Transfer of Power

by Vince Flynn

  “Why do you say that?” asked Rapp.

  “Because this door leads up a short staircase to a tunnel that runs all the way under the West Wing to where there’s a much longer set of stairs that lead all the way up to a hidden door just off of the Oval Office.” Adams pulled another sheet from the back and showed Rapp the location of the tunnel and where it went. “This tunnel used to be the bunker until this new one was completed just this last year. As this tunnel comes over from the West Wing, it stops here. At that point you can either go down this little flight, which empties you into the anteroom, or you can go up a flight of stairs that leads to one of those doors that don’t exist.”

  Rapp liked where this was headed. “Where is this fictitious door located?”

  Adams changed pages again and tapped a spot. “Right here. Just down the hall from where we are right now, in the china storage room.”

  “That’s perfect.”

  “Not quite.” Adams shook his head. “These doors that lead to the anteroom are hermetically sealed with rubber gaskets. If we go down through the tunnel, we wouldn’t be able to hear or see anything in the anteroom unless we open the door to it, and I doubt you want to do that.”

  “No.” Rapp thought about the options for a second. “Yeah, you’re probably right. That means they would have had to get through one of these outer doors first to get to the bunker door.”

  “Yep, and this is the door they would have gone through.” Adams changed back to the drawing that showed the layout of the third basement. “This way they only go through one door. If they tried to come in through the tunnel door, that’s assuming they could find it to begin with, they would have had to go through an extra door.”

  “That makes sense.” Rapp looked at the drawing. “So we have to go down the stairs we used when we came in and hope that a guard isn’t posted like he was last night.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Okay.” Rapp took his hand off the blueprints. “Put those things away, and let’s get ready to move out. You know the routine.”

  After he was done putting the blueprints back in order, Adams folded them up and stuffed them inside his black vest. Then, unzipping and turning on the monitor, he pressed the button to open the elevator door. Rapp stood over his shoulder while Adams stuck the tip of the snake under the outer metal door leading to the first basement. The tiny lens gave them a slightly warped view of the hallway looking up from the stark concrete floor. Adams maneuvered the lens all the way to the right and then back to the left.

  “Looks good,” proclaimed Rapp as he stepped back and readied his gun.

  Adams pulled the snake back with his right hand and coiled it against his hip.

  Rapp took the doorknob in his right hand, pulled, and scooted quickly into the hallway. He brought his MP-10 up and swept to the right and left. Adams was just two steps behind, having had to pause for just a second to shut the outer door to the elevator. In less than three seconds Rapp was at the door that led to the two lower floors. A twist of the metal knob with his gloved right hand and he was through the door, his thick black silencer moving everywhere his eyes went. Whether he had one hand on the weapon or two, it made no difference. At these close distances, one-handed, he could hit a head-size target with about ninety-five percent accuracy on the first shot. With both hands on the efficient and compact Heckler & Koch, it was a guaranteed one hundred percent.

  After checking the stairwell above, Rapp began his controlled descent, keeping his body pressed against the wall, always looking down and checking each new stair as it came into view. Adams followed quietly, several steps behind. Rapp was gaining confidence in him.

  When they hit the landing in between the second and third basements, Rapp stopped. The tiny surveillance unit he had placed next to the door was barely discernible. If he hadn’t known it was there, he doubted he would have seen it. Stopping for even five seconds, out in the open like this, seemed like an eternity, but Rapp was trying to get a feel as to whether someone was on the other side of the door.

  He went down the last four steps and stopped, his eyes fixed on the half-inch sliver of light that framed the base of the metal fire door. For another long five seconds, Rapp crouched and stared. Still nothing.

  Rapp waved Adams down. The older man descended the last flight cautiously, holding on to the monitor as if it were the head of a baby. Stepping back and holding his submachine gun ready, Rapp directed Adams to slide the tip of the snake under the door.

