces?"
After looking at Rielly's white stockinged feet, Rapp said, "Take the boots off and go in your socks. We're just going up and right back down."
Adams took the boots off, and then moving toward the door with Rapp, he said sheepishly, "Mitch, I have to go pee again."
Rapp looked at him sideways. Something clicked in his head, and he stopped. Turning back to Rielly, he asked, "Anna, did you say the guy was drinking coffee?"
Rielly nodded.
"I think so."
Rapp smiled and glanced at Adams. "Milt, you're a genius."
HARRIS AND RE AVERS pulled up to the main gate at Andrews Air Force Base and presented their credentials. They were saluted and waved through quickly. Harris was on a mission to find General Campbell, and the fact that General Flood was reportedly with him was all the better. Might as well hit them both up at the same time. Flood, after all, would have to give his stamp of approval to anything they would want to execute.
Reavers maneuvered the heavy Suburban around several turns and gunned the gas-guzzling V-8 engine. Harris had told him to step on it. Right now Delta was getting face time with the generals, and every second counted. SEAL blood had been spilled, and Harris was going to do everything possible to make sure they had a piece of the action.
Less than a minute later. Reavers came to an abrupt stop near General Flood's limousine and its two security sedans.
Several Pentagon pukes were standing around in their cleanly pressed green uniforms, keeping an eye on the cars. Inside, no doubt, were more of them waiting to wipe General Flood's nose in case he got a sniffle.
Harris and Reavers jumped out of the Suburban, Harris with a file folder. Reavers with a submachine gun. The file folder Harris carried contained a brief back The brief back was a Special Forces document that outlined a specific mission that was being proposed down to the last detail. Harris and Reavers moved toward the rear of the hangar, where Harris spotted two of General Flood's staff pukes milling about.
Approaching the door, one of the general's aides, a major, put up a hand and attempted to ask Harris his business.
Harris, not wearing any rank or insignia, continued right past the officer and opened the door. Reavers followed his boss and closed the door behind him.
Inside, standing in front of a chalkboard, were Generals Flood and Campbell. They were both listening to Colonel Gray, Delta Force's commander. Several other Pentagon JSOC, and Delta intelligence and administrative types were seated at a long table working among themselves. Harris and Reavers approached the front of the room and snapped off salutes to General Flood. After Flood returned the salute, Harris apologized for the interruption.
"That's all right. We wanted to talk to you anyway. "Then, gesturing to the blackboard. Flood said, "We were just going over several takedown scenarios. I'd like to hear what you think." Harris eyed the old blackboard for a second and said, "Billy and his people know their stuff. They don't need me looking over their shoulder." Harris looked to Colonel Gray and winked. Gray gave his counterpart at SEAL Team Six an approving nod.
"I do have an idea about something else, however.
An obstacle that we need to overcome before we even consider launching something like this." Harris gestured to a large diagram of the White House compound taped to the right side of the long blackboard.
"We know from Iron Man's recon of the mansion that there are explosive devices to be dealt with. He found a bomb in the president's bedroom.
Why put a bomb there if you're Aziz?" Harris looked quizzically at the two generals and Colonel Gray.
"All of the hostages are over here"—Harris pointed to the diagram—"in the West Wing. The only reason I can think of is to bring the whole building down and add to the chaos surrounding any attempt by us to retake the building."
Flood thought about it and slowly nodded. "I would agree."
"Knowing this, we can infer that, like with rats, when we see one, we can assume there are many more." Pausing for emphasis, Harris let them think about the harsh reality of sending dozens of operators into the building only to see them engulfed in a ball of flames and flying debris.
"Before we launch any type of a mission, we need to get someone in there, and they need to find a way to neutralize those bombs."
Colonel Gray nodded emphatically.
"This hasn't been lost on us. Right now we're banking on the fact that we can get in and shoot fast enough to stop one of them from hitting the plunger." Gray didn't look too enthused about his odds.
"And ifaziz has the hostages booby-trapped?"
Gray shook his head, knowing that this was probably the case.
"We're screwed."
"Exactly. That's why I think we have to get a small team of operators into the building just prior to the main assault. To assess the situation and find a way to defuse or temporarily disable the bombs, otherwise we can kiss our asses good-bye."
The other men thought about the ugly scene, and after a moment General Campbell spoke.
"Let me guess, Dan. You know just the person to handle this delicate aspect of the operation."
Grinning, Harris replied, "As a matter of fact I do, sir."
"Let's hear it."
With his voice a touch lower Harris said, "Did any of you ever get wind of a training op we did with the Secret Service eight years ago?"
General Flood, at the time, had been in Korea, and General Campbell had been on a special detachment working with the SAS in Britain. Colonel Gray, however, had been with Delta.
Gray searched his memory. They were constantly doing training ops, but off the top of his head, he couldn't remember doing anything with the Secret Service.
"You're gonna have to refresh my memory," said the CO of Delta Force.
Harris leaned in a little closer.
"It was very hush-hush.
They wanted the boys at Six to help them test certain security precautions… and for obvious reasons, they didn't want it publicized.
Especially after the results."
Before Harris could continue, one of the general's aides approached the group and apologized for the intrusion.
Extending a secure digital phone, the captain said, "Director Stansfield is on the line. General."
Flood took the phone in his hand and said, "Thomas?" The general's eyes tightened, and he said nothing. After about twenty seconds, he said simply, "Shit." After another ten seconds, he replied, "I agree. I'll catch a chopper back. Get everything set up."
Flood ended the call and handed the phone back to his aide. Then, looking at the men around him, he said, "We just got some really bad news. Iron Man confirmed that they are drilling into the president's bunker." Shaking his head, he looked to Colonel Gray and said, "Bombs or not, you're going in." Then looking to Harris, he said, "I have to get back to Langley, immediately. Whatever this idea of yours is, I hope it's good and I hope you can put it together in a snap."
Harris nodded confidently.
"My men have been on it since this morning."
RAFIQUE AZIZ LEANED back in the president's chair.
The long shiny surface of the Situation Room's conference table was laid out before him. Aziz's eyes were closed and his arms folded across his chest. It was the middle of the afternoon, and he was trying to get some sleep in anticipation of a long night. In front of him on the table was his MP-5The overhead lights were extinguished, the glow of the bank of muted TVS at the far end throwing a dim light.
There was a knock on the door. Aziz's alert eyes snapped open, and he said, "Enter."
The door opened slowly, and Muammar Bengazi stepped into the room.
"You asked me to wake you at three."
"Thank you." A yawn crept up from his throat.
"How are the men?"
"They are well."
"Are you making sure they get some sleep? This will be their last chance for a long time."
Bengazi approached the conference table and placed his hands on the back of one of the leather chairs.
"As you ordered, they are sleeping in two-man rotations for two hours at a time."
"Good."
"May I sit?"
Aziz nib bed his eyes.
"Yes."
Bengazi set his AK-74 on the table and sat. Looking guardedly toward his leader, he asked, "What are your thoughts on tomorrow?"
Aziz unfolded his arms and checked his watch.
"By nightfall we should have the president in our hands, and then"-Aziz's lips parted and turned upward at the edges—"we will truly have the upper hand."
"Will you tell them that we have him tonight, or will you wait until the morning?"
"I will tell them in the morning. "Aziz gestured to the TVS.
"They have been reporting that the UN will meet our demands. Vice President Baxter will keep them at bay until he gets his next batch of hostages tomorrow."
Bengazi was persistently guarded.
"You do not think they will come tonight?"
Aziz shook his head, feeling so confident in his prediction that he didn't need to give a verbal response.
"I wish I shared your optimism, but after what they tried to do this morning I can't help but think they are preparing to attack."
The comment caused Aziz to smile.
"That is why you are so valuable, Muammar. You are so cautious. They will not do anything until they hear the next round of demands." Aziz tapped the side of his head with his forefinger.
"You need to understand the American mind. Especially the mind of the politician. Being decisive is not in their character. They will put off making a decision until they are forced to do so. Right now they have gained the release of a third of the hostages and they are playing under the assumption that they can continue to negotiate for the release of more."
Bengazi frowned.
"It makes no sense to me. Surely the military is advising to attack."
"They probably are, but it makes no difference. As long as the politicians think they can free more hostages without firing a shot, they will do so."
"Not when they find out what the next demands are."
Bengazi shook his bald forehead.
"There is no way."
"When we have our hands on the president, everything will change.
Speaking of the president, how is our little thief proceeding?"
"He says he is still on schedule. Sometime around seven this evening."
Aziz smiled with anticipation.
"It will be a great moment."
Bengazi nodded slowly, not sharing in his leader's complete confidence.
After looking down at the table for a while, he said, "I think we should announce that we have the president as soon as we get him out of the bunker."
"Why?"
"It will deter the Americans from attacking."
Shrugging, Aziz placed his hands behind his neck.
"My plan will not change. When I make my final demand tomorrow, I will need the surprise of having the president standing beside me to shock the world into doing what is right." RIELLY STRETCHED OUT on the concrete floor, her legs before her forming a .v First the left leg, hold it for a twenty count, and then the right. The stretching felt good.
While she worked out the soreness in her legs and lower back, she thought about her career. Rielly was, after all, an insider. She had pulled back the curtain and had watched and participated in the Mighty and Powerful Oz's show. The public was not allowed to peer behind that curtain, to see how stories were shaped, how careers were made or broken around those one-week periods known as Sweeps Week. The public never saw how producers and executives juiced up stories.
