by Vince Flynn
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 lip 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’re 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.
47
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.”
Ragi
b 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, a “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 the other side of the gasket-sealed door.
Back at Langley a piece of intel had been collected that was creating quit a stir. Mustafa Yassin’s conversation with Aziz 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 of Mustafa Yassin 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 H-hour 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, waitingimpatiently. 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?”
48
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 that 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 downplayed. 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.
