“Yes, you are, sir,” answered a frustrated Flood. “That has never been in doubt . . . That’s not what’s at issue here. What is at issue is the safety of the president of the United States.” In firm voice Flood added, “I am asking you for the authorization to take back the White House. I am asking you to prevent President Hayes from falling into the hands of Rafique Aziz.”
In a soft voice, Baxter answered, “General, this is not an easy decision. I need some time to think about it.”
“But, sir,” snapped Flood. “We might not have the time.”
Baxter shot back, “I am running the show here, General Flood, and I will decide how much time we may or may not have. Now, I would suggest that while I’m consulting with my aides, you try and find out if this threat to President Hayes is real or imagined. I mean, for Christ’s sake, two days ago your own people stood up and told me he could last a month in that bunker.” Baxter shook his head.
Barely able to restrain himself, Flood looked to Stansfield for some support. The director of the CIA simply shook his head. Into the phone the general asked, “What do you want me to do, sir?”
“I want you to keep me informed, and make sure you do nothing to precipitate any more violence from Aziz.”
“Yes, sir.”
With that, the conversation was over. General Flood had hung up without waiting to see if Baxter had anything to add. Dallas King put the handset back in its cradle and walked toward his sullen-faced boss.
“You handled that perfectly.” When King reached the desk, he added, “Off the top of my head, we have several things working in our favor. First, this information they have sounds a little thin to me. I mean we can’t trust the Israelis for shit right now. They’d just as soon see us nuke the place. And secondly”—King tapped his chin with his finger—“there’s an angle here. Is the president’s life more valuable than fifty of his fellow countrymen? There’s an awfully strong argument to be made against the imperial presidency. No one American life is greater than any other single American life.”
Baxter frowned and said, “Come on, Dallas. Who’s going to buy that load of crap?”
“Your average Joe, that’s who.” King pointed his finger at his boss. “Even if what Flood says is true, which I doubt, since those guys can’t seem to find their ass with both hands, that doesn’t mean we need to storm the place. With the exception of Marge’s big fuck-up, this Aziz guy has been pretty reasonable. So far he hasn’t asked for anything that we can’t go back and fix later, and the polls tell us that, with the exception of a bunch of right-wing extremists, the American people want to see this thing resolved peacefully. Our job here is to continue to walk this fine line, Sherman. If they can’t give you solid proof that the president is in imminent danger, I wouldn’t budge an inch. We’ll get these UN resolutions passed by the end of the day, and in the morning Aziz will release the next group of hostages. That’s two-thirds you will have saved.”
King stopped and looked out the window. A thought had just occurred to him. Maybe he was cheering for the wrong results. If the terrorists were killed, most of his problem would be solved.
“Dallas, what are you thinking?” Baxter asked.
AKing shook his head and turned his attention back to his boss. “Nothing. I was just trying to figure something out.”
JACK WARCH WAS on his fourth set of crunches, the modern-day version of the much hated sit-up. He had considered skipping his daily regimen, but decided he had nothing better to do. Warch did four hundred crunches every day of the week except Sunday, and on alternate days he threw in two hundred push-ups, a three-to-five-mile jog, and some stretching. He had it down to a science, which allowed him to stay in shape without spending hours at the gym.
As Warch finished his crunches, he eyed the pile of weapons sitting on the table across the room. The sight was irritating. All of that hardware and a room full of the best-trained bodyguards in the world and the president wanted them to surrender. It was ingrained in Warch’s psyche to win, not to lose. Coming from the old Vince Lombardi school of “Show me a good loser, and I’ll show you a loser,” Warch couldn’t stand the thought of them raising their hands in surrender. He had risen to the most coveted post in the Secret Service by sheer dogged determination, and he was sure now there had to be a better alternative than surrendering. That’s when it hit him, with three more crunches to go. Warch stopped, hands firmly clasped behind his neck, staring at the mound of black steel on the table. Some of the most accurate and lethal firepower made and nine highly trained individuals. Warch’s mind started to scramble. He saw a crack, a slight opening, a way to pull off a Hail Mary.
Jumping to his feet, he almost blurted out his idea, but forced himself to sit down on his bunk and think things through thoroughly. He had to have this planned. He had to be able to head off all objections and sell it to the president.
38
STANSFIELD ALLOWED GENERAL Flood to blow off some steam. As Flood paced back and forth in front of his desk, Stansfield nodded from time to time in an effort to let Flood know he agreed with him. The elderly director of central intelligence had expected Baxter’s unwillingness to give them the green light, and in his usual analytical way, Stansfield was already looking three moves ahead. He could have forewarned the general how Baxter would respond but felt an angry General Flood would be better than a calm one. Things were coming to a head, and some decisions needed to be made.
Now would come the hard part. Stansfield knew Vice President Baxter-would never pull the trigger. In his opinion, they should never have started down this road to begin with, but now they had to do something before it got worse. Baxter was maneuvering, trying to buy as much time as possible. The fact that he was doing it during a crisis with such farreaching implications was almost unimaginable to Stansfield, and that was making his difficult decision much easier.
