Transfer of Power

by Vince Flynn

  Warch thought about the president’s question for a moment. He looked over at the seemingly impervious bunker door and wondered how long it would take for the terrorists to breach it.

  Looking back to the president, Warch knew he had to stay positive. “The FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team is the best. I’m sure they’re making plans to retake the building as we speak.”

  RAFIQUE AZIZ GRINNED as he watched the money flow into the Swiss bank account. His people in Iran would start transferring the money into different accounts within the hour. He was winning, but his elation was tempered by the news about his mentor Fara Harut. Aziz wondered what his captors could get out of him—if he was still alive. Harut was a tough old man, but no one was tough enough to withstand torture.

  As Aziz tried to assess the potential damage, he wondered if it was wise to deviate from his plan slightly—to demand the return of Harut. As he drummed his fingers on the table, he decided no. The Americans might not have him; it could have been the Israelis or the British. If he went back on his word, it might provoke them into a premature attack, and Aziz was not ready for that. He needed his hands around the president’s neck, or his chance for survival would be close to zero.

  For now he would stick to his plan. It was time to talk to the FBI. Aziz had been ready to kill another hostage at ten A.M., but the money had started to flow and kept flowing. It was nearing noon and almost all of the money had been transferred. Aziz picked up the phone and dialed the number that the FBI had given him. After two rings the now familiar deep voice of McMahon answered.

  “You have kept your word,” said Aziz, “and I will keep mine. At half past noon, I will release one-third of the hostages. Keep your people back. I don’t want to see any of them on the street, or I’ll open fire. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes. Which door will you bring them out of ?”

  “That is not your concern,” snapped Aziz. “I will release my next set of demands at seven A.M. tomorrow. Until then I do not want hear from you.” The terrorist hung up the phone and looked at his watch. It was exactly 11:53. Aziz decided he would release the hostages immediately instead of waiting until twelve-thirty. This would keep the FBI off balance. Aziz doubted they would try anything this early, but after his execution of their national security adviser, it was best to be safe.

  ANNA RIELLY FELT weak. Her captors had allowed them to go to the bathroom around eleven, and Rielly had been able to grab several handfuls of water from the sink while she was in the bathroom. The water hitting her empty stomach had made her realize just how hungry she really was. The terrorist with the slicked-back hair had again followed her into the stall and watched her.

  Back in the White House mess, Rielly looked up from her uncomfortable position on the floor and noticed him gloating over her still. She wondered when he would strike, and if he would do it alone or with the others. Her vision started to blur. Lowering her head, she brought both fists up to her eyes, fighting the tears before they started flowing uncontrollably.

  She could handle anything but this. Would it be better to die? she honestly asked herself.

  RAFIQUE AZIZ CAME marching into the White House mess and glared at the huddled mass of frightened hostages. No one dared look at him after seeing what he was capable of.

  With his hands on his hips, Aziz said, “Everybody, listen to me and you will not be hurt.” Aziz began to walk around the circle. “If I tap you on the shoulder, I want you to go stand against the wall by the door. A third of you are being set free. If your government cooperates tomorrow, another third of you will be set free.”

  Aziz knew the second part of the statement to be a lie, but honesty was hardly his strong suit. “If any of you talk or do not cooperate in any way, you will be forced to sit back down.” Aziz began tapping the shoulders of those hostages closest to the door. Those farthest from the door quickly realized they would not be released. Several of them started to cry, and Aziz shouted, “Silence, or I will come over there and shoot you!”

  Anna Rielly couldn’t believe it; her prayers were about to be answered. As the leader worked his way closer, her sprits soared. She was going to be set free. Rielly grabbed Stone Alexander and told him to sit up. The pretty male reporter’s hair was pasted to one side of his head, with a large clump sticking straight up in the air, and he gave no sign that he knew what was going on. Aziz tapped Rielly on the shoulder and then Alexander. Anna stood and pulled Alexander to his feet. As she walked toward the door, she felt as though it were all a dream. Rielly looked at the other hostages that were standing by the door and smiled. It was really going to happen.

  Her smile vanished instantly when she felt a hand on her shoulder. Trying to ignore it, Rielly took another step, but the fingers dug in deep and yanked her to a stop. Alexander kept walking in his trancelike state toward the others that were being set free.

  The terrorist with the slicked-back hair, the one who had driven the delivery truck into the underground parking garage of the Treasury Building, yanked Anna Rielly to a stop and yelled to Rafique Aziz in Arabic. Aziz stopped his count for a second, looked at the woman his man was talking about, and nodded his consent. Then, pointing to another hostage that was still seated, he said, “You take her place.” Aziz could not have cared less what his men wanted to do with these women. They were the spoils of war.

  With a quick yank, Rielly pulled herself from the terrorist’s grip. “Take your filthy hands off me.”

  Abu Hasan, somewhat surprised at the strength of the slender woman, paused for a brief second and then raised his hand. In a wide arcing motion he swung at her head with an open hand.

  Rielly, at her father’s suggestion, had enrolled in self-defense classes afterthe rape. She had taken them very seriously, and the instincts were still there. She saw the blow coming and raised her forearm. The blow knocked her slightly off balance, but she remained defiantly on her feet.