Exaggerating some details and down playing or ignoring others.
How they went after something or someone, not based on how strong or important the story was, but what their ratings books told them.
Anna knew her story would be hot. It would be more than hot. It would be incredible. She would have to be cautious. NBC would try to suck the story from her on every possible outlet: the Today show. Dateline, CNBC, and MSNBCTHEY owned her; there were no illusions about that.
She was on the clock, and her contract left no loopholes for appearing on other network news shows. To keep her happy, they would repay her with exposure, probably allow her to do some stories for Dateline. That was the way the game was played. There would be a book deal, for sure, but she would have to be careful about that. She wanted to write it herself, and take her time—no big-bucks, hire-a-ghostwriter, and have-it-on the-shelves-in-two-months deal. The key would be to find the right agent. One who was willing to push for money and more time. The result would be a more authoritative story. She honestly felt that this was a story that needed to be told, but in the right way—dignified, worthy of the seriousness of the situation and of the people who had died.
She would work with Mitch Kruse. Rielly smiled pleasantly at the thought of the man who had saved her. He was all man and then some. Nothing pretty about him. Handsome and rugged. A real man. As to his real identity, the no-brainer answer was that he worked for the CIA, but one could never tell. He could be FBI. They weren't exactly forthright with information either—at least when dealing with journalists.
Rielly could hardly blame them, though. She'd seen her father and his fellow law-enforcement brethren get burned countless times by dishonest journalists. Rielly had vivid memories other father's scathing criticism of reporters, especially newspaper reporters. Barely a week passed when he wouldn't throw the paper down in disgust and explain to her mother how the reporter had his or her facts all screwed up.
Seeing how lax reporting affected her father served as motivation for Rielly to get things right. That's what she would do with the book.
Rielly smiled as the ideas fell into place. The very thing that would make the story all the more appealing, and at the same time honor Kruse's request, would be to keep him as he was—a very lethal, dark, rugged, and anonymous individual.
She would be protecting her source, just like a good reporter, and it would only add to the intrigue of the book.
Rielly heard something on the other side of the door. Her heart leapt into her throat, but before she could scurry for cover, the door opened.
Rapp and Adams quickly entered the room. Rielly placed her right hand on her chest and felt her pounding heart.
From her spot on the floor, she said, "You guys scared the hell out of me."
Rapp's face was tense. Sticking his hand out to help her up, he said,
"Next time we'll be sure to knock."
Rielly ignored the comment and took his hand. Standing, she asked,
"What's next?"
Rapp didn't speak at first. Instead he looked over at the room's second door. He was thinking something through.
After a short while he looked Rielly in the eye.
"We're gonna try something that might be a little risky, but there's no other alternative."
Rielly looked at the door, not knowing what was behind it. Kruse's intensity sent a shiver up her spine. With a forced confidence, she asked, "What's behind that door?"
DALLAS KING STRUTTED back and forth in front of Baxter's desk. The two had been debating what to do with the new information, that there was a good chance Aziz was in the process of extricating President Hayes from his bunker.
In his typical defeatist tone, Baxter had whined that it was over.
Everything they had done was for naught. Helicopters would be sent in, the men in black would rappel from ropes, and the blood bath would ensue. He would forever be remembered as the man who presided over the destruction of the White House and the deaths of dozens of Americans.
His presidential ambitions were gone. Snuffed out. This would be a disgrace the fragile American ego would want to forget.
And Sherman Baxter the Third in the Oval Office would be a constant reminder of this entire ugly week and this gruesome assault on the American way.
King stopped his pacing and started snapping his fingers in front of Baxter.
"You're not listening to me. Pay attention."
"Shut up, Dallas. I'm listening to you. I just don't believe you." The vice president leaned back in his chair and tossed a black pen onto his desk. It hit a leather-bound desk calendar and skidded to a stop in between a photo of Baxter's family vineyard and a photo of his parents.
King looked down at his boss, not really hurt by the harsh words, but acting as if he were. King was practicing patience.
His boss needed to be both coddled and whipped, depending on the situation. Looking down, the chief of staff pulled back the white cuff of his blue dress shirt and looked at his watch.
"Maybe I'd better leave you alone for a while. You seem like you could use some rest." King pulled his cuff back over the watch with an aristocratic flair.
Baxter pointed to King.
"Don't speak to me with that condescending tone of yours, Dallas."
"Well"—King looked down at his fingernails—"my opinion doesn't seem to matter much to you, so I thought it would be best if I left you alone."
Baxter rocked forward.
"Don't give me this crap, Dallas."
King turned to face his boss. Now was the time to dig in and then hit him over the head with both the carrot and the stick.
"Then why do I have to fight you at every turn?" King put his hands on his hips and looked to his boss for an answer.
"Sherman, no one ever said this would be easy, but for Christ's sake, I'm getting sick of your loser attitude." To himself he added. If you had my problems, you'd want to crawl under a rock and die.
Baxter pulled away, leaning back in his chair. After eyeing his agitated chief of staff for a second, he said, "I don't see what in the hell I should be so positive about."
"How about the fact—" King stopped and looked over both of his shoulders, making sure no one was around. Then leaning over the desk he whispered,"—that maybe a certain person might not make it out of the White House alive." Nodding his head confidently, he added, "One heartbeat away. Don't ever forget it."
Baxter looked down at his desk for a moment, too embarrassed to let King see the thirst in his eyes The politician in him told him to say the right thing. "I don't want to become president that way."
"I know you don't, but, Sherman, it would be your duty."
Baxter chewed on the thought.
"We don't know where this thing is going to end up," King continued.
"That's why we have to stay loose. That's why I need your head in the game." King studied Baxter to see if he was getting through.
"Keep the pressure on the UN, and I'll worry about the rest of it. I have some ideas on how we can handle things if Flood and Stansfleld keep leaning on you, but I have to think them through."
King looked out the window while he thought about his plans. It was getting late in the day. Maybe four more hours of sunlight, and then it would be dark again. If they could just make it until the morning and get another third of the hostages released, that would go a long way toward a victory. Then they could turn Flood and Stansfield loose, and hopefully his other problem would then be taken care of. RAPP POINTED TO the second door, saying, "Behind that is a reinforced steel door that leads into a tunnel. The tunnel that was used to evacuate the president when the attack started. It runs from here, down a flight of stairs, under the Rose Garden, and up into the West Wing."
Rielly was leaning against one of the wheeled storage containers, and Rapp and Adams were standing. Rielly listened intently to Rapp's plan.
Talk of hidden tunnels and the evacuation of the president had her curiosity piqued.
"At this end, the tunnel goes down a flight of stairs"-Rapp gestured with his hand—"a quick turn to the left, and then down another short flight, where there's another door.
That door," said Rapp, talking very fast now, "leads to the room just outside the president's bunker. The room that you could see from your spot in the ventilation duct." Looking up, Rielly asked, "So where does that get us?"
"We need to reestablish communication with the president.
Aziz is using some type of a jammer to block communication with the bunker."
"How do you know that?" Out of habit, the reporter was ticking down her notepad of questions.
"When the raid started, we were in communication with the president via Secret Service radio and cell phone for a short period. That is how we knew he was safe in the bunker. When Milt and I came in through the air intake, our reception got worse the closer we got to the White House. Up on the sec and floor the reception is a little better. We're pretty sure that the jamming unit is located as close to the bunker as possible for maximum effect."
Rielly took in his words and asked, "So why do we have to risk this just to talk to the president?"
This is where it gets tricky, Rapp told himself. He didn't want to lie to her, but at the same time, he knew he couldn't tell her what he had figured out—that the reason they were doing this was that the vice president wouldn't order the takedown.
"Anna, I can't get into that with you right now, maybe later.
Just trust me that there's a good reason why we need to reestablish contact with the president."
Rielly eyed him suspiciously, wondering what he was hiding.
"This is one of those things we'll talk about over dinner when you tell me your life story."
Rapp laughed.
"Yeah, sure. I'll put it at the top of the list."
Nice laugh, Rielly thought. He used it as defense mechanism.
Every time he wasn't comfortable with a question or a proposition, he laughed and moved on. Rielly gave him a knowing look as if she could see past the smoke screen.
"So I'm going to crawl back down there and wait for that guy to go to the bathroom. And then I'm going to tug on the rope twice"—Rielly held up two fingers to make sure-"twice, and then you're gonna run down there and do whatever it is that you do for whatever agency it is that you work for, but can't say you work for."
Rapp's quiet laugh and smile popped up right on schedule.
"That's about it."
"What if this guy doesn't need to go to the bathroom?"
"Don't worry, he will. My guess is he's been up for almost three days straight, and he's probably had twenty cups of coffee."
Rapp looked over at the door and then back.
"Any questions before we get started?"
"What if I give the signal and two seconds later he turns around and starts coming back?"
Rapp nodded and pointed to her.
"Now, that's a good question. If that happens, tug on the rope four times, nice and hard." Rapp watched her nod and then again asked, "Any more questions?"
"Yeah," said Rielly.
"What if I have to go to the bathroom?"
"Hold it." Rapp reached into his pocket and pulled out a Velcro patch and one of the mini surveillance units.
"I want you to install this while you're down there. Lay it flat like this."
Rapp set the small device in the palm of his hand and held it horizontally.
"This little wick at the end contains a fiber-optic camera. Make sure it has an unobstructed view of the bunker door."
Rielly took the device and nodded.
"I'm ready when you guys are."
"Milt?" Rapp looked at his partner.