  As Adams moved the device to the left, a pair of boots came into view. They were walking toward the door. Rapp reached out and pulled Adams’s hand back, keeping his gun trained on the door. After waiting several seconds for the boots to pass, Adams and Rapp retreated in silence.

  “BROODING” MIGHT HAVE been the right word, at least at first. But that smug emotion was gone now, replaced by one of self-loathing and personal disgust. Disgust, she told herself. Not disappointment or disrespect, it was disgust. Mr. Secret Agent Man’s parting slam had stung, and Anna Rielly’s first response had been to fold her arms tightly across her chest and ask herself just who that gun-toting ass thought he was. Where in the hell did he get off judging her so quickly? He didn’t know who she was. He was just another one of those arrogant white males, like so many of her dad’s cop friends, who thought they were the only ones that knew what life was all about. They had no idea how important it was to have a truly free press. Just who in the hell did he think he was? The voice in the back of her head responded, He’s the man who risked his life to save yours.

  At that point, Rielly’s mood turned from brooding to self-loathing, and now she sat feeling not so hot about herself.

  THE ELEVATOR STOPPED at the second floor, and without having to be told, Adams was already working the monitor to check the different surveillance units. For his part, Rapp was trying to figure out their next step beyond calling Langley. There had to be a way to check on the president. When they got back in the stash room, he would get Adams to spread out his blueprints and see if there were any other options. But that meant Rielly, and that wouldn’t work. She already knew too much as it was, and things were only going to get worse.

  Adams finished checking the surveillance units and told Rapp the coast was clear. Rapp nodded, and after a couple seconds, he said, “When we get back to the stash room, I’m going to need you to step outside with Anna for a couple of minutes while I talk to Langley.”

  The twisted expression on Adams’s face gave Rapp the impression he wasn’t too fond of the idea.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t like the idea of sitting outside of the room with her and my little six-shooter.” The horizontal lines on Adams’s shiny black forehead deepened. “I think you’re overreacting.” Adams saw an instantaneous change in Rapp’s demeanor. The lid on the kettle started to wobble. In earnest, Adams added, “Just a bit . . . I mean, I understand your need for secrecy and everything, but—”

  Rapp cut him off. “She’s a reporter, end of discussion, let’s go.” Rapp jerked his thumb toward the door.

  It was obvious Rapp wasn’t going to budge, so Adams zipped up the monitor and opened the door. Rapp stepped onto the white tile floor first, and Adams closed the door behind them. Another quick trip across the hall and they were back in the large walk-in closet.

  Rapp pointed at the ground. “You stay here. Use the monitor to make sure no one is coming. I’ll leave the door unlocked. At the first sign of trouble, come back in the room.”

  Rapp didn’t give Adams a chance to ask any questions. Turning immediately, he opened the organizer and stepped into the stash room. Rielly was sitting in the corner right where they had left her. Rapp looked down at Anna Rielly and wished she weren’t there. Wished he could just erase her from his mind.

  “You’re back awfully quick,” was the only thing Rielly could think of.

  Ignoring her words, he stuck his hand out. Rielly grabbed it, and Rapp pulled her to her feet. He man
euvered her toward the open door and ignored her question. Pushing her out into the closet, Rapp pulled the organizer shut with a slight click.

  He dropped to one knee, grabbed the handset to the field radio, and said, “Iron Man to control. Over.”

  A female voice answered and told Rapp to hold. Less than ten seconds later Thomas Stansfield’s smooth voice came over the thin plastic receiver. “What did you find out?”

  “I came up dry on the first run, sir. There was a Tango in the hallway. We couldn’t proceed past the stairwell.”

  “What level was the Tango on?” This time it was General Campbell’s voice.

  “Third basement.” Rapp rubbed his brow with his right hand. “He was positioned just outside the doors for the stairwell and the boiler room.” There was a pause, and Rapp imagined a gaggle of military aides shuffling blueprints around and showing the general the exact location.

  “Any thoughts on why he would be there?” It was Stansfield again.

