Transfer of Power (10 page)

"Nothing goes down without our approval. Am I clear on that?"

Marge Tutwiler was just starting to get used to Dallas King's ambitious style. Vice President Baxter's lap dog was a charmer. He had good looks, a sharp mind, and a good sense of humor. The only thing he lacked was a sense of his place in the pecking order. Marge Tutwiler—California political activist, self-anointed law enforcement critic, and former USE law professor—was not used to anyone speaking to her in such a tone, let alone someone not much older than her not-so former students.

With a tired expression. Tutwiler said, "Dallas, I was dealing with the FBI when you were still riding around your little San Diego neighborhood on a Big Wheel. Don't worry; I can handle them."

Dallas smiled and reached across the back of the limo, gently placing his hand on the attorney general's knee.

"I'm sorry, Marge. I didn't mean to imply you didn't know how to handle the FBI." The perpetually tanned chief of staff released her knee and held both hands up in a token form of surrender.

"I just meant we need to strategize together." Dallas flashed his wily smile and thought to himself. This bitch's ego is bigger than her ass.

Sherman Baxter the Third, former governor of California and current vice president of the United States, cleared his throat and interjected, "No matter what our tides are, we are outsiders in this town, and don't forget it. Dallas is right, Marge, and it doesn't hurt to remind us that we need to keep the FBI on a short leash." Sherman Baxter, like most politicians, had two very distinct personalities. Behind closed doors Baxter was extremely demanding and prone to fits of rage. The fifty-four-year-old Californian had grown to look at the Oval Office almost as if it were his birthright. In his mind, he deserved it a hell of a lot more than his running mate. If it hadn't been for Baxter and his California connections. President Hayes would never have made it to the White House.

In public they were the perfect picture of cooperation, but behind closed doors Baxter's contempt for his boss could not be concealed. In his eyes, Hayes was a complete simpleton who had managed to stumble into the White House because he had a cleaner sexual past than any of the other candidates—and, most important, because Sherman Baxter had delivered California.

When Baxter had decided to run with Hayes, he had looked upon the endeavor as a stepping-stone to the presidency.

After a grueling campaign and just five short months in office, Baxter was already tired of playing second fiddle to Hayes. Sherman Baxter the Third, heir to one of California's finest family wineries, did not take kindly to receiving orders from a man whose family had made their money manufacturing radiator hoses. Three more years would be hard enough to take, and seven was absolutely unthinkable. As King and Tutwiler continued to talk, Baxter gazed out the window. His black hair was thinning, and he wore it slicked back. Baxter folded his left arm over his slightly bulging midsection and remembered something that King liked to say when they discussed the agony of another three years underneath Hayes the simp: "Don't forget, you're one heartbeat away from the presidency, boss. You never know when some nut might punch Hayes's ticket."

How prophetic Dallas could be, Baxter thought to himself.

As the motorcade pulled onto the George Mason Memorial Bridge, the tightly wound Baxter allowed himself a moment to relish the fact that for now, he was for all intents and purposes the president of the United States.

SPECIAL AGENT SKIP Mcmahon of the FBI looked down at the White House from the Secret Service's Joint Operations Center on the fifth floor of the Executive Office Building.

From his vantage point he could count the bodies of nine Secret Service officers. He had been told there were more on the other side of the building, but an accurate number was impossible to ascertain. Even now, four hours after the attack, information was sparse. No one knew what was going on inside the building.

Mcmahon was a twenty-six-year veteran of the FBI who had seen it all, or at least he thought he had. He had started with the Bureau right out of college and after doing a four-year stint investigating bank robberies in Las Vegas he was moved back to Washington, where he started working counterintelligence cases. After almost a decade of chasing spies he was moved into the FBI's violent crimes unit. It was a transfer that led to the downfall of his marriage and almost his career. The former defensive tackle for Perm State had quickly found that he had a knack for getting inside the twisted minds of the individuals he was charged with catching. Six years of sloshing through the septic tank of American society had taken its toll. Mcmahon had been asked one too many times to step into the shoes of a serial killer and visualize how some sick pervert had abducted, raped, tortured, and then killed an innocent little girl.

Fortunately for Mcmahon he had seen the writing on the wall and gotten out before the job destroyed him. Mcmahon had recently been put in charge of the Bureau's Critical Incident Response Group, or CIRG, which was the lead organization in resolving hostage situations. The FBI's elite Hostage Rescue Team, or HRT, was under his command along with another half dozen investigative and support units. But not once in the hundreds of meetings that Mcmahon had attended on urban terrorism had he ever heard someone postulate that the White House was vulnerable to a full-scale assault.

Mcmahon shifted his attention from terra firma to the horizon. On a more immediate note, he was not happy with the current command-and-control situation. Both FBI and Secret Service sniper teams occupied every rooftop within a block of the White House. Each team reporting to and taking orders from its own agency. In short, it was not the way to handle a crisis, and it was something that needed to be rectified immediately.

A female agent standing next to Mcmahon held her watch in front of his face.

"You'd better get moving. The meeting is in twenty minutes."

Mcmahon nodded. With sagging shoulders, he looked at the fallen officers on the South Lawn and asked, "What's the body count?"

Special Agent Kathy Jennings looked at a small notebook and said, "We have it at eighteen, with God only knows how many more inside the building." Mcmahon shook his head as he took in the carnage. He looked tired, and the crisis was only in its infancy. After a moment, he turned and headed for the door. Mcmahon dreaded attending meetings with the bigwigs. On his way out, he thanked several of the Secret Service agents for allowing him to take a look from their vantage point.

Jennings followed a half step behind, and as soon as she was sure no one could hear, she said, "I don't think they were too happy to see us. Do you think they know we're going to be running the show?"

"I don't know. They've lost at least eighteen men… probably double that, and the White House is their baby." Mcmahon turned for the stairs and started down.

"But they're not set up for this kind of thing. This is clearly ..

Jennings stopped talking for a second as they passed two Secret Service officers who were on their way up the stairs. In a lower voice, she continued, "This is clearly the Bureau's territory. It's a domestic terrorist activity."

"A lot of people are going to want to stick their hands in this pie before it's over."

"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 eight-hour 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 of 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 to 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 now 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.

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 propped 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.