"I'm good to go."
"Good." Rapp brought his hands together and said, "Let's do it." Rubbing them, he shrugged his head toward the second door and said, "Let's get that thing open, and then we'll lower Anna down."
Adams walked over to the gray door and extracted his S-key. He opened the outer door, and there stood a sturdy steel door with rivets securing the hinges and a handle on the right hand side. Adams brought his face to within inches of the control pad and then stopped. Stepping to the side, he looked at Rapp and said, "You'd better give this a try. You're gonna be on your own when you open the second door."
Rapp agreed and stepped up to the control pad. He entered the nine numbers from memory and pressed "enter." Immediately there was the hiss of air releasing and then a metallic click. Rapp stepped back and brought his submachine gun up.
Adams looked at him and pointed to the handle.
"Just lean on that thing, and she's all yours."
Rapp pushed Adams completely out of the way and pressed down on the handle. He didn't expect any trouble, but now was not the time to be lax. Rapp pushed the door in.
Before him was a small landing and a set of stairs The floor and lower half of the walls were covered with a brown carpet.
Rapp stood hugging the doorframe, with his silhouette minimized.
The thick black barrel of his MP-10 searched every inch of the dimly lit staircase before him.
He turned to Adams and Rielly.
"Everything checks out.
Let's get Anna on the move and hope this guy has a little bladder."
A minute later Rielly was wiggling her way back into the vent and Rapp was playing out the rope When she reached the vertical shaft, Rapp carefully eased her down it. From there Rielly inched her way through the narrow confines until she came upon her spot. Gingerly, she inched forward the last several inches and peered through the slats. The high-pitched whine of the drills filled the air. Clutching the surveillance unit Rapp had given her, she looked out intently at the large shiny door of the president's bunker. No one was in sight. The pudgy man that she had seen the time before was not visible. Rielly watched the three bulky drills working to breach the door. She wondered briefly if she should tug on the string and give the signal. After a moment she thought better of it. She could see only part of the room, and for all she knew, someone was in there, or he was gone and could be on his way back.
Taking the arm of her bulky sweatshirt, Rielly reached in front of herself and cleared out a spot for the Velcro patch. She secured the surveillance unit to the spot and made sure the fiber-optic camera had an unobstructed view between the bottom of the opening and the first slat. With that done, she stretched out and tried to get comfortable.
WICKER HAD A crew of eight motivated Navy SEALS working feverishly.
Planning ahead, as always. Wicker had called a lumberyard in Forestville, Maryland, and placed an order for the supplies he would need to build the shooting platform. When his CO, Lt. Commander Harris, had given him the green light' Wicker was on the phone within seconds.
SEAL Team Six's strike element, which would be used to chase the terrorists if they left the country, was billeted at Andrews Air Force Base, where they were biding their time in hopes that they would be sent into action. Wicker explained his situation to the unit's executive officer and told him that Harris had given him the okay. Wicker requested six men specifically, and within twenty minutes they had borrowed a truck from the motor pool and were on the way to the lumberyard. The fact that they had not obtained authorization for the truck was something the paper pushers could sort out later.
By a little past two in the afternoon they were downtown in their jeans and T-shirts unloading their equipment. Everything was ferried by hand up the bell tower of the Old Post Office, and now the men, all of whom were experienced snipers, were putting the finishing touches on the platforms.
Building one platform would not work. Two shots would be fired by two men using fifty-caliber rifles. Although the platforms' construction was sturdy, if only one were used, the slightest movement by one man could send the other man's shot dangerously awry.
The two platforms were actually rectangular boxes constructed of one-inch plywood and reinforced with four-by sixes and glued and screwed together. Wicker grabbed a hard plastic rifle case by the handle and laid it down on one of the platforms. With the others watching, he popped the clasps on the case and opened it. Inside sat a massive .50 caliber Barrett rifle. Sixty-one inches from muzzle to shoulder butt and weighing thirty pounds, it was one of the largest rifles in the world.
It used the powerful .50 caliber Browning cartridge and was capable of taking out targets at distances in excess of one mile.
Wicker, not a particularly large man, was only a half foot taller than the rifle. Scooping the heavy black weapon from its foam encasement, he pulled the fixed bipod into its extended position and set it down. He climbed onto the platform, slid in behind the rifle, and drew close to the scope. He peered through the circular eyepiece, and within seconds he was staring at the hooded terrorist sitting in the guard booth on the roof of the White House. At this short distance, the .50 caliber Barrett would normally be way too much firepower, but considering the security afforded the terrorists by the bulletproof Plexiglas, it was the right weapon for the job. Not just one Barrett, but two.
Wicker shifted his weight and moved subtly while he kept the crosshairs of the scope centered on the hooded man six hundred twenty feet away.
There was no wobbling. The platform was sturdy. Satisfied, Wicker stood and placed his rifle back in its case. While he put the case back in the corner, his men went to work to complete the project. Wicker looked at the setting sun and noticed a change in the weather just over the horizon. A welcome change. Grabbing the digital phone from his hip, he punched in a number and waited for the person on the other end to answer. RIELLY DIDN'T HAVE her watch and had forgotten to ask what time it was before she was lowered into the vent. From the stiffness in her hip, she was guessing that she had been in the tiny space for at least thirty minutes, maybe even an hour.
For the better part of that she had seen no movement from the room With nothing else to do, her mind wandered and fatigue set in. Several times she caught herself dozing off only to have her head bob back up and bump the top of the vent. The cramped confines and the drone of the drills reminded her of lying in a tanning bed.
That she was not seeing any sign of the terrorists began to make her nervous. She started to wonder if the room was vacant, if now was the right time to give the signal. The problem was that she couldn't see all of the room. If they did this again, she reminded herself, ask for a watch and a better set of instructions.
As the minutes passed by, Rielly grew more stiff and tired.
Finally, when she was really beginning to doubt that there was anyone in the room, she heard a sound that was different from the steady drone of the drills. She squinted so she could get a clear shot through the slats, and Rielly saw something move. It was a shadow. There was someone in the room. A moment later the pudgy man she had seen on her previous trip stepped into the full view of the open door and stretched his arms above his head, his potbelly bulging outward. She watched as the man moved out of sight and then approached the drills to measure their progress as she had seen him do on her first trip. When he was done taking his measurements, he tossed the tape measure onto something that was not in Rielly's view, and then, with his hands stretched over his head once again, he started down the hall toward her, his mouth agape, a yawn squirreling its way out of his rodent like face.
Rieuy's face grimaced in disgust at the man's slovenly appearance and harsh features. At first she drew closer to the vent and then quickly moved back for fear of being discovered.
As he neared her position, the fingers of her right hand reached up and fumbled for the black loop around her neck.
Rielly found what she was looking for, and as the man turned the corner beneath her, she pulled hard on the shoelace twice.
RAPP AND ADAMS had stood alert for the first ten minutes, Adams standing by the open vent with the rope in his hands and Rapp poised at the top of the stairs, his MP-10 strapped across his chest and his silenced pistol in his left hand. Rapp had decided that the submachine gun was too much to handle for this little foray. After ten minutes of standing awkwardly across the room from each other, Rapp saw that there was a better way to utilize their time.
Crossing over to Adams, Rapp had taken the rope and asked Adams to pull out his blueprints. After Adams spread the documents out on top of one of the containers, Rapp gave him the rope back. He then proceeded to pick Milt's brain on the layout of the West Wing. Exactly where the tunnel came out on the other end and what he could expect to find when he opened that door. Rapp and Adams had already gone over most of this before, but Rapp wanted to make sure he had a good grasp of the floor plan. He knew if he could pull off this phase of the operation, his next task would be to get into the West Wing and get a firsthand look at how the hostages were being held.
From everything they could guess and from what Rielly had told them, they knew the bulk of the hostages were being held in the mess The problem that Rapp faced was finding out if any of the Secret Service agents and officers were still alive and if so, where they were being held. As Rapp prodded Adams about the best way to check out the other areas of the West Wing, Adams lurched suddenly.
Looking at Rapp, he spat, "That was it. Two tugs."
Rapp was instantly moving across the floor. Looking over his shoulder, he whispered, "If you get the recall sign, start calling my name, and bust your ass down these steps so I can hear you." Rapp was gone, into the tunnel, racing down the steps like a running back going through a set of tires. Out of habit he had his pistol out in front of him, leading the way. When he hit the bottom step, he looked briefly down the length of the tunnel and then turned immediately to his left. Leaping down the next flight, he came to a crashing halt at the reinforced door and switched his gun from his right hand to his left.
Breathing a little heavier, he paused for a second to listen for Adams.
Nothing, no warning from above. Pulling the numbers up from memory, he punched in the first eight and once again stopped to listen. Not more than two seconds later he punched the last number and stood back. The 9-mm Beretta went back into his right hand as the rubber gasket surrounding the door hissed. There was the metallic click of the locking stems retracting, and Rapp's left hand shoved down on the door handle.
It was no time to be timid.
Shoving the door open three feet, Rapp led with the pistol.
The first thing his senses picked up was the sound of the drills and then a strange smell. His eyes picked up the back of the open door that led out into the hallway, and as he continued to open the steel door and step into the anteroom, the door hit something and there was the sound of metal hitting metal. The noise startled Rapp but wasn't loud enough to be heard over the clamor of the drills. Rapp slid around the door, leading with the gun, careful to show only as much of his body as necessary.