  What Rielly didn’t know was that she would have been better off if she had kept her instincts in check. Like most Arab men, Abu Hasan was used to submissive women and was not about to tolerate this type of behavior, especially in front of the other men. This time he swung with a closed fist and hit a cowering Rielly in the temple.

  The blow sent Rielly to the floor, where she curled up in a ball. Kicking her in the back viciously, the terrorist then grabbed her by the hair and dragged her back to the main group of hostages. He released her hair and dropped her to the floor like a sack. Rielly lay there, her hands covering her face as the tears flowed from her eyes, her back and head screaming in pain. She wasn’t crying as much from the pain as from mental anguish. Anna Rielly knew what was going to happen to her, and the vision of what lay ahead only made her cry harder.

  18

  Pentagon, 12:48 P.M.

  THE JOINT CHIEFS briefing room was once again crowded with people. Gone were the politicians from yesterday, replaced by members of the military’s Joint Special Operations Command and the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team. At the far end of the table, FBI Director Roach was accompanied by several of his deputy directors, his international and domestic terrorism chiefs, and the commander of the Hostage Rescue Team, Sid Slater.

  Skip McMahon had been left back at the command post to keep an eye on things and to get the debriefing of the recently released group of hostages started. Secret Service Director Tracy was also present with several of his deputies, and CIA Director Stansfield and Irene Kennedy were seated next to Flood at the head of the table, opposite the FBI contingent. The rest of the table was dominated with Pentagon brass and Special Forces types.

  General Flood was far more comfortable with this audience than he had been with the one the day before. He would not have to mince words with this group; they all spoke his language. Flood’s confidence was also bolstered by the briefing he had received from Stansfield and Kennedy an hour earlier. Now that he had a clearer picture of what Aziz had in mind, he could prepare his battle plan, and as far as the general was concerned, it
was exactly that, a battle plan. Flood and Stansfield had come to the conclusion, after the early morning debacle at the White House, that Vice President Baxter did not have the fortitude and vision to lead them through this crisis. Those were Stansfield’s words; the general had actually used the words “nuts” and “guts.”

  It came down to the issue of history, Flood had explained. Not in the sense of making it as much as setting a precedent. As a military historian Flood knew all too well the pitfalls of taking the easy road in times of crisis, of negotiating for today without an eye to the future. In the not-so-recent past Neville Chamberlain had shown all the world, and future generations, how appeasement and negotiations worked when dealing with a madman. More recently, George Bush had given a valuable lesson in how to deal with a megalomaniac. Simply cutting off an arm does not suffice; pulling up short of a complete victory is not enough; the only way to solve the problem is to lop off the head of the man behind the aggression.

  The general had decided he would do everything in his significant power to end the crisis at the White House in a quick and decisive manner. Negotiating, delaying, handing over concessions, were all a distraction from the big picture—the future of international terrorism and how it affected the national security of America. The money they had released this morning had instantly saved the lives of twenty-five people, but how many lives would it cost down the road? How much of that money would be used to train and fund terrorists, how much of it would be used to strike against America and her citizens both abroad and at home?

  Flood and Stansfield had made a pact to do everything possible to persuade the vice president to take action—to make sure Rafique Aziz did not walk out of the White House alive. Their options were plentiful, as the United States was fortunate to have not one but three highly skilled, world-class counterterrorist strike teams: the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team, the Army’s Delta Force, and the Navy’s SEAL Team Six. These three groups fired more ammunition in one year than an entire division of marines, and it paid off. Each of the three units always had teams on standby, referred to as go-teams. When on the go-team rotation, one was expected to stay close to home, carry a pager twenty-four-seven, and be ready to drop everything and hightail it to HQ in two hours or less. For the FBI, they scrambled out of the HRT’s headquarters in Quantico, Virginia; for SEAL Team Six, it was Little Creek, Virginia; and for Delta Force, it was Fort Bragg, North Carolina.

  Yesterday morning, when the White House was hit, the pagers started going off, and within hours all three teams were converging on the White House, vying for intelligence and position. There was a competitive edge between the three that was fostered more than anything by shooting competitions and mock takedowns. They all shared information on training and lessons learned in the field and were respectful of each other, but in the end they each thought their team was the best.

  This was where the problems started. Like three quarterbacks fighting for the starting spot, they clashed, invariably, because of egos. And make no mistake about it, the men who ran these teams had huge egos. This was the issue General Flood was going to try to handle.

