Vince Flynn Collectors' Edition 2
Page 120
The CIA helicopter set down in the center of the pad. Rapp pushed the door open immediately, and grabbed the handle of the cooler. He dragged it to the edge, and the four men dressed in blue battle dress uniforms from the Federal Protective Services came to his aid. Like attendants from a mortuary hauling a casket, they took hold of the cooler and loaded it into the bed of the idling pickup truck. Three of the men then jumped in the back with the cooler, and the officer in charge of the group slid in behind the wheel. Rapp got in the passenger seat and they took off.
The sunny afternoon disappeared behind them as they entered the long tunnel. The man driving the truck glanced over and said, “You must be the man Secretary McClellan and AG Stokes have been bitching about for the last twenty minutes.”
“That would sound about right.”
The tunnel narrowed a bit and they passed some type of decontamination station. The driver honked the horn and kept his foot on the gas. “We have to start closing the doors now.”
Rapp looked at his watch and nodded. They were cutting it close.
“McClellan says you’re a real pain in the ass.” The man said this with great amusement.
Rapp smiled and shook his head. “Yeah…well, actually, McClellan doesn’t even know his head from his ass, so I’m not sure he’s the best judge.”
“You ain’t going to get any argument out of me.” The driver nudged his way around an abandoned golf cart and hit the gas. “So what’s in the cooler?”
Rapp kept his eyes focused on the tunnel. He still couldn’t see an end to it. “They didn’t tell you?”
“Nope.”
“Here’s the deal, Lieutenant, when we get to the elevator I’ll tell you what it is.”
“Well, whatever it is, it can’t be good. Here comes the elevator right up here.”
The truck began to slow and then skidded to a quick stop on the concrete floor. Everyone piled out. The head of the security detail opened the freight elevator and Rapp helped the other three men carry the cooler. They placed it in the middle of the large elevator, closed the gate, and hit the button for the bottom floor. Rapp watched it disappear and then jumped back in the truck just as it had finished turning around.
As they peeled out he looked at his watch. They had a little over eight minutes to go.
“So what’s in the cooler?” asked the driver.
Rapp laughed. He supposed the young man was going to find out sooner than later. “A bomb.”
“What kind of bomb?”
“A nuclear bomb.”
“You’re kidding me?”
“Nope. You’d better step on it, because it’s going to go off in about eight minutes, and if those blast doors don’t hold we’re screwed.”
The young man punched the gas and they accelerated down the tunnel. Less than a minute later they skidded to a stop in front of the first blast door, which was already half closed. They abandoned the vehicle, and everyone hit the ground running. They ran one by one past the second blast door and up the road out into the bright afternoon sun. The head of the FPS detail told his men what was in the cooler. The news was received with shocked looks. All Rapp could do was laugh in the face of such insanity.
They reached the helipad with just under three minutes to spare and everyone piled in. The helicopter lifted off and raced eastward. Rapp called Reimer and told him the device was safely tucked away. Reimer advised Rapp that if they were more than a mile away by the time the device blew they wouldn’t have to worry about the electromagnetic pulse of the weapon, which could potentially down the helicopter. Rapp told the pilots to keep flying and stay low.
Rapp looked at his watch, counted the seconds, thought of his wife, and willed the helicopter to fly faster. With ten seconds left before detonation he yelled to everyone in the helicopter, “Cover your eyes—don’t open them until I tell you.”
Rapp counted the seconds in his head. He got to ten and still hadn’t heard anything, so he kept going. After twenty seconds he grabbed his phone and dialed Reimer. “What happened? Did it blow?”
“It sure did. We felt the tremor all the way over here across the state line.”
“Did the mountain contain the blast?”
“I don’t know. You’re in a better position than I am.”
Rapp asked the pilot to turn around so he could have a look. Rapp gazed out across the beautiful tree-covered range in search of any sign that the bunker had failed to contain the blast. There wasn’t a plume in sight—not even a puff of smoke.
Rapp smiled and said, “Tell the president we did it. It worked.”
“I think you should be the one to make the call,” Reimer insisted. “You’re the one who did all the heavy lifting.”
“It was your idea, Paul. You call him. I’m going to take a quick nap.” Rapp closed his phone before Reimer could argue further. He suddenly felt the need to talk to someone.
He looked up the number for the cabin on his phone and punched send. After six rings the familiar voice of his wife answered.
“Don’t tell me you’re not coming.” Her voice was full of disappointment.
“Come on, honey, have a little faith.”
“You’re going to make it?” she asked excitedly.
“Yep, I’ll be there by dinner.” Rapp figured after what had just happened he could wrangle the Agency’s G-V executive jet for a little personal trip.
“So, everything’s all right?”
Rapp looked at the communications towers that were still standing atop Mount Weather. “Yes, honey. Everything is just great.”