Quickly, he jerked the pistol to the left and then the right, his eyes following. The room was empty. He approached the open door and took a quick peek down the hallway. Nothing.
Taking a longer look this time, he looked up at the vent in an attempt to see Rielly. He was relieved to see that he couldn't.
Returning his attention to the task at hand, he turned and looked for the source of his and many others' frustration.
There it sat, immediately to the left of the bunker door, touching the shiny polished steel The black box was no bigger than a large stereo receiver. Rapp stepped over a toolbox and around another. Dropping down to one knee, he looked at the control panel and studied the dials and digital readout The unit was manufactured by one of Westinghouse little-known subsidiaries who just happened to do a lot of work with the CIA, FBI, and Secret Service. Aziz had taken this baby from the Secret Service's arsenal. Rapp pulled the box away from the door so he could get at the wires and antenna in back. He grabbed a small pair of wire cutters from his web vest and lowered the arm of the lip mike on his headset. Rapp snipped the wire that led to the antenna.
"Milt, can you hear me? Milt, can you hear me?" Rapp waited a couple seconds. After failing to raise Adams a second time, Rapp flipped the jammer onto its front and looked at the perforated black metal on the back. Through the cooling slats, he could see several bound groups of wire. Turning the thing off wouldn't work. He had to disable it. The key was to make it look as if it were still on.
Rapp plunged the wire cutter in between two of the cooling slats. The pointy nose of the wire cutter bent the metal.
Rapp twisted the tool back and forth several times to get more access, and then opened the snips. As he clamped down on the first group of wires, it never occurred to him to unplug the machine first. Rapp squeezed hard, and as soon as the metal jaws of the wire cutter broke the protective insulation of the wires, sparks shot up, and Rapp was knocked back onto his butt.
With tingles shooting up his right arm and feeling as if he'd lost all of the hair on his body, Rapp mumbled, "Shit." Shaking his right arm vigorously, he started to get back up. Over his headset he heard the voice of Milt Adams, and then someone else. A voice he didn't recognize.
IRENE KENNEDY sat at her elevated position in the control room with a phone to her ear. On the other end of the secure line. General Campbell was explaining Lt. Commander Harris's plan to send in a small team of demolition experts to clear the path for the strike teams. Kennedy was not excited about the plan at first, that was until Campbell explained to her that Harris and the three men he had chosen had all succeeded in accomplishing what seemed to be the most difficult aspect of the operation during a training operation with the Secret Service some eight years earlier. She still wasn't crazy about the idea, but the fact that they had already proven they could do it went a long way.
As Kennedy listened to the general fill her in on the other aspects of the plan, her concentration was broken by a flurry of motion and voices from the two rows in front of her when she looked up, she almost dropped the phone. The monitors that were showing the pictures that Rapp had already provided were now crystal clear, and smack dab in the middle of the big board was a picture of a shiny silver door that could be nothing other than the one to the president's bunker.
Campbell repeatedly called Kennedy's name. After the third or fourth time it registered, and she said into the phone, "He did it."
"Who did it?" asked a slightly irritated Campbell.
"Mitch did. We have a picture of the bunker on the board."
Kennedy paused for a second while one of her people pointed to his own headset and spoke to her. Kennedy clutched the phone and said, "You'd better get back here right away. We have Mitch on full audio from his Motorola, not the field radio. I think he's taken out the jammer. Hustle back. I have to let Thomas know." Without waiting for a response from Campbell, Kennedy hung up the phone and quickly dialed the extension for her boss. At the same time she riffled through a stack of papers.
Stansfield answered on the second ring, and Kennedy could barely contain her excitement.
"Thomas, Mitchell has taken out the jammer. We have him on full audio, and we've picked up two more surveillance feeds."
"I'll be there in a minute," Stansfield calmly replied.
Kennedy hung up the phone and put on her headset as she called out Rapp's code name over the microphone hanging in front of her lips. She came across the document she was looking for, a list of numbers provided by Secret Service Director Tracy. PRESIDENT HAYES LOOKED at his watch.
It was nearing five o'clock.
"Are you sure we shouldn't wait until it's dark?"
Jackwarch shook his head.
"I'd like to, but we don't know how much time we have."
All of the agents were either sitting or standing around the group of couches in the middle of the room. Warch had convinced the president that their chances for survival were better if they made the break.
Valerie Jones had also agreed.
Not that it made a huge difference, but at this crucial juncture the less dissent the better. After getting Jones out of the way, Warch had brought the agents in, and they were now finalizing the plan.
Warch looked up at Pat Cowley. Cowley was hands down the best shot of the group with either a pistol or submachine gun. The former Supreme Court police officer had just finished a four-year stint with the Secret Service's Counter Assault Team, where he had spent the majority of his time riding around in the back of the old, black, armor-plated Suburban that followed the president's limousine wherever it went.
These were the men that carried the big hardware. If the motorcade came under attack, it was their job to, first, cover the president's evacuation and, second, neutralize the threat if possible. Their basic doctrine was to carry enough firepower that they could enfilade the threat with a volley of bullets while the president was evacuated from the area. Warch continued going through the agents' assignments one by one. He picked two agents to leapfrog behind the point as they moved, and assigned Ellen Morton and three other agents to stay with the president at all times. The last agent was to provide a rear guard if needed. Warch himself would stay fluid and try to lead as they moved.
After all questions were answered and the evacuation routes were decided on, warch got the troops lined up. Five of the nine agents carried MP-5 submachine guns along with their SIG-Sauer pistols. The others, including Warch, were armed with their pistols only. With weapons checked and ready, Warch turned to Ellen Morton and said, "Take the president and Valerie and put them in the bathroom When we give you the all clear, you bring them out, and we move."
As Warch turned for the door, he was interrupted by a noise he had been waiting to hear for more than two days.
Simultaneously, every head in the room snapped toward the small kitchen table. On the second ring, Warch bolted toward the noise. Reaching out, he snatched his digital phone and pressed the send button.
"Hello!"
"Jack, it's Irene Kennedy."
Warch's heart was in his throat.
"Thank God!"
Kennedy spoke quickly, her eyes staring at the monitor in the center of the big board.
"How's the president?"
"He's fine… but somebody's drilling through the bunker door. What in the hell's going on?"
Kennedy took a deep breath and started in.
"Jack, we don't have a lot of time, so I'll give you the short version.
Rafique Aziz and a group of terrorists have taken over the White House.
They are holding hostages, and we know they are trying to break into the bunker."
Warch was a little surprised that Kennedy knew about the assault on the door. The president was now coming toward him from across the room.
"Well, what are you guys doing about it?"
"We're working on it, but we need to speak to the president first."
"Sure, he's right here. "Warch handed Hayes the phone, saying, "It's Irene Kennedy."
Hayes took the small gray phone and held it to his ear.
"Dr. Kennedy?"
"Yes, Mr. President. How are you doing?"
"Good!" exclaimed a relieved Hayes.
"Its great to hear your voice."
"It's nice to hear yours too, sir, but we have a lot to cover, and we're short on time, so I'm going to hand the phone over to Director Stansfield."
Stansfield and General Flood had just entered the room.
Kennedy had her chair turned around, and as the men hurriedly approached their seats, she held up three fingers.
Stansfield grabbed his phone and pressed line three. In his normal businesslike tone he said, "Mr. President, I apologize for taking so long to get through to you, but we've been experiencing some difficulties."
"What in the hell has been going on?" asked Hayes.
Stansfield started from the top and moved through the highlights of what had happened over the last three days. He covered the demands that had been made and met, and those that were in the process of being met. He told the president of the murder of his national security adviser and his secretary, and the subsequent mental breakdown of his attorney general.
He intentionally stressed certain events and exchanges that hinted at Vice President Baxter's incompetence. Stansfield gave him the soft sell.
It was better to let Hayes come to his own conclusions than to hit him over the head with the obvious.
The president, for his part, let Stansfield brief him without interruption. President Hayes was not happy about much of what he heard.
The only bright spot thus far was the news that Stansfield had managed to get someone inside the White House. And not just anyone, but the man he had just learned of several days earlier. The man the president knew only as Iron Man. A man that had been billed as the absolute best Thomas Stansfield had ever seen.
When the director of the CIA explained the vice president's reaction to the news that Aziz was in the process of extracting the president from his bunker, Hayes lost it.
"He told you to do what?" Hayes's face was tense with anger.
"He told us that before he would risk the hostages' lives by ordering a raid, we would have to present him with more precise information."
Hayes shook his head. "It sure as hell sounds to me like you had pretty good information."
"Yes," replied Stansfield.
"We felt so, sir."
"Well, get him on the phone so I can give him irrefutable information that he's an idiot."
Now came the time for Stansfield's calm vision. His ability to slow things down when they seemed to be speeding up for everybody else had been one of his greatest assets over the years—that and his ability to approach a situation like a grand master and plot his moves far in advance. Stansfield was pretty confident where this entire situation was headed, and for now he knew it was best to keep the knowledge of their contact with the president to a bare minimum.
In regard to putting the president in touch with his nextin-command, Stansfield said, "I would advise against that right now, sir."
"Why?"
"We have suffered several leaks from the vice presidents camp thus far."
Stansfield paused, giving the president time to digest the innuendo.
"We know that Aziz is monitoring the news, and I would not want it to leak out that we are in contact with you. We need to let Aziz continue to think that he has the upper hand. General Flood and General Campbell are in the process of putting the final touches on an assault plan. As soon as they are ready, and you give the order, we can end this."