Thomas Stansfield was contemplating doing something that he had done only one other time in the fifty-plus years he had served his country. It was something that could end his career in public disgrace, but he was willing to take that chance. He still had his ace in the hole, and now was the time to use it.
General Flood looked like a football coach chewing out his team at halftime. Stansfield watched him walk back and forth, shaking his fist and letting a stream of expletives flow from his mouth. Stansfield stayed quiet, letting him take as much time as needed. Gradually the expletives became fewer and the pacing slowed.
The general approached, looking miffed. “You sure as hell are taking this well. It’s not as if things weren’t bad enough, and now we find out the president isn’t safe. I mean, for Christ’s sake, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that Aziz brought along this guy for this exact purpose. Now we know why he spaced the demands out the way he did. He needed time.”
Stansfield nodded and moved in to test the water. “Yes, but what can we do about it? If Baxter doesn’t give us the approval, we are left without recourse.”
“There’s nothing we can do about it. That idiot’s calling the shots, and unless we can find a way to convince him to attack, this will only get worse.”
Stansfield thought Flood to be a good soldier. The thought of orderingan attack without the approval of Baxter would not even enter his mind. With Stansfield, it was different. Spies were used to operating under a different set of rules; they were used to looking for creative ways to solve problems. Stansfield was not entirely free to do as he wished, but he had significantly more latitude than the general did. Although Stansfield’s idea was clearly in violation of the orders Baxter had given him, he had already made up his mind, and he would go it alone. The others had too much to lose. Nearing eighty, Stansfield knew the end was not far off. If ever there was a time to stick his neck out, this was it.
Looking up at the general with an almost mystical expression, Stansfield said, “There is one other option.”
Flood eyed him with skepticism. He had looked feverishly for a way out and had found no
ne. “I don’t see any way out of this other than hoping Baxter comes to his senses.”
“There is one way, and it’s right in front of us.”
Flood was intrigued. “Enlighten me.”
Stansfield shook his head ever so slightly and said, “I think it best if you remain in the dark on this one.”
Flood’s hands moved to his hips, and a strange look washed over his face. He paused, wondering for a moment if he was reading Stansfield correctly. “What do you have up your sleeve, Thomas?”
Stansfield looked out the large window behind his desk. Without turning back to Flood, the director of the CIA said, “We both know what needs to be done, General, and there’s no sense in risking two when one will suffice.” Slowly looking back over his shoulder, he said, “I think now would be a good time for you and General Campbell to go visit the front lines. Maybe have a talk with HRT and Delta. See how they’re doing. Make sure they’re ready to move when the authority is given.”
Flood squinted, part of him wanting to know what Thomas Stansfield was up to, but another part of him wanting nothing to do with whatever the director was planning.
“Thomas, what are you up to?”
Stansfield gingerly walked around the desk and placed his thin hand on Flood’s substantial biceps. Turning him toward the door, Stansfield started to walk with him.
“I have the best of intentions. Do not worry.” Several steps closer to the door and he added, “Just make sure the boys are ready to go when the time comes.”
LESS THAN a minute later they were standing in the control room. Flood had informed Campbell that they were going to visit the troops. HRT would be first and then Delta. The ranger assumed it had something to do with the call to Vice President Baxter and hoped they were about to get the green light. He quickly gathered his things and on the way out the door held his encrypted cell phone up to Kennedy and reminded her to keep him informed of any changes.
After the two generals and several of their aides were gone, Kennedy looked at her boss, who was standing one step above her. Stansfield looked back at her with his tired old eyes.
“Did Baxter give you the assault authority?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
Kennedy’s lips pursed. “Why was General Flood in such a hurry to get out of here?”
“He had some things to take care of.” Stansfield looked at his watch and then asked, “Is Mitch on the line?”
“Yes.”
Stansfield thought it through one last time, making sure he had all of his bases covered. Then looking around the dark room, he said, “Irene, tell everyone to take a fifteen-minute break.”
“Everyone?” questioned Kennedy. He surely didn’t mean everyone.
“Everyone,” stated Stansfield calmly and coolly. “I want the room cleared.”
Kennedy, cut from the same cloth as her boss, knew the man did not mince or waste his words. She could only assume he had a very good reason for his rather unusual request and immediately went about the task of clearing the room. Rather than making a boisterous announcement to the entire group, she started with the front row and worked her way to the rear, telling everyone to finish up what they were working on and then head out. No one questioned her.
It took just under two minutes, and when everyone was gone, Kennedy and Stansfield were left standing alone in the dimly lit room. The wall of monitors at the front of the room cast a blue hue across everything.
Stansfield looked down at his protégé and said simply, “You too, Irene.”
Kennedy was surprised. Her security clearance couldn’t get any higher. There was nothing she couldn’t hear or view unless it was compartmentalized. A She studied her boss intently and wondered what could possibly be going on. Why would he need to be alone in this room? Stansfield stood in front of her like a statue, giving nothing away. Kennedy finally stepped for the door, her mind trying to retrace the steps that led up to this unusual situation.