E P I L O G U E
MONDAY MORNING; MEMORIAL DAY
The birds were singing, the sun was peeking through the sides of the window shade, and somewhere off in the distance the thrum of an outboard engine punctuated the still morning air. It was summer. Rapp stirred and reached out expecting to find the smooth, soft skin of his wife. All he found was a lumpy pillow. He clutched it and rolled over, not yet sure if he wanted to keep sleeping or get up. The guest cabin at his in-laws’ north woods retreat was a great place to sleep. It sat a mere twenty feet from the water’s edge, and when there was a slight breeze the water would lap up against the shoreline rhythmically, sending you into a prenatal slumber. It was nature’s version of a mother’s heartbeat.
On this particular morning, however, there was no breeze, which presented an entirely different problem. In addition to the thrum of the outboard engine, which was fading, there was the sound of another boat on the water—a boat he was very familiar with. Rapp’s in-laws were big water skiers, and when at the Rielly cabin, there were only two times to ski: either early in the morning or late in the evening. Early in the morning was always preferred. The evenings were a bonus.
On Saturday, Rapp had left D.C. almost immediately. He’d talked briefly to Kennedy, and it didn’t go very well. The full reality of what they had narrowly avoided had begun to gnaw at him almost immediately. In his typical straightforward manner, he told Kennedy what he thought of certain high-ranking people in the U.S. government. She asked him to keep his opinions to himself, and he hung up the phone without responding.
He left D.C. on a private jet and flew to Rhinelander, Wisconsin, where his wife was waiting to pick him up. They had sat by the campfire that night with his in-laws and told stories. At no point were the events of the last week brought up. Rapp had slept hard that night and then right through the morning ski ritual. Anna and her three brothers had ribbed him about it the rest of the day. That was the other thing about the Rielly family—if you didn’t ski you were a wimp. Rather than suffer through another day of verbal abuse he threw back the covers and got out of bed.
In the small galley kitchen he found a pot of coffee and a note. It read: Honey, went skiing. You’d better get your butt down to the dock or you’ll never hear the end of it. Rapp smiled. He poured himself a cup of coffee and looked out at the lake. Through the tall pines he got a glimpse of them skiing down the north shore of the lake. He
went back to the bedroom and threw on his swim trunks and an old faded sweatshirt.
On his way back to the kitchen his satellite phone rang. He picked it up and looked at the screen. It was Kennedy. This was the fourth time she’d tried to reach him since he’d left D.C. There was no TV at the cabin, and he’d made no effort to turn on the radio and find out what was happening in the world. He stood there staring at the screen and after a few seconds reluctantly decided he’d better find out if something was going on. He unplugged the charge and brought the phone up to his ear.
“Hello.”
“Good morning,” Kennedy said in a slightly guarded tone.
“Everything all right?” Rapp’s voice was gravelly from sleep.
“Yes, everything’s fine. I’m sitting on the deck, watching Tommy build a sandcastle. Any reason why you haven’t been answering your phone?”
Rapp grabbed his coffee and stepped outside, the screen door slamming closed behind him. “I wasn’t in the mood to talk.” Rapp worked his way across the dew-laden grass toward the dock.
“And why is that?”
After he left Washington on Saturday, Rapp’s resentment toward those who lacked his fervor had worsened significantly. “Why do you think, Irene?” Rapp stepped onto the dock. “You think, just maybe, I’m fed up with all the bullshit?” Despite his choice of words there was no cynicism in Rapp’s voice, only resignation.
“Could you be a little more specific?”
“For starters, we came within minutes of losing a half million people and the nation’s capital.” The old dock squeaked under his weight.
“But we didn’t, Mitch. Thanks to you and Paul Reimer and Skip and a whole lot of other people, we stopped them.”
Rapp sat down in an Adirondack chair at the end of the dock. “It should’ve never gotten that far, Irene. We got lucky.”
“But we stopped them, and the president is extremely grateful for what you did.”
Rapp looked at the water. There wasn’t a ripple on the lake. He wanted to tell Kennedy that the president could kiss his ass, but he decided to instead say, “At the moment I don’t really care too much about what the president thinks.”
“That’s unfortunate, because you are probably the only person who can talk him out of acknowledging you when he addresses the nation tonight.”
Rapp was dumbstruck. “What are you talking about?”
“You haven’t read the papers or seen the reports on TV?”
“No. I’m in the middle of Northern Wisconsin. The nearest town is fifteen miles away.”
“Well, the blast at Mount Weather was picked up by seismic installations around the globe. The French government is complaining that we have reneged on the test-ban treaty, the Germans are saying that there was a nuclear accident west of Washington, and rumors are running rampant in the American press that there was a terrorist attack on a secret government facility near Washington.”
Rapp set his coffee cup down. “Irene, tell the president that I do not need, or want, the public acknowledgment.”
“I already told him that, but he won’t listen. He says whether you like it or not you deserve it.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Then you’d better tell him yourself.”
Rapp looked across the length of the lake. “I have no desire to talk to the president. In fact, tell him I’m already thinking about quitting, and if he so much as mentions my name it’s a done deal. And tell him that not only will I quit, but I’ll tell every last reporter in Washington that while the rest of us were trying to stop these terrorists, he was more concerned with election-year politics and listening to Valerie Jones and Martin Stokes and that Stealey woman from the Justice Department.”
