Abruptly the silence was broken by a loud dial tone.
Ellen Halloway exhaled loudly and pushed the speakerphone away. “The President told us he wants us to try a rescue mission.”
“That’s what it sounded like to me.” Toliver was a lean man, in his early sixties, with a narrow, cold face and black hair that was graying at the temples. “And he wants it done ASAP.”
Halloway looked over to Alderman. “What do you think?”
“I think he wants us to keep our options open,” Alderman said thoughtfully. “He mentioned the rescue attempt twice, but he also told us how desperate it would be. Perhaps he was saying to plan a rescue but be prepared to negotiate.”
“Goddamn it!” Toliver blurted out. “We don’t negotiate with terrorists. That’s our policy.”
“That’s the Israelis’ policy, too,” Alderman retorted. “But when push comes to shove, they do it. Then cover it with some humane rationale.”
Toliver’s face hardened. “Are you saying, give in?”
Alderman shook his head. “I’m saying we should cover all the bases. We should make plans for a rescue and for giving in to their demands. Then use whichever one we think serves the President and our country best.”
“Good,” Halloway agreed immediately. “Any dissenters?”
No one at the table raised a hand, although Toliver obviously had to strain not to do so.
“Good,” Halloway said again. “Now, giving in is easy. Trying to rescue the President is doubly difficult. How do we go about it?”
All eyes went to General Walter Pierce, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. A Medal of Honor winner in Vietnam, he was tall and ramrod straight, with a square jaw and a craggy handsome face that never seemed to smile. Without hesitation he said, “We’re going to need a Special Ops team.”
“Which branch?” Halloway asked.
“Either Navy SEAL Team Six or the Army’s Delta Force,” Pierce answered promptly. “They are the elite of the elite, and either gives us the best chance to rescue the President.”
“Pick one.”
Pierce hesitated briefly. He favored Delta Force because they, like him, were Army. And besides the Navy SEALs had already had their moment in the sun with the killing of bin Laden. But Pierce pushed his bias aside and said, “Whichever one is closest to Los Angeles.”
Toliver interrupted. “Ellen, if this is to be a military operation, I’ll be the one in charge.”
Halloway narrowed her eyes at Toliver. She did not trust the word or judgment of the Secretary of Defense. The man was experienced, but too far to the right for the Vice President’s liking. And he tended to shoot from the hip. “In the President’s absence, I sit in his chair.”
“Not when it comes to military action,” Toliver countered. “Check the regulations.”
“But the President is not just absent,” Alderman pointed out. “He literally has a gun aimed at his head, which brings up the question of whether he’s capable of discharging the functions of his office.”
Toliver bristled at the Director of National Intelligence, whom he knew was both friend and confidant to the Vice President. A close friend and confidant who could control her. “Are you suggesting that we invoke the Twenty-Fifth Amendment?”
A hush fell over the room, everyone sensing the enormous significance of the moment. The Twenty-Fifth Amendment to the Constitution allowed the transfer of powers from an incapacitated President to the Vice President.
“What I’m suggesting is that we get the Attorney General over here to tell us what is constitutionally correct,” Alderman replied evenly. “In the meantime, let’s come up with some sort of rescue plan that we may or may not implement.” He turned to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. “You’ve got the floor, Walter.”
“Hold on a second while we locate the whereabouts of our Special Forces teams,” Pierce said.
He turned to the other Chiefs of Staff and issued a quick set of orders. The orders were immediately passed on to aides standing by, all of whom rushed off to a nearby communications room.
“We can’t make any decisions until we hear from the Attorney General,” Toliver persisted.
“We’re just exploring options,” Halloway said, thinking that if—God forbid!—she were to become the permanent President, Toliver would be gone from the Cabinet within three months. It wasn’t that he was inept. Far from it. But she considered him an ideologue, and dangerous. “The clock is ticking,” she warned, “so let’s concentrate on solutions, not our relative positions.”
Alderman took out his pipe, but he left it unlighted. He nibbled on the stem, convinced they were going to end up with a dead President, regardless of whether or not the terrorist’s demands were met. That was how Muslim terrorists worked and thought. Death in a jihad meant martyrdom, which guaranteed eternal paradise. Dying with their victims was usually part of the plan. He made a mental note to instruct the Attorney General to stay close by, in the event a new President had to be sworn in.
“I can tell you this,” Toliver said with conviction. “No matter what we do, the Russians will never negotiate with these terrorists, even if we beg them on bended knees.”
Halloway asked, “How can you be so sure?”
“Because I know that some of their Chechen prisoners participated in the massacre at Beslan,” Toliver answered. “They’ll never let them out. Never in a million years.”
Halloway had to nod at Toliver’s assessment. Russia continued to mourn the loss of the little children slaughtered in their schoolhouse at Beslan, even though the event had taken place years ago. It was Russia’s 9/11, and they would never forget it. The Chechen prisoners involved were still alive only because Russia had abolished the death sentence.
“And even if we give in to their demands,” Toliver added on, “we all know there’s little chance they’ll release the President. They’ll just keep using him over and over until he’s of no more use.”