  The general looked down at the assemblage and started calmly, “We have been given full authority by the vice president to prepare plans for the rescue of the hostages and the retaking of the White House. It goes without saying that none of what we are about to discuss is for public consumption.” Pausing, the general held up a finger. “First issue. There is a certain myth that has been promulgated over the last several decades that we are forbidden by law to use the American military in domestic policing operations. In my mind, and the minds of many others, including Director Roach, this very narrow interpretation of the law does not apply to our current crisis. This is not Waco or Ruby Ridge; this is a paramilitary assault on a federal building by foreign soldiers, and we are going to use every resource at our disposal to resolve this conflict.” The general paused to make his point clear. “We have three top-notch counterterrorist strike teams at our disposal, and we plan on using all of you in one way or another.” Flood looked at the leaders of each unit to make sure he was understood. “I am a firm believer in interservice rivalries. It’s a great training tool that helps instill unit cohesion and a sense of fighting pride. But,” cautioned the general, “there is no place for that rivalry in war, and this is war. Over twenty people have died already, and we are sure to lose more. Now, I have been receiving reports about little turf wars flaring up around the White House between your people.” Flood looked individually at the leaders of Delta, HRT, and SEAL Team Six. “As of this moment, this bickering is over,” growled Flood. The general let his words sink in. “We know what your strengths are. Delta is best at taking down airliners and has a slight edge on airborne assaults, HRT is best at negotiating and has the most practical experience in standoffs, and SEAL Team Six has a clear edge in jumping, diving and explosives.”

  Flood pointed to the director of the FBI. “I have already consulted with Directors Roach, Tracy, and Stansfield and General Campbell, and we are in agreement on the following deployment of assets. First”—the general stressed the word and held up his forefinger—“the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team will deploy across the street from the West Wing in the Executive Office Building and make plans for a ground assault. If we need to go in on short notice, HRT will probably be our first option.” Flood shifted his attention to Colonel Bill Gray, the man in charge of Delta Force. Gray was a former ranger and had been with Delta since its inception in 1977. “Billy, you and your people still know your way around Andrews, National, Dulles, and Baltimore?”

  “Yes, General.” One of Delta Force’s specialties was handling hijackings, and they had developed the good habit of gathering advance site intelligence at potential airports. With the cooperation of airport officials, Delta would send operators to various installations to learn the ropes as mechanics, flight attendants, baggage handlers, and a variety of other skills that might come in handy in the event of a hijacking. Delta also liked to conduct security checks on the airports to see how their systems, procedures, and people would stand up. Delta’s operators would ferret around the facilities, sometimes announced and sometimes unannounced, and check out underground runway tunnels, rooftop sniping positions, and other areas of interest. The simple logic being, the more advance work they did the easier it would be to handle a real crisis.

  Flood continued. “Good. We’ve decided to use Delta Force to handle anything that goes down at the airports, and also, as an airborne strike force if needed.” Flood looked at Colonel Gray. “General Campbell will brief you on the deployment of your assets later.” The general pulled back and looked around the room. “This is no Waco, ladies and gentlemen. Once we go in, we go in and we keep going in until we take the building. If we send HRT through the door, we need Delta Force up in the air and ready to come in hot.” Flood looked to SEAL Team Six’s commanding officer, Dan Harris, the same man who had helped Rapp kidnap Fara Harut. “SEAL Team Six is going to play two roles. First and foremost they are to advise both Delta and HRT on explosives, and secondly they will be used as the primary chase team. If Aziz leaves the country, Six will pursue.” Flood had other plans for SEAL Team Six, but he was not about to discuss them in front of the group.

  “Director Roach and I have decided that General Campbell, of the Joint Special Operations Command”—Flood pointed across the table at the bristly haired ranger—“will coordinate the activities of all three units. Dr. Irene Kennedy”—Flood gestured to his left—“from the CIA, will commence an intelligence briefing in this room as soon as I’m finished. Each unit will also be augmented with Secret Service agents who will act as liaison officers in regards to questions about the floor plans of the White House and the West Wing, where we currently believe the majority of the hostages are being held.”

  Flood paused for a moment and looked at his watch. “I want fully briefed strike teams in place and ready to move by twenty-one hundred this evening. That gives us eight ho
urs.” Looking at the other members of the Joint Chiefs sitting around him, Flood said, “These men and their units are our number one priority. If they ask for something, they get it.” Then addressing the entire group, the general said, “Dr. Kennedy will now brief you on the intelligence situation. Director Roach”—Flood nodded to the head of the FBI—“the show is yours. Director Stansfield and I have some business to attend to.” With that, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs started for the door as Stansfield slowly rose out of his chair. When the two men reached the door, Flood grabbed one of his aides and said, “Wait five minutes and then bring Admiral DeVoe and Lieutenant Commander Harris to my office.”

  THE BLUEPRINTS were spread out on the large table in General Flood’s office. Mitch Rapp was nodding his head in understanding as Milt Adams showed him the whereabouts of a secret passageway not noted on the drawing. Adams had changed into more appropriate attire and was wearing a blue suit, with a white shirt and solid maroon tie. The tie was held in place by a shiny brass USMC tie bar.

  Rapp looked down at a marking on the blueprint and asked, “That door is fake?”

  “Well, it’s not fake exactly. It works, but it’s always locked.”

  “How are we going to get through it? . . . Do we have to pick it?”

  “No.” Adams grinned dubiously, and then reaching into his pocket, he extracted a large key ring. “This right here”—Adams found the right key—“this is an S-key.” He held up the key proudly for Rapp to see.

  “What in the hell is an S-key?” Rapp asked.