  Rapp finished kneading the skin on his brow. “Off the top of my head, I can think of two. First, the guy is down there to make sure no one comes through the shaft again, or second, he’s down there to make sure no one interrupts the progress of this Yassin, or whatever his name is.”

  There was the exhaling sigh of thought and then the words, “I would concur. Do you or Milt have any ideas on how we might circumvent this guard?”

  “Maybe.” Rapp began rubbing his forehead again. “Give me about ten minutes, and I’ll call you back.”

  Rapp set the handset back in the cradle. Now it was time to grab Milt and figure out a way to verify whether or not the president was safe. What to do with the reporter?

  Standing, he popped open the door and pushed it outward. Adams and Rielly were standing in the dimly lit closet talking quietly. Rapp motioned for Adams to join him and then said to Rielly, “You’re going to have to stay out here while we talk.”

  Adams stepped forward, grabbing Rielly’s arm and bringing her with him. “She’s got something to say to you.”

  Rapp stood in the opening, reluctant to move, looking at Adams and wondering what in the hell he had said. Looking to Rielly, he saw that her feisty attitude was gone. After a long moment, Rapp retreated a step and allowed the two of them to enter the stash room.

  36

  SEALS DON’T LIKE to sit around, especially when there’s action to be had, and even more so when one of their own has been killed. Lt. Commander Harris wanted a piece of that action, and although he would never admit it to the brass, he wanted to put a bullet in the head of every terrorist in the White House. No prisoners.

  Now Harris was in the process of exactly that as he strode up the steps of the Old Post Office on the corner of Twelfth and Pennsylvania. He had walked the four and a half blocks from his makeshift command post on the east fence of the White House with the bullish Mick Reavers. They were still there manning the CP, despite the debacle of last night. Rapp and Adams were, after all, still in the building, and the powers that be at the Pentagon had yet to decide on a redeployment, if any. Harris knew that was a distinct possibility. At any minute he could get the order to pack himself and his men up. The press was asking a lot of questions concerning Aziz’s statement that he had turned away an assault. If they pushed hard enough and the politicians started chirping, Six’s plug would be pulled. JSOC didn’t like operating in the light, and if the current trend continued, they would most certainly pull Harris and his men away from the White House and back under cover.

  There was one other alternative, but Harris didn’t want to think about it. He wanted to believe that the Navy and ultimately the Pentagon would do the right thing. But he knew from past experience that that didn’t always turn out to be the case. In a crisis, SOP for the Pentagon often was to circle the wagons and offer up a sacrificial lamb. The beast served to the press was usually the unit commander, and that of course was yours truly, Lt. Commander Dan Harris.

  Harris was dressed in his fire-retardant black coveralls. Surprisingly, he and Mick Reavers didn’t attract too much attention. By the third day of the crisis, the spectators had grown used to seeing heavily armed men going to and fro in black ninja jumpsuits. The two SEALs had left their submachine guns back at the command post, but both still carried their H&K USP .45 caliber handguns in their thigh holsters.

  As Harris and Reavers bounded up the steps two at a time, they were met at the top by Charlie Wicker. Wicker turned and opened one of the heavy old doors. Harris and Reavers fell into step behind Wicker, all three men swiveling their heads as they walked into the large old building. Their discerning eyes took an almost instantaneous inventory of all that was around them. Exit signs, windows, strange-looking people—you name it. They did it out of habit. Always know your surroundings.

  Wicker approached a bank of elevators. The one on the far left was held for them by a security guard. As they stepped into the elevator, Wicker looked at the security guard and said, “Al, this is Lieutenant Commander Harris.”

  The balding man stuck out his hand. “Al Turly, Commander. Nice to meet you.”

  “Same here.” Harris grabbed Turly’s hand and gave him the requisite bone-crushing handshake. Then, pointing to the mound of flesh next to him, he said, “This big fella is Chief Reavers.”