Hayes thought about the decision. His mind was made up almost instantaneously, and then he paused, wondering why Baxter hadn't given the approval. Turning his back to the group of agents and his chief of staff, he asked, "Why hasn't the vice president given this order?"
"I'm not sure, sir. I have some ideas, but I don't think you're going to like them."
"Try me."
"I think it would be best if we waited to discuss them face to face."
Hayes nodded.
"All right." Then moving on to practical matters, he said, "I'm assuming that the powers of my office have been transferred to the vice president."
"That's correct, sir."
"Well, if I remember my Constitution correctly, we have some procedural issues to take care of."
"Such as?"
"We need to inform both the president pro tempore of the Senate and the Speaker of the House that I am able to resume my duties. Technically, unless we do that, the transfer of power is not complete."
Stansfield exhaled an uncharacteristic sigh. To someone who had spent years trying to skirt, bend, and sometimes break laws, this technicality seemed to be utterly trivial. He reminded himself that President Hayes was both a lawyer and an amateur presidential historian. Stifling the temptation to tell Hayes that it -was a waste of time to discuss such a point, Stansfield instead said, "Sir, you are the president The powers of your office were transferred to the vice president for the sole reason that we could not communicate with you. That is no longer the case.
General Flood and I are going to take our orders from you. If you feel that it is absolutely imperative to inform the vice president and the Speaker of the House that you are once again able to discharge your duties, we can do that in the minutes just prior to the raid."
Hayes thought about it. Always a stickler for detail, he wanted to make sure everything would be legitimate.
"That sounds fine to me. I just want to make sure those calls are made."
"We can do that, sir."
Hayes turned and looked at the bunker door, the humming sound of intruders just on the other side.
"Thomas, what are we to do if they breach the door before the strike teams are ready?"
Stansfield paused for a moment and looked at Kennedy.
Kennedy was listening in on the call, and she pointed to herself.
Stansfield nodded for her to go ahead.
"Mr. President, it's Dr. Kennedy again. We are monitoring your situation and have both audio and video surveillance of the bunker door. Iron Man is very close by. If it appears that they are about to get the bunker door open, we can order him to prevent that. In addition, the FBI's Hostage Rescue Team is deployed across the street at the Executive Office Building.
They have a pretty good idea of where the hostages are being held and"—Kennedy sounded less than enthusiastic—"if we really need to rush it, they can be inside the West Wing within thirty seconds of the execute order." Hayes picked up on Kennedy's tone and said, "I get the feeling you have some reservations. Doctor."
"Aziz brought a lot of explosives with him, and he has threatened to bring the whole building down if there is any rescue attempt."
Hayes thought about this new, disturbing piece of information.
"Any chance he's bluffing?"
"None at all, sir."
"Can we handle this?"
Kennedy looked up at her boss and General Flood.
"We're working on it, sir."
THE SUN WAS falling in the western sky, and from the east a solid wall of gray was approaching. Salim Rusan stood near the tailgate of his ambulance and looked in both directions. A deeply superstitious man, he did not like the foreboding change in the weather. One of the other ambulance drivers had stopped by and introduced himself, and as luck would have it, the man was gay. Instead of the disguise working as a repellent, it had done the opposite.
After several moments of idle chitchat, Rusan made up the excuse that he needed to run and make a phone call When the other ambulance driver offered his cell phone, Rusan declined and stated that in addition to having to call his boyfriend, he also had to use the bathroom.
He turned and started walking to the east down Pennsylvania Avenue. Just a dozen paces later he approached two D.C. cops manning the barricade at Fourteenth Street.
"Excuse me, Officers," he asked.
"Can you tell me where I can get a bite to eat?"
One of the officers eyed him with a frown while the other paused for a moment and then pointed down the street. "If you head down E Street here, you'll run into a deli and a couple fast-food joints." Rusan smiled and said thank you as he passed the two men. Then turning, he asked, "Will I have any problem getting back to my ambulance?"
"No, we'll be here for a while."
Rusan turned on his toes. He ducked under the blue sawhorse at the far end of the intersection; he was immediately pleased with the volume of people. After pressing his way through the crowd, he found that it ran about ten people deep and then loosened up. A large concrete trash can, overflowing with trash, sat behind the crowd. There must have been a Mcdonald's nearby because eight or so of their bags littered the immediate area around the receptacle. All the better, since the bomb would do more damage lying on the sidewalk than in the garbage can.
He pulled one of the cans of diet Coke from his fanny pack and bent over. Taking one of the spent Mcdonald's bags, he wedged the can in with the rest of the refuse and set the whole package back on the ground. He positioned the bag so the majority of the blast would be directed toward the crowd.
Rusan stood and started down the sidewalk again. He would come back the same way and make sure the bag was still there. Up ahead on his right, he could make out the ugly brown surface of the Hoover Building. He wouldn't go that far, although it was very tempting. There were too many cameras and too many professionals with a trained eye. Rusan would play it safe for now. There was no need to risk exposure.
THE CONFERENCE ROOM at the Counterterrorism Center at Langley was bustling with action. The room was actually a room within a room. Built several feet off the floor and surrounded on four sides by glass, it was enveloped in an electromagnetic field that made eavesdropping impossible.
Irene Kennedy stood at the front of the room with General Campbell as the meeting attendees filed in.
Director Roach and Special Agent Skip Mcmahon of the FBI entered the room with Thomas Stansfield holding on to each man's elbow. The elderly director of the Central Intelligence Agency led them to where Kennedy was standing.
Stansfield released his grip on the men and said, "Irene, I was just filling in Brian and Skip on Iron Man." After hanging up with the president, Stansfield had sealed off the control room. No one was to breathe a word that they had reestablished contact with the president.
Stansfield, Flood, Campbell, and Kennedy were the only people outside the control room that knew. The men from the FBI would be informed of this piece of information by the president himself.
Kennedy was half ready to have Skip Mcmahon chew her head off, until Stansfield said, "I was telling Skip and Brian that you had wanted to let them in on what we were doing with Iron Man. I take full responsibility for this, gentlemen, and I have good reasons for doing so."
"Such as?" asked an edgy Skip Mcmahon.
Stansfield played his old man status for all it was worth. Reaching out, he patted Mcmahon's large forearm and said, "That's why I like you, Skip. Always vigilant, always pressing for the whole story."
"That's right. So let's hear it."
"I'm afraid that will have to happen during a later conversation.
Right now I have something I think you will be far more interested in.
Now, if you will please take your seats, we need to get started."
Stansfield gestured to two chairs near Kennedy, and Mcmahon and Roach sat. Stansfield turned to Kennedy and said, "Let's get started." The director walked to the far end of the table and sat next to General Flood.
The attendees at the meeting were chosen on a need-to know basis The secretaries of state and defense were bypassed, as were several other high-ranking officials. Stansfield, Flood, and the president had agreed that, for now, only a select few would be told that contact had been made with the president and that his life was in danger. Those selected, other than those already mentioned, were the commanders of HRT, Delta Force, and SEAL Team Six.
One of Kennedy's people closed the airtight door to the conference room, and Kennedy pressed a switch that lowered dark blinds over the glass walls. Standing at the front of the room next to General Campbell, Kennedy started off by saying, "Gentlemen, what General Campbell and I are about to tell you doesn't leave this room. You don't tell the people on your teams, you don't tell your bosses, you don't tell your wives."
General Campbell stepped forward.
"I can promise all of you"—Campbell eyeballed the three commanders of the elite counterterrorist strike teams—"if I find out you breathed a word of this information to anyone, I will make sure your career is ended." Campbell waited to get a nod from each of the three commanders.
Behind Kennedy and Campbell were five TVS. Four twenty-five-inchers and one thirty-six-incher. Kennedy dimmed the overhead lights, and then with a remote control she turned on the TVS. Dead center, on the thirty-six-inch TV, was the live feed of the bunker door.
"As all of you know, the president was evacuated to his bunker in the initial minutes of the assault. Shortly thereafter, we lost the ability to communicate with him due to the fact that Aziz was using a state-of-the-art mobile jamming unit that he conveniently borrowed from the Secret Service's arsenal. Yesterday evening we were able to sneak two individuals into the White House. One is a civilian with intimate knowledge of the White House, and the second is a counterterrorism specialist who for our purposes we will refer to as Iron Man. The images that you see on the screens behind me are provided from surveillance units they have in place in the White House."
Kennedy turned around and pointed at the middle screen.
"For those of you who haven't figured it out, this is a shot of the door that leads to the president's bunker. This slovenly man that you see moving about is Mustafayassin, an Iraqi who specializes in breaking into vaults. These three objects you see attached to the door are drills. We have no idea how far along they are in this process, but we are not going to wait around for them to succeed." Kennedy pressed a button on the remote, and a white screen lowered from the ceiling. On it was an overhead view of the White House compound. Turning to General Campbell, she signaled for him to take over.
Campbell pointed to the West Wing and said, "The bulk of the hostages are being held in the White House mess on the ground floor. Intelligence from the FBI and the NSA leads us to believe that there is a second, smaller group of hostages being held in the Roosevelt Room on the main floor. Iron Man thinks this second group of hostages consists of any Secret Service or military personnel that are still alive. Dr. Kennedy and I agree."
Sid Slater, the special agent in charge of the FBI's Hostage Rescue Team, raised his hand. The general looked at him and said, "Sid?"
"Do we have any video on the hostages?"
"I'm afraid not. At least not at this point. We don't have a lot of time, which brings me to my next point. H-hour is set for twenty-thirty."
