Transfer of Power

by Vince Flynn

  “Like who?”

  “Like the United States military, and again, the Secret Service.”

  The confident young agent shook her head in disagreement. “The military is forbidden from . . .” started Jennings.

  McMahon raised his hand and stopped her. “Save the lecture for one of your law-school buddies.” The senior agent was very proud of the fact that he was one of the few people in the Bureau without an accounting or law degree. “I’m talking reality here, and I’m talking from experience. Why do you think this meeting is being held at the Pentagon?” McMahon let her think about the question while they descended another flight. “If we’re so clearly in charge, why isn’t this meeting being held at the Hoover Building or over at Justice?”

  Jennings slowly started to see his point and nodded as they reached the first floor. While they continued toward the Seventeenth Street exit, McMahon said, “While I’m at the Pentagon, I want you to get the mobile command post in order. Get the shift changes set up, and don’t take any crap from anyone.” With his voice raised an octave, he added, “And you tell those clowns I’m in a surly mood, and that when I get back from this stupid dog-and-pony show, I’m going to be looking to blow a little steam.” McMahon’s temper was well known among his fellow law enforcement officers at the Bureau. “No one works longer than an eighthour shift unless I authorize it, and I don’t want people loitering around when their shifts are over. We could be here for weeks, and I don’t want burned-out people sitting at the controls.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yeah. Make sure HRT gets priority on everything. I want them in position ASAP.”

  THE EXPENSIVE SUIT was gone, replaced by drab green military fatigues, a holstered pistol, and a gas mask that was secured to his web belt. Rafique Aziz sat at the head of the long table and stared at the bank of television sets located on the far wall of the Situation Room. Three of the six TVs were tuned to the major networks, and a fourth was tuned to CNN. All of them were covering the White House crisis from their studios in New York and with live shots from across the street at Lafayette Square.

  Much of Aziz’s original anger at missing the president had dissipated. With typical thoroughness, Aziz had prepared for this contingency, and if given enough time, everything could still be achieved. Now he had to at least allow himself a moment of satisfaction. He had done it. He controlled the most famous and decadent symbol of the West. He had taken his jihad, his holy war, to the heart of the enemy, and once he pried the president from his bunker, he would be able to complete his plan. No longer would America meddle in the affairs of the Arab world.

  There was a knock on the door, and without turning, Aziz said, “Enter.”

  The usually stoic Muammar Bengazi walked into the room with a smile on his face, an AK-74 slung over his shoulder, and a notepad in his left hand. He approached Aziz and said, “We are in complete control of the building. As you ordered, all outer walls and points of entry have been wired with explosive charges.” A gleam appeared in the terrorist’s eye. “And as you predicted, we also have control of the Secret Service’s weapons and security system.” Bengazi stepped forward and placed his hands on the back of one of the table’s chairs. “As ordered, I have taken their perimeter system off-line. We are using only their rooftop-mounted cameras and have disconnected the computers from their modems. They are no longer feeding their headquarters with images.”

  “Good. I do not trust them. With all of their technology, who knows how they might have tried to trick us.”

  Bengazi nodded in agreement. “As you requested.” He handed Aziz the notepad that was under his left arm. “Here is a list of all the hostages by name and position. I circled the most important ones.”

  Aziz leaned back in the chair and flipped through the pages, his chin resting on his chest. “Seventy-six total hostages.”

  “That is correct.”

  Aziz found what he was looking for on the third page—it was the name of the first person he would kill. He tapped the name with his finger and then asked, “How many Secret Service agents?”

  “I did not include them with the seventy-six hostages. They are on the next page. Nine alive, four of whom are in need of medical attention. We also have several marines and other military types mixed in with them.”

  “Do you have them separated from the others?”

  “Yes. They are upstairs, as you planned.”

  “Bound and hooded?” Aziz asked with a raised eyebrow.

  “Of course.”

  “Have any of the civilians tried to distinguish themselves as leaders?”

  “None so far.”

  Flipping the notebook back to the first page, Aziz said, “When the first one stands up”—he held up his forefinger—“and tries to show bravado, I want you to come and get me. I will deal with him personally. We are spread thin enough as it is. I do not want to have to worry about some cowboy giving us trouble from within.”

  Bengazi nodded and suggested, “I think it might be a good idea to let the civilians go to the bathroom.”

  Aziz looked at his watch. It was a reasonable request, and one that would help calm them. “Fine, but leave the Secret Service agents and the marines to wallow in their own excrement.”

  “Yes, Rafique. Do you wish to inspect the explosives?”

  “No. I trust that you have done your job. Now I have to make a phone call.” Aziz pointed at the TV. “They are getting ready to meet at their Pentagon.”

  Bengazi nodded. “If you do not need me for anything else, I have some details to attend to.”

  “One more thing,” said Aziz, as he tilted his chin upward. “How is our little thief coming along?”

  “All of his equipment is in place, and he has started work.” With a shrug, Bengazi added “He tells me he is on schedule.”

  “Good. Keep an eye on him.” Aziz lowered his chin. “He is, after all, not one if us.”