“We have to leave the option to negotiate on the table,” Halloway argued. “If only to buy ourselves more time.”
“More time for what?” Toliver argued back. “The Chechens aren’t going to budge off their deadline. So if we delay just an hour, it’ll cost two innocent hostages their lives. Is it worth it?”
The Vice President stared at him for a long moment but didn’t reply. She had no answer.
Suddenly a wooden panel on the wall slid open and revealed a large video screen with maps of the United States, Asia, and Africa. Military emblems were flashing on all three continents.
“Bad news,” Pierce reported as he walked over to the screen and began pointing. “There are currently four units of Navy SEAL Team Six. One is now on a training mission in the Okefenokee Swamp in Georgia, another is participating in war games off the Florida Keys. The remaining two are in Africa. They’re dealing with pirates in Somalia and hostage takers in Nigeria. They’re all more than five hours away.”
“What about Delta Force?” Halloway asked.
“They have two elite units and both are in the mountains between Pakistan and Afghanistan, hunting down Al-Qaeda terrorists.”
Halloway nervously played with a loose strand of her hair. “What about other Special Ops teams here in America? Aren’t some in or close to California?”
“A number are,” Pierce replied, nodding. “But you asked for the elite of the elite. The others are very good, but they don’t have the expertise and experience of the Navy SEAL Team Six or Delta Force.”
“Which would decrease our chance for success even further.”
“I’m afraid so.”
“What about the 82nd Airborne?” Toliver proposed.
“Won’t work,” Pierce said immediately. “First, they’re located in Kentucky, and it will take them almost five hours to reach Los Angeles, not cou
nting the time it would take to get things set up. Secondly, this operation will require teamwork and split-second timing that has been practiced over and over. One mistake and we’ve got a lot of dead people on our hands. The 82nd just doesn’t have the necessary experience.”
Halloway suggested, “What about a local SWAT team?”
“They’re not up to it,” Pierce said and took his seat. “They’re good when it comes to bank thieves holding hostages or a bomb threat, but not when it comes to cold-blooded terrorists. They’d be out of their league.”
“The CIA?” Halloway asked.
“You can’t use a CIA team on American soil,” Alderman answered.
“Why not?” Toliver asked brusquely. “Because it might upset the FBI?”
“Because there’s a law that says you can’t.” Alderman puffed on his smokeless pipe, trying to find a solution to their problem. The military Special Ops teams, the CIA, and local SWAT teams were out of the question. The FBI had a Hostage Rescue Team, but they were stationed at Quantico, more than five hours away. And besides, they weren’t really killers. That’s what was required here. Stone-cold killers who moved quickly and stealthily, like black cats in the night.
Alderman searched his mind, with its near-encyclopedic memory, for an answer. A highly trained team, he thought. One that could go anywhere any time and do pinpoint kills. One that could get in and out with clockwork precision. Alderman’s brain suddenly clicked. He now recalled a plan he’d been recently briefed on in which a special team was to be sent into Mexico to settle a score with a heavily guarded drug lord who had captured and mutilated two DEA agents.
Alderman shifted his considerable frame in his seat. At two hundred and fifty pounds, his weight caused the chair to squeak. He rubbed his double chin thoughtfully, then ran a hand through his thinning hair. It was an involuntary ritual he performed every time he came up with an answer to a difficult problem. “Madam Vice President, there is a Secret Service Special Operations team that is used in sensitive presidential-threat cases. This team was recently called on to deal with a vicious drug lord.”
Toliver looked at him quizzically. “What does a drug lord have to do with protecting the President?”
“On the surface, not much,” Alderman explained. “But when the drug lord executes two DEA agents and then threatens to kill the President of the United States, it becomes a threat to national security. As you know, after 9/11 Congress passed an anti-terrorism statute that empowers the Secret Service to assume control over any felony involving possible terrorism. When it comes to fighting terrorism, this team is authorized to go anywhere in the world.”
“Are they good?” Halloway asked. “I mean, as good as our military Special Ops teams?”
“Oh, yes,” Alderman assured her. “And every bit as experienced, too. They know how to grab and kill, and improvise if necessary. They were the ones who brought the Bali incident to a successful conclusion.”
“I thought that was done by military Special Ops,” Toliver interjected.
Alderman shook his head. “It was the Secret Service team.”
Halloway remembered back to the near-tragic event that took place on the island of Bali. Months earlier, two Under Secretaries of State, Jack and Valerie Traynor, had traveled to Indonesia to do the groundwork for an upcoming presidential visit. After completing the preparations, the couple decided to vacation at a posh resort on Bali, where they were taken hostage by terrorists who threatened to kill them if the President didn’t cancel his trip. The terrorists also threatened to assassinate the President if he insisted on visiting. Within days, the Secret Service team entered the resort on stealth helicopters, rescued the hostages, and killed five terrorists. And they did it without so much as breaking a window.
“Where is the team located?” Halloway asked at length.
“Beltsville, Maryland. But they may not be there,” Alderman said. “They travel all over the globe. Their last mission was scheduled in Mexico. I recently signed off on the plan.”