  His hand still stinging from Harris’s handshake, Turly decided to skip the nicety with the even larger Reavers. When the elevator reached the top floor, Turly led the way down the hall. At the end of the hallway they came upon a door labeled Bell Tower. Extracting a key, Turly opened the door, and they stepped into a stairwell that appeared to have been built not too long after the Civil War. The narrow staircase was flush against the wall on one side and on the other was only a railing. They were inside the dingy bell tower of the grand Old Post Office.

  Turly, not wanting to slow the others down, let them take the lead. He had already taken the wiry little one up to the top once, and he thought his heart might leap from his chest. As Turly expected, the three black-clad men marched up the steps two at a time. Within seconds they were out of his sight, only the echoes of their footsteps letting him know they were above him. Turly slowed his pace. Ten months from retirement. It wasn’t worth it.

  The three SEALs reached the top without so much as breaking a sweat. Wicker climbed up the ladder that was bolted to the wall, and with one hand he pushed open the hatch that led to the bell tower. Pulling himself up and through, he spun around on his butt and stood. Harris was next and then Reavers. All three men stood side by side, looking west out the large aperture. The bell tower atop the Old Post Office had the second most commanding view of all Washington after the one from the Washington Monument. From this eagle’s nest they looked straight down Pennsylvania Avenue past Freedom Plaza and Pershing Park, over the southwest corner of the Treasury Building, and there, perfectly bathed in the bright afternoon light, was the White House.

  Wicker retrieved a pair of binoculars with a laser range finder from his vest and handed it to his CO. After turning his black baseball cap around, so the brim was out of the way, Harris held the binoculars up to his eyes. The commander of SEAL Team Six zeroed in on the roof of the White House and sought out the tiny rooftop guard booth. After a slight adjustment, the blue hue of the bulletproof Plexiglas was in the crosshairs. Harris paused for a second and watched the hooded man sitting behind the protective glass. Harris’s forefinger pressed a button, and a second later three red numbers appeared. Harris handed the binoculars to Reavers and turned to Wicker.

  “Eight hundred and twenty meters?”

  Wicker nodded confidently. “Yep.”

  “What’s the forecast for tonight?”

  “A lazy southeasterly breeze, between two and five knots.”

  Harris nodded. That was child’s play for Wicker. He could hit this shot from almost double the distance at five knots. “What about the glass?”

  “It’s half an inch. I’ve shot through it before on the range.” Wicker continued his
confident stare, eyeballing the White House with his naked eye.

  “That’s the range; this is real life. We need to know how old that glass is, the manufacturer’s testing data, everything we can get our hands on.”

  Wicker kept his eyes on the White House, supremely confident in his skills—knowing that there were only a handful of men in the whole world that matched him in skill, and none that could exceed.

  “The glass was installed in ninety-two and is due to be replaced within the next year. I studied the manufacturer’s testing data two years ago and have all the info I need right up here.” Wicker tapped his temple with his forefinger. “If that glass was brand-new, I could still do it, but it’s been baked by the sun now for seven years. Its strength has been reduced by at least sixty percent. With two fifties we’ll be able to drill right through it.” Wicker nodded confidently and added, “Hell, the first shot might even get him.”

  Harris was a little surprised that Wicker already had the stats. “How did you find out about the glass?”

  “I called some of my fellow snipers at the Secret Service.”

  “When?” asked Harris.

  “Two days ago.” Wicker kept his gaze on the White House.

  Harris smiled. He loved it when his men were proactive. “You’ve been thinking about this shot for that long?”

  Wicker turned, a devilish grin spreading across his lips. “I’ve been thinking about this shot ever since we ran that exercise eight years ago.”

  Harris knew the exact exercise Wicker was referring to. It had been on his mind since the onset of this entire cluster fuck. Slowly, Harris began to nod. And then with a smile of his own, he looked to Wicker and said, “Don’t ever tell anybody that. The boys at the Secret Service might not understand your professional curiosity.”

  “Oh, they understand.” Wicker nodded.“We’ve talked about this shot a hundred times.”