Transfer of Power

by Vince Flynn

  She pulled herself into the lateral duct and rested for a second. The knots felt a little tight on her ankles, but were bearable. After gathering herself, she spun back onto her stomach, and that was when she heard it. A whining noise. The sound of machinery working. The sound of a drill. Rielly’s heart rate quickened. The first vent was just ahead on her right. From where she was positioned, she felt as though she could almost reach out and touch it.

  With some reservation she inched forward several feet and stopped. The noise had not gone away. As slowly as she could, Rielly scooted forward an inch at a time, using all of her concentration to make sure no noise was made. The duct became brighter with the light from the hallway. As she neared the grate, she grew nervous at how well she could see her hands.

  Approaching the vent, she could start to see the off-white wall of hallway. The cover had a series of vertical slats that were angled to force the air down. Rielly laid her head flat so she could try to get a look straight down the hallway and into the bunker. What she saw caused her to hold her breath. Straight ahead, just down the hall, was the shiny vault door to the president’s bunker, and attached to it were the objects that were making the noise she had been hearing. Drills of some sort. Three of them. One big and two small. Rielly moved her head around and tried to get better angles of the anteroom but could find none. On the floor there appeared to be a variety of toolboxes and some tanks. She could see only part of the room because the first door was not swung all the way open.

  Rielly was finishing her inventory of what little she could see and was preparing to reach for the string around her neck when a man appeared. He came into her view from a part of the room that she could not see. Rielly’s first reaction was to move back a little out of fear that he might be able to see her. She quickly realized this was stupid and told herself to calm down. The man, who looked more like a plumber than a terrorist, approached the drills with a cup in his hand. He touched the casings of each one with his hand and then went about measuring their progress with a tape measure.

  Oh, this was going to be one hell of a story, Rielly thought to herself. She watched the man for another couple seconds and then tugged on the shoestring three times. After a slight pause she began sliding back down the vent.

  JACK WARCH HAD decided on a course of action. He wanted to build a consensus among his agents first and then bring his plan to the president. He didn’t want any surprised faces if the president asked them for their opinion. Warch had taken a minute or two with each agent, and all of them had enthusiastically backed their boss’s idea.

  Now came the hard part. President Hayes was sitting next to Valerie Jones on one of the couches playing a game of gin. Before walking over, Warch checked the door one more time. All indications were that they were running out of time.

  Walking across the carpeting, Warch stopped just on the other side of one of the longer couches and cleared his throat. When the president looked up, he said, “Excuse me, sir. Do you have a second?”

  The president looked back at the discard pile and said, “Sure.” Hayes closed his hand up and set it facedown on the table. “Excuse me, Val.” After getting up, he walked around the couches and joined Warch, who had walked over to the corner by the bathroom.

  “What is it, Jack?”

  “Sir, I want you to hear me out before you say anything.” Warch gave his boss a stern look that told him he was very serious. Hayes nodded, and Warch continued. “I have an idea. One that I think will work, but it’s going to take some balls on our part and a little bit of risk.”

  “Okay, let’s hear it.”

  “I want to start out by saying that just sitting here is not a good option. Every one of my agents is willing to sacrifice his life for you, so I want you to stop thinking about us. We volunteered for this duty and we all knew what the risks were when we signed.”

  Hayes started to shake his head. “I’m not going to change my mind, Jack. There’s been enough bloodshed. When that door opens, we are going to surrender peacefully and take our chances.”

  Warch snapped at the president, “Let me finish!”

  Hayes backed up a half a step in surprise and nodded his consent for the special agent to continue.

  Warch composed himself and started again. “We,” he said, pointing to himself, “are not what is at issue here. You are what is at issue, and not just you as a person but you as the president. In the big picture, all of our lives”—Warch pointed to the other agents in the room—“don’t add up to one president. The president must be protected at all costs. That’s my first point.” Warch held up his forefinger. “My second point is that just laying our weapons down and surrendering doesn’t guarantee us anything. Who’s to say they won’t line us up and shoot every single one of us, including you?”

  The president thought about it for a moment and then said, “There are no guarantees, Jack, but I don’t see any other alternative.”

  “I have one. It’s a little daring, but it’s a heck of a lot better than sitting around and waiting for them to open the door.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s something they’ll never expect. We have nine highly trained agents in this room. Three of them have served on the Counter Assault Team and have extensive training in hostage situations. My proposal is”—Warch paused and took a big breath—“that instead of waiting for them to get this door open, we open it ourselves and catch them off guard.”

  The president frowned.

  “Hear me out, sir. We have the firepower to get you out of here, and we’ll have the element of surprise on our side.”

  Hayes folded his arms across his chest and thought about it for a moment. Looking at Warch, he said, “Tell me more. If we’re going to do this, we need a game plan.”

  WHEN THEY PULLED her out of the vent, her black sweat suit was covered in dust, as was a healthy portion of her ponytail. Rielly flipped over onto her back and sat up. Rapp and Adams were poised just above her, eagerly awaiting the report.