"Whoa," proclaimed Director Roach of the FBI.
"The order's been given to go in?"
"That's affirmative," said General Flood from the other end of the room.
Roach looked at his watch. It was several minutes past five in the evening.
"Baxter gave you the go-ahead?" asked the skeptical head of the FBI.
From the overhead speaker system a very familiar voice answered Roach's question.
"No, I did."
Half of the faces in the room looked up toward the heavens as if God were speaking to them. President Hayes cleared his throat and said,
"Men, I know we're not giving you a lot of time, but I have an immense amount of faith in you. Now, if I may make a suggestion, I think we should all keep a lid on any questions until General Campbell finishes briefing us. General, please continue."
Campbell looked up at the speakers in gratitude and then back at the group.
"Gentlemen, we don't have much time, so we're gonna use the KISS rule.
HRT"—Campbell tapped the left side of the screen—"the West Wing and the hostages are all yours. Sid, I know you and your people have been working on different scenarios. You are going to need a two-pronged assault at a minimum." Campbell held up his finger and cautioned the stocky head of the Hostage Rescue Team.
"We have some ideas for entry, and I'll get to them in a minute."
With his usual precision Campbell did a left face and tapped the roof of the mansion.
"Delta Force will be responsible for the mansion." Campbell looked at the unit's CO, Colonel Gray.
"Billy, your boys are going in on the Little Birds, and they have to be ready to move lightning fast. Before I get to the master plan, I want to caution everybody that there is a real chance that we might not make it to H-hour. If we get an inkling that they are about to get that bunker door open, we have no choice but to move."
Campbell looked at the commanders for a moment and then held up a file.
"What I have here is Commander Harris's brief back Campbell shook his head. "This is one of the finest, most thorough brief backs I have ever read. I have to compliment you. Commander Harris, on doing such a fine job on such short notice." Campbell shook the file and looked at the rest of the group.
"This thing is a doozy. If Lieutenant Commander Harris hadn't already performed part of this, there is no way he could have sold me on it, but he did." Campbell shook his head.
"Here it goes. Almost eight years ago. Commander Harris and three of his fellow SEALS jumped out of a MC-130 Combat Talon in the middle of the night and parachuted onto the roof of the White House undetected by the Secret Service. This was no stunt; it was an exercise that the Secret Service wanted the Navy to help them conduct. The results have been confirmed."
Campbell paused and looked at the group.
"I'm sure some of you are wondering why I am even considering a crazy James Bond maneuver like this, and here's my reason. Iron Man has verified that explosive devices have been planted in the mansion.
We have separate intelligence that tells us Aziz brought along enough Semtex to level the whole building, which means that most likely any raid will result in the loss of all the hostages and most of the assault teams. Our only chance is to get a group of demolition experts into the building just prior to the assault and figure out a way to disable these bombs. This is what we were trying to do early this morning when one of the men on Commander Harris's team was killed."
Campbell paused for a moment and then said, "Here is how things will go if we make it to H-hour. Commander Harris and three of his men will do a HALO jump out of a Special Forces MC-One-Thirty Combat Talon. Our intel people think the rooftop cameras that monitor the grounds are still operational and being used. Because of this, all four men must land on the roof. Two of SEAL Team Six's best snipers have set up shop four blocks away from the White House in the bell tower of the Old Post Office. Just prior to the landing of the first element, the sentry in the rooftop guard booth will be taken out by the snipers. From there Commander Harris's team will be met by Iron Man, who will lead them via a tunnel that runs from the basement of the mansion over to the West Wing."
Campbell paused for a moment to backtrack.
"Between now and H-hour, Iron Man will reconnoiter the West Wing and collect as much information as possible. His first priority will be to obtain video surveillance of both groups of hostages. His second task will be to scout out both primary and secondary assault lanes for the Hostage Rescue Team.
Having taken care of that in advance, he will lead Commander Harris's team to open at least one of those lanes, if not both. If Commander Harris and his team fail to open those, we have one other backup in place. Within thirty minutes an Air Force E-Three-A Sentry will be on station above the city.
We have reason to believe thataziz has the ability to detonate the bombs by remote control. We don't know if this remote is radio, cellular, or digital, and we can't take a chance on guessing, so if the order is given, the AWACS will shower the area around the White House with a storm of disruption that will jam everything except the stuff that we are using."
Looking at the commanders offer and Delta, Campbell said, "We considered lighting up the area from the get-go but decided against it. The break in communication may tip them off and allow them to manually detonate the bombs."
There were several moments of silence, and then Slater and Gray looked at each other. They both knew it would do no good to start asking questions. There wasn't enough time to really plan and practice. This would be one of those times that they had talked about during their countless training exercises.
This would be one of those times they had feared. A time when they would throw the play book out the window.
The commander OF JSOC looked around the room. After a moment of silence he focused on the warriors to his left. The men who would be going into battle. Speaking as one commando to another, he said, "A thousand things could go wrong at any stage of this operation." The three commanders acknowledged the warning given to them from a decorated soldier with a knowing look. Campbell frowned, biting his lower lip, and then added,
"Stay loose… Pick your best shooters… This one is going to be all instinct and reaction. There's no time to rehearse."
RAPP AND ADAMS were back in the tiny elevator with all of their equipment, descending to lower levels of the White House. The stash room had served them well, but now they needed to be closer to the action.
Before heading up to retrieve their gear, Rapp had affixed one of the surveillance units to the bottom of a fire extinguisher in the hallway With the jamming unit out of action, Rapp could now speak clearly with the control room at Langley and bypass sticking the fiber-optic snake under the door to check and see if everything was all right.
As the elevator came to a stop, Rapp spoke into his lip mike, "Iron Man to control. We're back in the basement. Give me a check on the hallway."
A monotone male voice came back.
"The hallway is clear.
Over."
Rapp nodded for Adams to open the door. When Adams did so, Rapp stepped out into the hallway, his MP-10 sweeping from left to right. Adams joined him, and, after closing the outer door to the elevator, they moved quickly down the hall.
With key in hand, the wiry old engineer opened the door to the china storage room, and the two of them entered. Anna Rielly looked up, relieved they were back.
"How did it go?"
"Fine," answered Rapp as he set his weapon down and started to take the heavy backpack off.
"Except Milt had to go to the bathroom again."
"Again?" asked Rielly Adams stood there looking the miniature version of Rapp, with his matching black baseball cap and black Nomex coveralls.
Placing his hands on his hips, he shook his head and said, "You two, just wait. I'd like to see you try and do this secret agent junk when you're my age."
Rapp laughed.
"If I could only be lucky enough to live that long."
The statement sobered up Rielly in a snap. She realized that although he had said his statement with levity, he was serious.
Rapp moved his gear to the floor and said, "Milt and I are going to go over to the West Wing and check some things out while you wait right here."
"Why can't I come with you?" Rielly asked.
"Because"—Rapp kept a level tone—"this could get real hairy, Anna, and I'm going to have a hard enough time keeping an eye on Milt."
"I promise I won't get in your way. In fact, I could probably be a help."
Rapp shook his head.
"It's not going to happen, Anna.
And I don't have the time to sit around and discuss it with you. I've been ordered to find out what is going on in the West Wing, and I need to do it quick. Because of the situation with the president, we might be forced to launch a raid at any minute."
Rielly nodded reluctantly.
"Is there anything I can do while you're gone?"
"If things proceed as I think they might, there's a chance I might need your help with something later. Okay? For now, just sit here and look pretty."
She gave a fake smile.
"Thanks."
"Well"—Rapp stood—"it shouldn't be very hard for you to do." Turning to Adams, he said, "Milt, come here." Adams walked over, and Rapp affixed a small object to the side of his headset. The camera was about three inches long and an inch in diameter, with a lens at the front and a cord at the back that was hooked up to a transmitter. Rapp tucked the transmitter into a pocket on the back of Adams's combat vest, then arranged another camera on his own headset.
Rapp adjusted his Up mike and said, "Iron Man to control.
You should have two more feeds from the head-mounted cameras. Can you confirm?"
The reply came over their headsets a second later.
"That's affirmative. Iron Man. We are receiving both feeds."
With his baseball cap on backward, Rapp swung the arm of his headset up above his forehead and grabbed one of the fanny packs. After strapping it around Adams's waist, he said, "There are ten of the surveillance units in here. We'll decide where to put them when we get over there.
Are you ready?"
He nodded.
"All right." Turning back to Rielly, he said, "You should be safe here until we get back."
"What if someone shows up?"
Rapp put a hand on his hip and thought about it. There was a chance he and Adams might not make it back. Grabbing for his thigh holster, he drew his silenced 9-mm Beretta. "You told me your dad taught you how to shoot?"
"Yep" Rapp checked to make sure the weapon was on safety and then handed it to Rielly. He pointed to a spot on the far wall almost thirty feet away.
"You see that scuff mark just above the shelf?"
Rielly nodded.
"She's locked and loaded. One in the chamber and fifteen more in the magazine. Take her off safety, and squeeze one off at the scuff mark."
Rapp always felt that you could learn a lot about someone by watching how they handled a firearm.
Rielly held the weapon in both hands confidently. Keeping it pointed down range, she turned it slightly, and with the thumb of her right hand, she flicked off the safety. She stood with her feet a shoulder width apart and took aim The silencer made the gun nose heavy, forcing her to adjust for the weight.
When she had the scuff mark lined up in the sights, she squeezed the trigger.
