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 sitting 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 it’s 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 let’s 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 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?”
49
THE AIR FORCE MC-130 Combat Talon cruised through the skies over Washington, D.C., at ten thousand feet. Part of the 1st Special Operations Wing, the Combat Talon was a unique asset in the delivery and retrieval of Special Forces operators. Lt. Commander Harris stood in the back of the modified C-130, looking out the open ramp and down at the city. The wind whistled through the back of the cargo area, and the four engines outside rumbled in the evening air, making communication difficult. To Harris’s right, the bright orange orb of the sun was falling beneath the horizon. To his left, storm clouds were moving in. The first was a good sign—darkness was something that he welcomed—but the second was not. Wind and rain did not go well with parachuting.
The pilots were flying up and down a fifteen-mile corridor five miles east of the White House. Harris and his fellow SEALs had made every jump there was. He’d done both high-altitude, high-opening (HAHO) and high-altitude, low-opening (HALO) jumps, as well as static-line jumps from five hundred feet all the way up to thirty thousand plus. Eight years earlier, when he had participated in the exercise for the Secret Service, he and his men had conducted a HAHO jump out of the back of an Air Force C-141 StarLifter. At an altitude of twenty-five thousand feet the men leapt from the plane and popped their chutes. From almost five miles up, Harris and his team expertly guided their double-canopy parachutes over a forty-five-mile distance and set themselves down gently on the roof of the Executive Mansion. At first the Secret Service was shocked by the results. But, after they sat with the SEALs and realized the years of training and high level of skill that such a jump required, they ruled the possibility of a terrorist group successfully conducting such an operation all but impossible.
Harris and his men were about to put all of their jumping skills to use. General Campbell had briefed him minutes earlier on the newest aspect of the plan, and it was creating a mathematical nightmare for the SEAL. No longer would they be able to choose their jump time. They would now have to wait for Aziz to make his move and then quickly get the plane into position.
Repeating the jump he had done eight years earlier was not an option. Jumping from that altitude would have required that he and his men, and the crew of the unpressurized aircraft, go on oxygen an hour before takeoff. By the time his plan was approved, they had missed that window of opportunity. There wasn’t enough time, so Harris had decided they would jump from ten thousand feet and go into a free-fall glide for the White House. At one thousand feet they would pop their chutes and float down the last leg.
Commander Harris moved away from the back of the ramp to inform his men of the impending rain. Inside, the bleak cargo area glowed with the red light to help the men gain their night vision. Harris had brought along the large Mick Reavers, who was serving as the jumpmaster, and Tony Clark and Jordan Rostein—two of Six’s best shooters and demolitions experts. All four men were dressed in their black Nomex coveralls, balaclava hoods, and gloves. The fire-retardant material was a must in any operation, and even more so when dealing with explosives. Operating in a dry environment, all of the men were carrying 9-mm SIG-Sauer P226 pistols, integrally silenced MP-10s, and a bevy of extra magazines in their assault vests that fit snuggly over their Kevlar body armor. Radio checks had been completed on the ground. The four operators were using Motorola MX300 radios rigged with throat mikes and earpieces.
Harris approached his men and screamed over the wind, “That storm keeps coming in from the east, and it doesn’t look good.”
Clark shook his head at his CO. He’d known Harris for over a decade and knew the man to be just crazy enough to try to jump in the middle of a storm. Clark reached up and adjusted his goggles. While doing so, he leaned closer to Harris. Over the roar he yelled, “We ain’t jumping in the rain, Harry.”
Harris nodded, and then, turning back for the ramp, he muttered to himself, “We’ll see.”
Out the rear of the plane Harris saw the storm intensifying. Suddenly, a flash lightning lit up the sky and streaked toward the ground in two separate veins. The strike was followed by a crack that could be heard over the roar of the engines. Sheets of rain could be seen falling over the Chesapeake. The rain would continue to roll in across the Maryland countryside and envelop the capital. They had thirty minutes, tops, before the rain rendered the jump suicidal.
RAPP AND ADAMS were ready to go. They were at the door going over the final checklist. If things went sour, HRT was twenty seconds away from breaching the building and Delta Force could be on-site to secure the president in under two minutes. Now was the time to take risks and roll the dice.
Before telling him to punch in the code, Rapp asked Adams, “Are you good to go, Milt?”
Adams pulled off his baseball cap, and with a handkerchief, he wiped a layer of sweat from his bald, black head. Then with a nod, he said, “I’m ready.”
Rapp did one last quick check of his equipment, and said, “Iron Man to control. We’re going in. Over.” Rapp then nodded to Adams, who punched in the code.
At the first sound of air escaping from the gasket-sealed door, Adams stepped back, allowing Rapp to move forward and take the lead. Rapp didn’t know what to expect on the othe
r side. The door could be boobytrapped; Aziz could have a guard posted on the other side—there was no way of knowing. Rapp had to guess. With a limited amount of resources, Rapp thought, Aziz wouldn’t be able to afford to place a guard outside the door. And that was assuming he had found it.
The bigger concern was a bomb. Rapp pushed Adams against the wall closest to the door’s hinges and placed his hand on the handle. After pausing for a moment, he turned his head away, pushed down on the handle, and pulled the door in two inches.
Hiding behind the heavy steel door, to protect him from the possible blast, Rapp listened for the telltale sound of a trip wire pulling a pin. He counted to three, then five, for good measure. With his left hand clutching his MP-10, he reached back with his right, and Adams handed him the snake. Rapp nosed the tiny fiber-optic camera around the corner. He scanned to the left, to the right, and then up. The shadowy images were being broadcast back to Langley.
Over his headset he heard the voice of General Campbell, “Everything looks good, Iron Man.”
Rapp peeked around the door to get a better look. To his left was a set of steep concrete stairs. Rapp had half expected the passageway to be dark. Instead, the hidden staircase that led up to the Oval Office was dimly lit with only two bulbs. Straight ahead a sliver of light shone from underneath a door that led to Horsepower—the Secret Service’s presidential detail command post. That was where the alarm systems and surveillance cameras were monitored. All video surveillance of both the grounds and the interior of the West Wing, Executive Mansion, and East Wing were monitored by the new Joint Operations Command, across the street in the EOB. Horsepower was concerned primarily with the president and watched only the areas of the compound where the president was. The uniformed division was responsible for everything else. In Rapp’s Secret Service briefing they had explained that in the moments after the raid, the interior cameras around the White House began to go off-line one by one. The obvious reason was Aziz did not want the Secret Service to be able to watch what he was doing. Rapp’s responsibility was to discover how much of the system was still on-line, and if any Tangos were monitoring it.