  “I told him not to go anywhere other than the bathroom unless he calls me first,” Bengazi said with a smile. “I told him there are booby traps everywhere and I wouldn’t want him to accidentally set one off.”

  With a smile, Aziz placed a flat hand on his radio and said, “If I need anything, I will call.” He watched Bengazi start for the door and said, “Muammar, relax. They will not be coming tonight. The politicians are in charge right now. They will keep the FBI at bay until we are ready.”

  Bengazi nodded. “I know; you told me how things would proceed, but the time for them to attack would be now, before we get settled in. The hostages are still strong and fresh. They could give us trouble. In three days we will have them weakened and confused. If I were them, I would attack now.”

  Aziz grinned at his friend. “You have to understand how Washington works. The military will advise to move quickly and with overwhelming force, but the politicians will want to move with caution.”

  “What about the FBI?”

  “They will stay in the middle and take orders like they always do. Relax,my friend, they will not be coming for a while. . . .” With a look of amusement, Aziz added, “In fact, I will probably have to provoke them into attacking.”

  Bengazi raised his thick eyebrows. “When the time is right.”

  “Precisely. You are wearing the special clothes I gave you?”

  Bengazi shook his head. “No.”

  “Why not?” asked Aziz with a touch of anger.

  “I don’t feel right abandoning the other men if it comes to that.”

  “The plan will not work if everybody is in on it, Muammar. I am ordering you put them on. If the Americans come, it is our only chance.”

  Bengazi nodded reluctantly and then left. Aziz watched him go and thought about his plan for escape. It had a chance of working. Some things had to go their way, but at the very least, it gave them a fighting chance. If he could just get his hands on the president, none of it would matter.

  Aziz returned his attention to the TVs, where the networks were no
w talking to their Pentagon reporters. He grabbed the remote and turned up the volume on the TV carrying CNN. Aziz listened as the correspondent announced that the vice president and other federal authorities were holding an emergency meeting at the Pentagon. The terrorist smiled as he looked around the opulent Situation Room. Such meetings were usually held in the very room he occupied.

  10

  THE JOINT CHIEFS briefing room is located in the inner sanctum of the monolithic five-sided building that houses the United States Department of Defense—the E Ring. The wide hallway that cuts in front of the modern crisis center is cluttered with more stars and bars than any other government building or military base in the world. Colonels and captains that walk the corridor find themselves saluting as often as a private fresh out of basic training. The E Ring is not known for being a lighthearted, casual workplace, and on this particular day the mood had taken on an even more serious tone.

  Two marines stood post by the wide double doors as Washington’s biggest players filed into the soon bristling room. With aides in tow, the president’s entire cabinet trickled into the room until it was filled almost to capacity. The secretary of the interior was first, followed by the secretary of health and human services, and then the secretary of state. Within five minutes the entire cabinet had arrived, minus the attorney general. The room quickly took on the sound of a crowded bar as aides talked to their bosses and prepped them on the most recent news.

  When FBI Director Roach and Special Agent Skip McMahon entered the room, they were hit with a flurry of questions. Fortunately for Roach and McMahon, General Flood entered the room with the other members of the Joint Chiefs just seconds later. Flood walked to the far end of the table and placed a large black ceramic coffee mug on the table.

  “Everyone take a seat.” Flood’s commanding voice carried through the large room, and the talking was instantly reduced to a trickle. “Let’s go, people.” Flood clapped his hands together and pointed at the chairs arranged around the forty-foot rectangular conference table. “We have a lot of work to do.”

  As the attendees took their seats, Vice President Baxter entered the room with Attorney General Tutwiler and Dallas King. The three of them proceeded to the opposite end of the table from General Flood, where chairs had been saved for them. The secretary of state, a close friend of President Hayes, leaned over and immediately began asking Baxter just what in the hell was going on. While he was doing so, CIA director Stansfield entered the room with Irene Kennedy and Mitch Rapp. Flood pointed to three seats near his end of the huge table and then motioned for one of his aides to close the doors. An Army major walked over to the tall double doors and swung them closed with a finality that let everyone know the meeting was starting.

  “People,” announced Flood, “I’m not going to pussyfoot around on this. There are a lot rumors going around about what happened over at the White House this morning—some of them scratch the surface, but most of them are way off base. Here is what happened. At approximately oh-nine-hundred a group of terrorists attacked and took control of the White House.”

  Before Flood could continue, the room erupted into a series of fragmented conversations and expletives. “People!” bellowed Flood, restoring order. “We have a lot of ground to cover, so keep a lid on it.” Flood angrily eyeballed the group, daring someone to defy him. After making sure everyone understood implicitly that his patience was thin, the general continued. “As I was saying, this group is in control of the White House and holds an unknown number of hostages. The only good news we have in all of this is that President Hayes was safely evacuated to his bunker during the raid. Communications have been cut, but we know the president is safe. This brings us to our first point of order. It is obvious that President Hayes is not in a position to discharge his duties as commander-in-chief. So, according to the Twenty-fifth Amendment, the powers of the president of the United States have been transferred to Vice President Baxter until such time as President Hayes may resume his duties. I have been informed that the majority of the cabinet has agreed to this, and I apologize to those of you who could not be reached earlier, but things have been rather hectic.”