Halloway perked up. “How far from the California border?”
“That’s what we have to determine.” Alderman turned to an aide and snapped his fingers rapidly. “Find out where they are!”
The aide placed a call on his cell phone and spoke in staccato sentences. Then he waited, anxiously tapping his foot against the floor. Abruptly he pressed the phone to his ear and listened intently before firing off a string of questions. He turned back to Alderman and reported. “Sir, the Secret Service Special Ops team is just outside Manzanillo, Mexico.”
“Get Manzanillo up on the screen,” Alderman ordered.
The directive was issued. Almost instantly a map of Mexico appeared on the video screen. A red arrow zeroed in on Manzanillo, a city on the western coast north of Acapulco.
“What’s the flying time to Los Angeles?” Alderman asked at once.
“Three hours and twenty minutes,” the aide replied.
“Get them out!”
“Sir, they’re in the middle of a firefight.”
“Get them out and airborne now!” Alderman demanded.
The aide hurriedly passed on the order.
Halloway strummed her fingers on the conference table, calculating how much time the team would have to rescue the President. She checked the digital clock on the wall that was set to Los Angeles time. They had three hours and forty minutes until the deadline. “It’s going to be close. They’ll have barely twenty minutes to land and execute a rescue.”
“I think even less than that,” Alderman estimated. “It all depends on how fast they can fight their way out and get to the airstrip.”
Halloway stopped strumming the tabletop. “Are you saying they won’t make it back in time?”
“That’s what I’m saying,” Alderman answered gloomily. “We must come up with other options.”
“Including the military,” Toliver insisted.
“Including the military,” Alderman conceded, thinking what a disaster it would be to have Toliver in command. He puffed on his pipe and again concentrated on the problem at hand. But now his mind kept drawing blanks.
_____
Kuri Aliev hurried up the steps of the fire stairs and onto the roof of the hospital. The night was very dark and misty, with a dense fog rolling in from the sea. Good, he thought, knowing that the poor visibility would render a rescue attempt by helicopter difficult. Aliev made sure the door to the roof was closed and then, with his satellite phone, placed a call to a cargo plane sitting on the tarmac at Guadalajara International Airport. His second-in-command, Akhmad Basagev, answered on the first ring.
“Mar-shal du hög”—Greetings to you, Aliev said.
“Mar-shal du hög,” Basagev replied.
After greeting each other, they began as planned, speaking in an unusual Middle Eastern dialect of Chechen that they learned while training with Hezbollah along the Syrian-Lebanese border. It contained so many Arabic words that even a native Chechen had difficulty understanding it. Aliev was using this strange dialect in case the Secret Service and their translators were listening in on the call.
“I have good news,” Aliev informed him. “Our plan has been set in motion. We have the hostages, and our demands are known to both governments.”
“Do we have any indication they will comply?”
“I can tell you the Russians won’t,” Aliev predicted confidently. “But the Americans will. They have no stomach for this kind of thing.”
“But what if the Americans refuse to negotiate? What if they do not allow us to fly on to Chechnya with our hostages?”
“Then we will detonate our nuclear bomb over Los Angeles rather than over the oil fields of Siberia,” Aliev said, now thinking about the special nuclear device that had been heavily salted with cobalt. In addition to a massive blast wave, the bomb w
as designed to spew out a huge cloud of radioactive cobalt that would contaminate a vast area and make it uninhabitable for decades and decades to come. The detonation would turn Russia’s oil fields into a worthless desert of death. It would do the same to America’s second-largest city.
Basagev broke the silence, saying, “Destroying Los Angeles would not be nearly as meaningful to our cause.”
“True,” Aliev admitted. “But it would kill two presidents and their foreign ministers, and bring the Great Satan to its knees.”
“And send millions of infidels to hell.”
“That too,” Aliev went on. “Now tell me, is your cargo plane ready?”
“All is in order,” Basagev said. “The bomb is aboard—ready to be armed. Our flight plan and manifest have been approved. And the appropriate officials have been bribed.”
“Well done,” Aliev praised. “You are to request permission to take off immediately.”
There was a long pause before Basagev asked, “My brother, forgive me for bringing up this evil thought. But what if the Americans mount a successful rescue operation and you are killed?”
“Then, with my last breath, I will activate the homing device on my satellite phone, which will pinpoint the exact location for you to detonate the bomb over Los Angeles.”
“In that event, I should fly in low to maximize the blast effect.”
“Exactly.”
“Peace be unto you, Aliev.”
“Miyarsh Noxchi Che”—Long live free Chechnya, Aliev replied, reverting back to the common form of the Chechen language. “Miyarsh Noxchi Che.”
Moments later the large cargo plane taxied out onto the runway. Basagev quickly ordered his crew to arm the nuclear bomb once they were in flight—in case Los Angeles was the chosen site. Not a bad second choice, Basagev thought on, now envisioning a giant ball of fire engulfing the entire metropolitan area and turning it into ashes. Of course the blast would also kill him and his crew. But he was unafraid, because he knew there was no higher honor in this world or in the world to come than to die in a glorious jihad.
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