  Remembering to keep her voice at a whisper, Rielly nodded her head vigorously. “They’re doing it. They’ve made it through that outer door you told me about, and they’re working on the big shiny door that leads to the bunker.”

  “With what?” asked Adams.

  “I’m not sure.” Rielly gestured with her hands. “I think they’re drills. At least that’s what they sounded like. The guy who’s down there pulled out a tape measure and held it up to the door.”

  Adams tried to ask another question, but Rapp stuck his hand out and stopped him. “From the top,” he said to Rielly. “What did you see?”

  Rielly took a deep breath and let her hands fall to her lap. “I saw three objects attached to the door. Like I said, I think they were drills. On the floor there were two boxes . . . like toolboxes. One was red and the other one was gray.” Rielly stopped and tried to remember every detail. “There was one man. He walked from the left side of the room, where I couldn’t see him because that first door isn’t swung all the way open.” Rielly’s eyes danced over her story as she pictured it. “The man had a cup in his hand—it was probably coffee—and he walked over to the drills.” Rielly’s left hand was cupped as if she were carrying a mug and the right was held flat. “He placed his hand on the drills . . . I think he was checking to see how warm they were.”

  Adams nodded knowingly. “He’s afraid they’re gonna burn out on him.”

  Rielly shrugged. “Well, after he was done doing that, he pulled out a tape measure and held it alongside each drill.”

  “What did he look like?” asked Rapp.

  “Not like the others.”

  “You didn’t see him when you were being held in the mess?”

  “No.”

  “How did he look different?”

  “He was”—Rielly searched for the right adjective—“pudgy and I guess a little older.”

  “How old?”

  “I’d guess late forties to fifty.”

  “Wa
s he armed?”

  This one stumped Rielly. Her eyes looked to the ceiling while she tried to remember. After a moment she shook her head and said, “I’m not sure.”

  Rapp accepted the answer and tried to think if he was missing anything. “Did you see anyone else? Hear anything else? Anything you can think of?”

  Rielly shook her head. “Nope. I wasn’t down there very long.”

  Rapp reached down and started untying the rope. “Nice work, Anna. Now I want you to wait here while I go back upstairs and report in. I think we’re gonna have some more work to do, but I have to let them know that their hunch was right.”

  Rapp finished untying the rope and stood. Reaching for his gun, he said, “Milt, let’s go.”

  Adams struggled up from one knee and pointed at his feet. “What do I do about shoelaces?”

  After looking at Rielly’s white stockinged feet, Rapp said, “Take the boots off and go in your socks. We’re just going up and right back down.”

  Adams took the boots off, and then moving toward the door with Rapp, he said sheepishly, “Mitch, I have to go pee again.”

  Rapp looked at him sideways. Something clicked in his head, and he stopped. Turning back to Rielly, he asked, “Anna, did you say the guy was drinking coffee?”

  Rielly nodded. “I think so.”

  Rapp smiled and glanced at Adams. “Milt, you’re a genius.”

  41

  HARRIS AND REAVERS pulled up to the main gate at Andrews Air Force Base and presented their credentials. They were saluted and waved through quickly. Harris was on a mission to find General Campbell, and the fact that General Flood was reportedly with him was all the better. Might as well hit them both up at the same time. Flood, after all, would have to give his stamp of approval to anything they would want to execute.

  Reavers maneuvered the heavy Suburban around several turns and gunned the gas-guzzling V-8 engine. Harris had told him to step on it. Right now Delta was getting face time with the generals, and every second counted. SEAL blood had been spilled, and Harris was going to do everything possible to make sure they had a piece of the action.

  Less than a minute later, Reavers came to an abrupt stop near General Flood’s limousine and its two security sedans. Several Pentagon pukes were standing around in their cleanly pressed green uniforms, keeping an eye on the cars. Inside, no doubt, were more of them waiting to wipe General Flood’s nose in case he got a sniffle.

  Harris and Reavers jumped out of the Suburban, Harris with a file folder, Reavers with a submachine gun. The file folder Harris carried contained a “briefback.” The briefback was a Special Forces document that outlined a specific mission that was being proposed down to the last detail.

  Harris and Reavers moved toward the rear of the hangar, where Harris spotted two of General Flood’s staff pukes milling about. Approaching the door, one of the general’s aides, a major, put up a hand and attempted to ask Harris his business. Harris, not wearing any rank or insignia, continued right past the officer and opened the door. Reavers followed his boss and closed the door behind him.

  Inside, standing in front of a chalkboard, were Generals Flood and Campbell. They were both listening to Colonel Gray, Delta Force’s commander. Several other Pentagon, JSOC, and Delta intelligence and administrative types were seated at a long table working among themselves. Harris and Reavers approached the front of the room and snapped off salutes to General Flood. After Flood returned the salute, Harris apologized for the interruption.

  “That’s all right. We wanted to talk to you anyway.” Then, gesturing to the blackboard, Flood said, “We were just going over several takedown scenarios. I’d like to hear what you think.”

  Harris eyed the old blackboard for a second and said, “Billy and his people know their stuff. They don’t need me looking over their shoulder.” Harris looked to Colonel Gray and winked. Gray gave his counterpart at SEAL Team Six an approving nod.