  The general brought his hands together and clasped them tightly in front of his chest. “Let us be clear about this. For the time being, Vice President Baxter is the acting president and the commander-in-chief of our armed forces.” Flood again looked around the substantial table, giving the group a moment for thought, and then added, “However, for reasons of clarity, we will continue to refer to him as Vice President Baxter. Are we all clear on this?”

  General Flood waited a brief moment to see if anyone was crazy enough to draw his ire and then looked to his left at the director of the Secret Service. “Director Tracy is now going to give us the specifics on what transpired this morning. Again, hold all questions until he is done.”

  A solemn-faced director of the Secret Service stood and walked to the podium located at General Flood’s end of the table. Alex Tracy was a squat man with a sizable head and the standard amount of intensity required to run one of the world’s finest law enforcement agencies. Tracy walked toward the podium with the enthusiasm of a man being sent to the gallows. He set a file on the top shelf and placed his hands on the sides.

  With a look of exhaustion and a shaky voice, he started. “Late last night DNC Chairman Piper called over to the White House and obtained a meeting with the president. That meeting was scheduled for this morning at nine. White House staff broke with Secret Service policy and granted Piper and his guest a meeting without giving us time to run a background check on the chairman’s guest. We now know that guest to be Rafique Aziz, the world-renowned terrorist.” Tracy looked up at no one in particular and then continued. “It appears that Aziz approached the Democratic National Committee under the assumed identity of a Prince Kalib of Oman. Aziz gave a five-hundred-thousand-dollar check to the party and, in return, requested that he meet with the president personally.” This time when he paused, the director focused his look more precisely on the group of politicians at the far end of the table.

  Almost every cabinet member was a Democrat, and a murmur broke out as they shot each other anxious looks. This little nugget of information had “congressional investigation” written all over it.

  Tracy continued after about six seconds. “Aziz and Chairman Piper arrived at the White House this morning at about the same time that we received a tip from the CIA that the White House was targeted for a terrorist attack. While Aziz and Piper were entering the White House, a locally contracted linen truck arrived at the Treasury Building, as it does every morning, Monday through Friday. In a complete breakdown of security, the truck was allowed admittance into the underground parking facility by a uniformed Secret Service officer without being properly inspected.” Tracy forced himself to straighten his posture. Out of sheer embarrassment he paused and looked down at his notes. Aziz getting into the White House could be blamed on Chairman Piper, but the truck was the Secret Service’s fault. “It appears the back of this truck was loaded with an unknown number of terrorists and equipment that was used to breach the security of the Treasury tunnel. This was a major breakdown on the part of my agency, and we have already started an internal investigation.” Tracy looked down the length of table at Vice President Baxter. “We will have a preliminary report ready by this evening.”

  Looking back to his notes, he continued, “After receiving the tip from the CIA, Jack Warch, the special agent in charge of the president’s detail, left his office in the EOB and went over to the West Wing to consult with President Hayes. When Warch arrived, Piper and his guest were already in the Oval Office. As soon as Warch found out about the unauthorized visit, he entered the Oval Office to check on the president. After that things happened very fast. A sniper on the roof of the Washington Hotel opened fire on the Secret Service officers posted on the roof of the White House. Within seconds the outer door to the Treasury tunnel was breached, and Warch ordered the president’
s evacuation to his bunker. As many of you know, the old bunker at the White House dates back to World War Two and is really nothing more than a reinforced tunnel. Construction of a new bunker, located in the third basement of the mansion, was completed this past January. The Army Corps of Engineers did the work. They used the standard military design that has been incorporated into all of our command-and-control centers. . . . Excuse me.” Tracy turned his head to the side and coughed.

  “This new facility is not, however, fully operational. The actual construction of the bunker is completed. Its biological, chemical, and radioactive filtration systems are in place and operational, but its communications package has not been installed. That was to take place this summer. The bunker has been stocked, however, with rations and other necessities.” Tracy was slowly gaining back some of his normal confidence. “We know with one hundred percent certainty that Special Agent Warch succeeded in evacuating President Hayes, Valerie Jones, and eight other Secret Service agents to the White House’s basement bunker. Up until approximately nine-fifteen we were in contact with the bunker via our encrypted radios, and then all communication was severed. My technical advisers have informed me that the terrorists are using a jammer to block the radio signals.

  “We have confirmed that eighteen secret service agents and officers have been killed and fifteen are unaccounted for.” Tracy’s voice wavered slightly. “We assume that the fifteen have either been killed or are being held hostage.” Tracy felt a lump forming in his throat and paused to collect himself. After thumbing through his notes for several seconds, he continued, “Our best estimates are that Aziz and his men hold somewhere between eighty and one hundred hostages, with an unknown number of fatalities. We have secured the perimeter of the White House, and our counterassault team is in place and prepared to retake the building if and when you ask them to do so.” Tracy closed his file and again looked down the length of the table at Vice President Baxter. He finished by saying,