There was a spitting noise from the end of the gun, and a split second later the louder noise of the bullet hitting the smooth concrete wall. A chunk the size of a quarter broke free and fell to the floor. Rielly's shot missed the mark by about twelve inches, low and right. She put the gun back on safety and said, "The silencer makes it heavy."
"But nice and quiet," replied Rapp.
"Yeah." Rielly looked at the smooth black weapon.
"That's not a bad shot. My advice is for you to sit right over there."
Rapp pointed toward the door that led into the hallway. "If anyone comes in that door dressed in green fatigues and carrying an AK-74, you put a bullet in his head and ask questions later."
Rielly licked her lips and nodded.
Rapp started back toward the door that led to the tunnel.
"Whatever you do, Anna, don't come looking for us. If we're not back within an hour, that means something has gone wrong. You better off waiting right here until someone from our side comes and gets you."
Rapp turned to Adams, who had the outer door open, and said, "Let's go."
Adams punched the code into the reinforced tunnel door and pushed it in.
Rapp followed him into the tunnel and turned to give Rielly a smile and a nod Then they were gone, the door closed, on their way to the West Wing.
AZIZ LOOKED UP at the digital clocks on the wall to his left. The clock closest to him gave him the East Coast time. It was 6:29 P.M. He took the remote control and turned the main TV from CNN to NBC the nightly national news was about to start, and he wanted to feel the force of America's number one news network announcing another victory for him and his jihad.
When the overly dramatic music announced the start of the program, Aziz grinned with anticipation as the logo flashed across the screen, followed quickly by the words "White House Crisis—Day Three."
Tom Brokaw came on and, after a brief lead-in, he cut to the United Nations in New York. The network's correspondent clutched her microphone and passionately retold the late breaking news. The UN Security Council had unanimously voted to lift all economic sanctions against Iraq except those involving military imports and technology. The reporter went on to tell how Israel was the only UN member to protest the vote, but since they were not a permanent member of the Security Council, they could do nothing to prevent the lifting of sanctions.
Aziz stood and smiled triumphantly. He had won again.
Now all he needed was the president and he would have complete victory.
Aziz grabbed his radio and barked the name of his little thief.
"Mustafa!" Aziz repeated himself two more times, and then one of his other men answered. "Rafique, it is Ragib. "The man was standing watch in the basement by the door to the boiler room. "I don't think he can hear you because of the drills. Do you want me to get him?"
"Yes."
Ragib let his radio fall to his side, and he walked down the hallway toward the bunker. When he rounded the corner, he yelled, "Mustafa!" The plump man appeared from behind the door and peered down the hallway.
Ragib held up his radio and yelled, "Rafique wants to talk to you."
Mustafa Yassin nodded and started walking toward Ragib.
After taking his ear protectors off, he brought his radio to his mouth and said, "Rafique, I am here." The plump little man kept walking. The farther away he got from the drills the better he could hear.
Back in the Situation Room, Aziz watched the UN story unfold on the TV and asked, "What is your progress?"
"I think it will take me about an hour."
"Are you sure?"
"I think so. The drills are getting close. Once they have reached their mark, all I have to do is take them off the door and… and then it should take me another ten to twenty minutes of tinkering and it should be ready."
"Call me when you are ready to take the drills off the door, and I will come over."
Yassin wasn't sure he heard him correctly and yelled into the radio,
"You want me to call you when I'm ready to take the drills off the door?"
"Yes."
"Okay." The dumpy safecracker turned and walked back down the hallway toward the bunker.
IRENE KENNEDY AND General Campbell were back in the control room getting ready to monitor Rapp's foray into the West Wing. Director Stansfield and Chairman of the Joint Chiefs General Flood were sitting quietly one row behind, watching and waiting to offer their approval or opinion if needed.
General Campbell turned to one of his staffers sitting to his right and covered the mike on his headset.
"Do another check on the communication links with Commander Harris, Delta, and HRT, and make sure we have backups in place." The aide nodded and went about following the order.
On the big board at the front of the room several new shots from within the White House had been added. The two that Kennedy and Campbell were most interested in were the images provided by the head cams mounted on Rapp and Adams. They had made it to the other end of the tunnel and were in position to open the door and enter the hidden hallway that led into Horsepower and up a flight of stairs to the Oval Office. The danger, of course, was their inability to check what was on me other side of the gasket-sealed door.
Back at Langley a piece of intel had been collected that was creating quite a stir. Mustafayassin's conversation withaziz had been picked up by the tiny surveillance unit that Anna Rielly had placed in the ventilation shaft. Kennedy immediately ordered Rapp and Adams into a holding pattern while they reviewed the tape.
The words ofmustafayassin were replayed When the segment was over.
General Campbell looked to Kennedy and said, "That's it. We're not going to make it. We have to move Hhour up." Kennedy agreed, and Campbell turned to the colonel on his right and said, "Reset H-hour for nineteen thirty and notify all commands."
Campbell then stood to join Kennedy, who was conferring with Flood and Stansfield. The commander OF JSOC listened to Kennedy explain the new time constraints. "We need to get Iron Man moving. We have less than an hour to collect and disseminate any information he can gather."
"I disagree." Campbell shook his head.
"I think we should put Iron Man in a holding pattern until just before the strike."
"Why?" asked a frowning Kennedy.
"Commander Harris and his team will be in a position to jump within twenty minutes. I don't think it's worth risking a confrontation until we have everything in place. When we're ready to move, we do so with complete surprise and overwhelming force."
Flood nodded in agreement.
"And we make sure there is no chance Aziz can get his hands on the president."
"Absolutely." Campbell pointed to the monitor on the board that showed the bunker door.
"With our surveillance we can guarantee to stop him before that happens."
Kennedy folded her arms stubbornly across her chest.
"I disagree. I think we need to collect the intelligence. We can't send HRT in blind, or it will be a slaughter."
Flood looked to Director Stansfield.
"Thomas?"
Stansfield stared at the big board for a half dozen seconds and then said, "Let's consult Mitch. He's on-site, and I'd like to get his opinion."
Without waiting for agreement, Kennedy turned around and grabbed the headset off her desk. Holding it over one ear, she adjusted the lip mike and said, "Control to Iron Man.
Come in."
Rapp was leaning against the wall by the reinforced steel door, waiting impatiently. His thoughts had drifted back to putting a bullet in the center of aziz's forehead. Again, he had not shared this with the people back at Langley, and he wasn't about to, but if the chance came up, he was going to do it. Tactically it made the most sense to him. Kill the leader and watch the others flounder. The voice of his boss interrupted his pleasant thought.
Rapp pushed away from the wall and said, "I'm here. Go ahead."
"It appears they will have the bunker door open in about sixty minutes."
There was a pause, and Kennedy added, "We're not going to make it to H-hour."
"Well, I'd better get moving then."
"We ah…"—Kennedy looked at the three men—"have some dissension on how to proceed."
Rapp rolled his eyes.
"I'm listening."
"The new H-hour is set for nineteen-thirty."
Rapp looked at his watch.
"That only gives me about forty-eight minutes. Like I said… I'd better get moving."
General Campbell had grabbed his headset and was standing next to Kennedy.
"Iron Man, we will have Six's element in place in approximately twenty minutes. We don't want to risk precipitating a confrontation until we have everything in place."
"But we have absolutely no idea what we're up against there."
Campbell looked at Flood and said, "Right now we think it's better that we retain the element of surprise."
Rapp was getting pissed. Milt Adams stood from where he had been sitting and asked, "What now?" Rapp waved him off and said into his lip mike, "I disagree.
If we don't find out where the bombs are, and what we're up against, this is a suicide operation." Rapp listened for a response, but got none. He knew they were conferring with each other. Not wanting them to come to a decision without his input, he asked, "Why are we talking about changing the plan?"
Kennedy fielded the question.
"The surveillance unit you placed in the ventilation shaft picked up a radio conversation between Yassin and, we think, Aziz. Yassin told him that he would be done with the drills in about an hour. After that it would take him anywhere from ten to twenty minutes to get the door open."
"Anything else?"
"Only that Aziz wants Yassin to call him when he takes the drills off the door."
Rapp thought about the number of terrorists. The information they had gotten from Harut told them there were eleven. He had personally reduced that number by one, leaving ten to be dealt with. Rapp tried to guess how Aziz would proceed with the next part of his plan, focusing on the operational aspect of how Aziz would have to extract the president. That was when it hit him.
"Aziz is going to want to be there when Yassin gets the door open, right?"
Campbell answered. "I suppose."
"Not only will he want to be there, he'll have to be there.
He knows the president has Secret Service agents with him, right?"
"Probably."
"Whether he wants the president dead or alive, he's going to have to bring some firepower with him to deal with those agents."
"Where are you going with this?" asked Campbell.
"He's going to have to split his force. Our intel tells us Aziz went in with eleven people, including himself. He's down to ten. One of those ten is on the roof and two more are in the basement by the bunker." The plan crystallized in Rapp's mind.
"The way we attack this is we wait for Aziz to split his force. When they shut the drills down, we'll have a minimum of a ten-minute window of opportunity to strike. During that time, the number of terrorists guarding the hostages will be no more than six… maybe less if Aziz brings more men over to back him up."
Back at Langley the plan was gaining ground. Especially with General Flood, a military tactician who loved the idea of dividing his enemy's forces.
"Iron Man, I like the idea. Sit tight for a minute while we run this one by the president." General Flood set down his headset and looked at Stansfield. "What do you think?"