  “I do have an idea about something else, however. A solution to an obstacle that we need to overcome before we even consider launching something like this.” Harris gestured to a large diagram of the White House compound taped to the right side of the long blackboard. “We know from Iron Man’s recon of the mansion that there are explosive devices to be dealt with. He found a bomb in the president’s bedroom. Why put a bomb there if you’re Aziz?” Harris looked quizzically at the two generals and Colonel Gray. “All of the hostages are over here”—Harris pointed to the diagram—“in the West Wing. The only reason I can think of is to bring the whole building down and add to the chaos surrounding any attempt by us to retake the building.”

  Flood thought about and slowly nodded. “I would agree.”

  “Knowing this, we can infer that, like with rats, when we see one, we can assume there are many more.” Pausing for emphasis, Harris let them think about the harsh reality of sending dozens of operators into the building only to see them engulfed in a ball of flames and flying debris. “Before we launch any type of a mission, we need to get someone in there, and they need to find a way to neutralize those bombs.”

  Colonel Gray nodded emphatically. “This hasn’t been lost on us. Right now we’re banking on the fact that we can get in and shoot fast enough to stop one of them from hitting the plunger.” Gray didn’t look too enthused about his odds.

  “And if Aziz has the hostages booby-trapped?” Gray shook his head, knowing that this was probably the case. “We’re screwed.”

  “Exactly. That’s why I think we have to get a small team of operators into the building just prior to the main assault. To assess the situation and find a way to defuse or temporarily disable the bombs, otherwise we can kiss our asses good-bye.”

  The other men thought about the ugly scene, and after a moment General Campbell spoke. “Let me guess, Dan. You know just the person to handle this delicate aspect of the operation.”

  Grinning, Harris replied, “As a matter of fact I do, sir.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  With his voice a touch lower Harris said, “Did any of you ever get wind of a training op we did with the Secret Service eight years ago?”

  General Flood, at the time, had been in Korea, and General Campbell had been on a special detachment working with the SAS in Britain. Colonel Gray, however, had been with Delta. Gray searched his memory. They were constantly doing training ops, but off the top of his head, he couldn’t remember doing anything with the Secret Service.

  “You’re gonna have to refresh my memory,” said the CO of Delta Force.

  Harris leaned in a little closer. “It was very hush-hush. They wanted the boys at Six to help them test certain security precautions . . . and for obvious reasons, they didn’t want it publicized. Especially after the results.”

  Before Harris could continue, one of the general’s aides approached the group and apologized for the intrusion. Extending a secure digital phone, the captain said, “Director Stansfield is on the line, General.”

  Flood took the phone in his hand and said, “Thomas?” The general’s eyes tightened, and he said nothing. After about twenty seconds, he said simply, “Shit.” After another ten seconds, he replied, “I agree. I’ll catch a chopper back. Get everything set up.” Flood ended the call and handed the phone back to his aide. Then, looking at the men around him, he said, “We just got some really bad news. Iron Man confirmed that they are drilling into the president’s bunker.” Shaking his head, he looked to Colonel Gray and said, “Bombs or not, you’re going in.” Then looking to Harris, he said, “I have to get back to Langley, immediately. Whatever this idea of yours is, I hope it’s good and I hope you can put it together in a snap.”

  Harris nodded confidently. “My men have been on it since this morning.”

  RAFIQUE AZIZ LEANED back in the president’s chair. The long shiny surface of the Situation Room’s conference table was laid out before him. Aziz’s eyes were closed and his arms folded across his chest. It was the middle of the afternoon, and he was try
ing to get some sleep in anticipation of a long night. In front of him on the table was his MP-5. The overhead lights were extinguished, the glow of the bank of muted TVs at the far end throwing a dim light.

  There was a knock on the door. Aziz’s alert eyes snapped open, and he said, “Enter.”

  The door opened slowly, and Muammar Bengazi stepped into the room. “You asked me to wake you at three.”

  “Thank you.” A yawn crept up from his throat. “How are the men?”

  “They are well.”

  “Are you making sure they get some sleep? This will be their last chance for a long time.”

  Bengazi approached the conference table and placed his hands on the back of one of the leather chairs. “As you ordered, they are sleeping in two-man rotations for two hours at a time.”

  “Good.”

  “May I sit?”

  Aziz rubbed his eyes. “Yes.”

  Bengazi set his AK-74 on the table and sat. Looking guardedly toward his leader, he asked, “What are your thoughts on tomorrow?”

  Aziz unfolded his arms and checked his watch. “By nightfall we should have the president in our hands, and then”—Aziz’s lips parted and turned upward at the edges—“we will truly have the upper hand.”

  “Will you tell them that we have him tonight, or will you wait until the morning?”

  “I will tell them in the morning.” Aziz gestured to the TVs. “They have been reporting that the UN will meet our demands. Vice President Baxter will keep them at bay until he gets his next batch of hostages tomorrow.”

  Bengazi was persistently guarded. “You do not think they will come tonight?”