RAPP HAD AWKWARDLY accepted Anna Rielly’s apology. Somewhere in the back of his mind it registered that asking her to not tell this story was impossible. She would have to tell it to one degree or another—as long as she now accepted the conditions. From the corner the secure field radio beeped several times, announcing that an encrypted communication was received. Rapp reached over and snatched the handset.
“Yep.”
“Mitchell, it’s Thomas. Have you found a way to verify our most recent problem?”
Rapp was a little surprised that Stansfield had used his first name. “Maybe. Milt seems to think he might have a way, but it might be hard to pull it off from a logistical standpoint.”
There was no immediate reply. After a moment Stansfield began to speak in a very slow and deliberate voice. “Mitchell, you’ve sacrificed a lot over the last ten or so years, and I’m very grateful for that.” There was another pause. “I’m going to ask you to do something, and I don’t want you to discuss it with anyone else.” Stansfield stopped again, letting the gravity of his request sink in. “Am I understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“First, we must verify if President Hayes is safe in his bunker. Second, we need to reestablish radio contact with him. All radio and phone traffic from the bunker has been jammed, as you know. Find and disable that unit so I can speak directly to the president.”
Rapp clutched the phone. “What are my rules of engagement?”
“I would prefer it if you did it as quietly as possible, but use whatever force you see fit. Just make sure you get the president back on line.”
The magic words reverberated through Rapp’s mind. He was free to do as he saw fit. Now he could really get things done. Almost as quickly as he had begun to celebrate, he saw that something didn’t fit. “Does anyone else know about this?”
“Just you and me.”
Rapp closed his eyes. This was unusual. “What about Irene?”
“No. Just the two of us.”
“So I’ll be operating without a net for a while.”
“I’m afraid so.” Stansfield wasn’t pleased with this, but there was no other way.
Rapp nodded while he thought about his lack of backup. Fuck it, he said to himself. You’re used to working alone.
Into the thin receiver Rapp said, “I’ll take care of it, sir, but make sure the cavalry is ready. Things could get real ugly in here.”
“I will, Mitchell, and please be careful.”
“Always.” Rapp replaced the receiver and looked up at Adams.
Some weird shit must be happening on the other side, he thought. Ticking through the possibilities of what might have precipitated Stansfield’s unusual call, Rapp stopped a short while down the list. No sense in clouding the mind. He had enough to worry about right here.
Pointing at the blueprints, Rapp said, “We have to find a way to check this out.”
39
BARELY A HALF hour had passed since Stansfield’s edict. Rapp had to remind himself continually to be more cautious as he and Adams searched the blueprints for a way to accomplish the task. Rielly had edged her way over from her nest in the corner and now lay on her stomach, her hands under her chin. Every once in a while her white stockinged feet would kick up in the air behind her like a little teenager’s. She was playing it smart for the moment, saying nothing and listening to everything. She had worked her way back into the group.
On at least three occasions Rapp had run through the different options, none of them all that appealing, and now resigned himself to take the direct route—the route that would most quickly accomplish his task but also endanger the lives of the remaining hostages. Feeling as if he’d been pent up in a cage since he’d landed at Andrews two days ago, it was difficult for him to resist the desire simply to go down to the basement, shoot the guard, shoot this Yassin fellow, and disable the scrambler. If he couldn’t find another way, it might be the only solution, but there had to be another way, or the whole thing would end in a bloodbath.
Rapp
was beginning to resign himself to what he had known when the whole mess had started. Take Aziz, enough Semtex to blow up the whole building twice, and you end up with a bunch of dead hostages. Why even risk the assault team? Just let the idiot blow himself up and end the thing.
Milt Adams flipped several sheets over and studied something. Rapp watched him, then asked, “What?”
Adams looked at the drawing and then up at the blank wall. He was trying to visualize something. Looking back down, he said, “This is the hallway on the third level. It runs down like this and takes a ninety-degree turn to the left.” Adams tapped the spot with his thin finger. “There is a recessed vent here . . . at least, I think there is.”
“What do you mean you ‘think.’ Isn’t it marked?”
Adams shook his head. “No. That’s why I’m saying I ‘think’ there is.” Adams closed his eyes again, forcing himself to try to remember what the hallway looked like. “I really think there’s a vent there.” Adams tapped the spot again.
“Why isn’t it marked?”
“These aren’t the final blueprints. If I remember right, they were worried that there would be too much moisture in the hallway if they didn’t have some ventilation. You see, this entire hall was added when they put the bunker in, and the bunker’s environmental systems are buried underneath it so they can’t be compromised.” Adams brought his finger up and ran it along his bottom lip. “I’m pretty sure they spliced into the house’s regular system through the floor right above.” Adams pulled one of the sheets back over. It was the layout of the second basement.
He searched for the right spot and said, “This is where they would have done it. They would have just cut in a down chute and brought it in from the second basement.” Adams grabbed the next sheet, showing the first basement, and pulled it over. His eyes darted excitedly back and forth over the drawing. “This could be perfect.”