There was a long pause on the line, and then Kennedy asked, “You’re not serious about quitting?”
“You’re damn right I am.”
“Mitch, let’s not overreact here. I’m sure I can convince the president not to…”
“It’s not that, Irene. I’m fed up with the whole mess. All the politics and the P.C. bullshit. I’m sick of working with people who have no idea how to fight this battle. I’m sick of trying to convince political appointees how serious the threat is, and I’m sick and tired of people who want to treat this as if it’s a law enforcement issue when we’re in the middle of a damn war.”
“Mitch, I share your frustrations, but you are far too valuable to this fight. We need you.”
“Then you’d better convince the president to make some changes. I don’t want a medal, I don’t want any public recognition…I want some people fired. Remember when we used to fire people, or better yet, remember when people used to resign? Well, I don’t care if they leave on their own, or if they’re shown the door, but some people need to go.”
Kennedy didn’t answer right away. After a long pause she said, “Would it help if I told you Valerie Jones will be stepping down within the month?”
“I’d say it’s a nice start. What about Stokes and Stealey?”
“I’m not sure about Stokes, but I don’t think he’s the problem. If we tell him to crack down, he’ll do it.”
“Then what about Stealey? She’s the idiot who convinced the president to lock those two guys from Atlanta up in a jail, when they should have been stuffed in some hole.”
“I think between the two of us we can make that happen. Will that help?”
“Again…it’s a nice start.”
“So, I’ll see you at work soon?”
Rapp looked out across the serene lake. The ski boat was headed back in his direction. They were still several hundred yards away, but he could tell it was his wife who was flying across the wake. She was practically lying down on each cut, throwing up a wall of water.
“Mitch,” said Kennedy, “this thing is far from over. You know they’re going to come at us again.”
Rapp knew better than anyone that the Islamic radical fundamentalists were not about to pack up and quit. He let out a tired sigh and closed his eyes. “Irene, I’m tired, and I’m sick of butting heads with people who are supposed to be on our side.”
“Believe me, I understand. I’ve already spoken to the president about this, and he knows that he hasn’t listened to us enough. The enormity of what almost happened has shaken him to the core.” Kennedy’s voice had taken on a surprisingly optimistic tone. “Mitch, if there was ever a time to get him to declare open season on terrorists—this is it.”
“But will he? When it comes down to it, will he actually turn us loose?”
“This time…yes, I think so.”
Rapp looked out across the water and sincerely wondered if he could walk away from it all. He doubted it. He was too passionate about the fight. He didn’t need to admit that to Kennedy and the president, though. He would push for everything he could get.
“Irene, I want carte blanche. Tell the president I’m going to hunt down every last son of a bitch who had a hand in this attack, and I don’t want anyone from the White House or the Justice Department looking over my shoulder.”
“I think there’s a very real chance he would welcome that strategy.”
“Good…then I’ll be in sometime this week.” Rapp ended the call, his mind already a thousand miles away, coming up with a plan of attack. A mental list was forming of who and what to hit first. Soon the religious zealots would regroup and come at them again. The outcome of this war, Mitch knew, was far from certain. There was no walking away from this fight. No sidestepping it. There was only one way to wage it—head-on and with brutal and overwhelming force.
ALSO BY VINCE FLYNN
Consent to Kill
Executive Power
Separation of Power
The Third Option
Transfer of Power
Term Limits
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons li
ving or dead is entirely coincidental.
ATRIA BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com
Copyright © 2004 by Vince Flynn
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
For information address Atria Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
ISBN-13: 978-0-7434-5397-4
ISBN-10: 0-7434-5397-2
ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-3279-8 (Pbk)
ISBN-10: 1-4165-3279-X (Pbk)
ISBN-13: 978-0-74348-917-1 (eBook)
ATRIA and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
About the Author
Vince Flynn is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of thirteen previous thrillers, including most recently Kill Shot and American Assassin. He lives in the Twin Cities with his wife and three children.
Atria Books/Simon & Schuster Author Page
authors.simonandschuster.com/Vince-Flynn/1214319
Author Website
www.vinceflynn.com
Facebook
facebook.com/VinceFlynn
ALSO BY VINCE FLYNN
Pursuit of Honor
Extreme Measures
Protect and Defend
Act of Treason
Consent to Kill
Memorial Day
Separation of Power
The Third Option
Transfer of Power
Term Limits
About Emily Bestler Books
Remember the first time you fell in love with a book? We hope to recapture that feeling for you over and over. Emily Bestler Books was founded with one guiding principle in mind: to find the very best reads available and to put them into the hands of as many readers as possible. We are passionate about this mission and in pursuit of it have decided to give ourselves as much leeway as possible and open the imprint up to a number of different categories. After all, books are as varied as their readers. On our shelves you will find fiction and nonfiction, pulse-pounding thrillers, delectable cookbooks, distinctive memoirs, international crime fiction, and smart, deeply felt novels with a literary flair. In short, we have a book for everyone.