VICE PRESIDENT BAXTER sat behind the desk in his study and stared blankly at the TV. The images were nothing more than a blur and the voices a hum of background noises.
He was immersed in the thought of becoming president. It was so tantalizing, so tempting, it had drawn him into a fantasy world. Since early childhood he could remember dreaming of being president one day, and now with it so close, he had some reservations. Not reservations about assuming the office, but how it would play if word leaked that he had been given information that the terrorists were working on getting President Hayes out of the bunker.
Baxter started to think angles. He started to think PR.
First, he had been in New York when the whole mess started.
He wasn't the one who had invited these terrorists into the White House for coffee. Second, he would somehow have to let it be known that the Pentagon's best and brightest had sworn the president was untouchable in his new bunker. General Flood's information that the terrorists might be attempting to extricate the president would have to be down played.
They would have to say the information was vague and incomplete. On top of that they could spin the story of the two SEALS getting caught in the ventilation shaft, and Aziz's subsequent warnings.
Dallas King would be proven right, though. Eventually, they would have to rely on the morally superior premise that they acted in the interest of saving the hostages. That in good conscience, he could not have risked the lives of all of those people just to make sure the president was safe when, in fact, the information to the contrary was incomplete at best.
Dallas King entered the room eating a banana. He said, "We need to talk about something." King continued walking across the large study. He sat in one of the two chairs in front of the vice president's desk and took another bite.
Vice President Baxter picked up the remote control for the TV and hit the mute button.
"What now?"
"Everything went off great at the UN, but I'm a little nervous about tomorrow."
"Why?" Baxter placed his right elbow on the chair's armrest and rested his chin on his hand.
"I was just talking to Ted." King was referring to the vice president's national security adviser, Ted Nelson.
"He says Israel is starting to make waves." King sat back and took the last bite of his banana.
"What's their problem now?"
"They think they know what Aziz's final demand is, and they want it to be known that they will refuse to cooperate."
"What do they think the last demand will be?"
"They think he will ask the U.S. and the UN to recognize a free and autonomous Palestinian state."
"And?" Baxter shrugged as if it was no big deal.
"Israel has sent word that they will not be bullied into any such agreement. Ted says his sources are telling him that in four hours the Israeli defense forces will go on alert, and if Aziz demands a free and autonomous Palestinian state, the Israelis will occupy the territories."
Baxter swung forward in his chair.
"Damn it. You get their ambassador on the line, and tell him if they do any such thing, I'll make sure their aid from us dries up to nothing."
King shook his head. "You can't do that, and they know you can't. There are too many senators and congressmen that would come to their aid."
Baxter's temper flared.
"The hell I can't."
King looked at his temperamental boss and waited for him to calm. After several moments he continued.
"Picking a battle with Israel is bad politics… It plays horrible in New York and even worse with our big donors out in Hollywood. I have an idea that might keep everybody happy." King sat back with a grin and crossed his legs.
On edge, Baxter blurted, "Well, out with it. I don't have all day."
"I think it's time to broker a backroom deal with them. We tell them to protest loudly if the demand is made, but to take no military action. In return, we promise that as soon as this next group of hostages are released, we'll retake the building."
"I thought we didn't want to do that."
"I thought so at first," King said cautiously.
"The more I think about it, though, you don't want to be seen as too big a wimp. If you can succeed in getting two-thirds of the hostages released and then give the order to retake the building…" King smiled.
"You will be seen as someone who was not just a good diplomat but someone who can get tough when its called for."
To himself King added, and you'll solve my problem in the process.
"Maybe." Baxter frowned while he thought about this new strategy. Then, looking at his watch, he asked, "Why hasn't Director Stansfield or General Flood come to me with this information?" King shrugged.
"If Ted knows about this, they sure as hell do."
"I don't know. Maybe Ted has a better source."
"Come on," scoffed Baxter.
"Better than Thomas Stansfield… I doubt it." Baxter reached for his phone and then realized he didn't know where either Flood or Stansfield was. One of the minions could take care of that. He had more important things to do with his time. Looking across his large desk, he said, "Get General Flood and Director Stansfield on the line for me."
STANSFIELD HAD DECIDED it would be better if they called the president from the conference room, so he. Flood, Campbell, and Kennedy left the control room and entered the glass-enclosed bubble. In under a minute both Rapp and President Hayes were on the line.
General Flood gave the president a brief overview of Rapp's plan to wait until the last possible moment before launching the assault. President Hayes listened intently.
The first question out of his mouth was, "What's the downside if our timing is off and we wait too long?" Hayes had an inkling of what the result would be.
"If we miscalculate, sir"—General Campbell paused for a second—"we might jeopardize all of you."
"General Campbell." It was Rapp on the line. "Delta Force is handling the mansion, correct?"
"Correct."
"How much time will it take to get them from the forward staging area to the White House… assuming the skids are warmed up and the shooters are locked and loaded?"
"Colonel Gray tells me he can put twelve operators on the roof in under two minutes, and have twelve more on-site within the next thirty seconds."
"Excuse me for asking"—back in the bunker President Hayes was frowning—"but if we can put that many people on the roof by helicopter, then why in the hell are we screwing around with parachuting these SEALS onto the roof?"
General Flood fielded the question.
"Element of surprise, sir. If we start moving the troops in by helicopter, the media and the thousands of people downtown will see them. We hope to land the SEALS and get them into the mansion without anyone noticing. It's risky, but it's the only chance we have of defusing some of the bombs so we can get the HRT in to save the hostages in the West Wing."
Rapp grabbed the chance to drive his plan home.
"And my point, Mr. President, is if we wait for Aziz and an unknown number of terrorists to head over to get you out of the bunker, we will significantly increase the chances of successfully rescuing the hostages."
General Flood liked the idea and added, "It's a sound plan, Mr.
President. We divide their forces at a time when you are still safe in your bunker, and our main concern is saving the hostages over in the West Wing. Instead of having to deal with eight Tangos, we'll only have to worry about five or six."
"So you're telling me it will increase our chances of saving hostages."
"Yes."
Hayes didn't pause for a second.
"Then lets do it."
There was a knock on the conference room door, and then one of General Flood's aides entered. "Excuse me, General The vice president is on the line and he wishes to speak to you and Director Stansfield immediately.
If you'd like, I can have the call patched through to you here."
President Hayes's voice floated down from the overhead speaker system. "I think it's time we let Vice President Baxter know that he's no longer running the show."
Flood turned to his aide.
"Patch the call through."
Ten seconds later one of the lines on the main telecommunications console started to ring. Irene Kennedy punched the proper buttons and brought the newest party into the teleconference.
She nodded to her boss and Flood to let them know the line was up.
Flood called out in his deep voice, "Vice President Baxter?" A woman's voice answered and told them to hold the line while she got the vice president. For more than a minute the group sat in silence, waiting for the man who had initiated the call to join them. No one spoke. They all waited with anticipation to witness the ensuing confrontation between the two biggest players in American politics.
When Baxter finally came on the line, he said, "General Flood, are you there?"
"Yes, I'm here with Director Stansfield."
"Good," replied Baxter in a voice that implied anything but.
"I just received some troubling information." Baxter paused, waiting for them to ask him what it was. No one bit on his lead, so Baxter expanded.
"My national security adviser just informed me that Israel has been making certain threats."
Baxter stopped again, waiting for Stansfield or Flood to respond The two men looked at each other and said nothing. If it weren't for the tense situation, they probably would have been smiling, taking the time to enjoy the impending moment.
Baxter started again, frustration showing in his voice.
"Have either of you heard any of these rumors?"
"Yes," replied General Flood.
"We have."
"Well, why haven't you bothered to tell me?"
Flood looked up at the speakers, wondering when the president would decide to join the conversation.
"We've been busy, sir."
"Busy." Baxter mocked General Flood.
"Too busy to pick up the phone and inform the commander in chief of a crucial development."
"Commander in chief." President Hayes's voice floated down, neither angry nor calm, just supremely confident.
"I don't think so, Sherman."
Only Stansfield kept a straight face. Flood, Campbell, and Kennedy all grinned with satisfaction. There was a long moment of silence before Baxter responded. When he did, it came forth with a combination of insincere relief and fear.
"Robert, is that you?"
"Yes, it is, Sherman."
"How did… What happened… How did we get ahold of you?"
"Never mind, Sherman. I hear you've done a super job setting our foreign policy and national security back a half a century."
"I don't know what you've been hearing"—Baxter sounded panicked—"but this has been no easy task, trying to save American lives and balance our foreign-policy concerns.
We have been working very hard to ensure—" President Hayes cut him off by saying, "I have been fully briefed on what you. Marge Tutwiler, and your lapdog Dallas King have been up to, and I don't like one bit of it.
I don't have the time, the patience, or the energy to deal with you right now, but when I get out of here, you are going to have some explaining to do."
"But, Robert"—Baxter's voice was cracking from the tension—"I think you have it all wrong. I don't know what General Flood and Director Stansfield have been telling you, but I'm sure I can explain. I have had the best of intentions in every decision I have made during this crisis."
"I'm sure you have," replied a skeptical President Hayes.
"You've had your chance to sit on the throne, and you've screwed things up miserably. Now it's time to get the hell out of the way and let the professionals handle things."
"But, Robert…"
"But nothing, Sherman! This conversation is over!"
All that was heard from the vice president was the click of his phone hanging up. After a couple of long moments of silence, the president's voice floated back down, asking, "Now, where were we?"