Transfer of Power (40 page)

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. "A 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.

"Vbu'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."

The "boys at the Secret Service" that they were referring to were the men of the counter sniper unit, widely regarded as the best professional shooters, from top to bottom, in the world. There wasn't a single shot at the Secret Service that could match Wicker under combat conditions, but in a controlled urban environment, they were awesome.

Harris looked back at the White House. Snipers were a weird lot. Kind of like goaltenders in hockey or pitchers in baseball. They were loners, fiercely independent, and more than a little superstitious.

"What do you need to make it happen?"

Wicker pulled several pieces of paper from his vest.

Unfolding them, he held them up for his CO.

"First thing we have to do is build a shooting platform With the right men and equipment, I can have it ready by sundown."

Harris looked at the drawings.

"What about the noise?"

Wicker reached over and flipped to the second page.

"We place a top over the platform and line it with acoustic foam. We leave a nice narrow slit at the front, and we're set. Only about five percent of the report will make its way out of the slit, and that won't travel more than a block, tops."

Harris loved that Wicker was ahead of the game. Handing Wicker the drawing, he slapped him on the back and said, "Good job. Slick. I like it. Make it happen as fast and quiet as you can. Get out of your coveralls, and tell the rest of your boys to wear their civvies."

Looking at his watch, he added, "I want you operational by eighteen hundred."

With that Harris started down the hatch, confident that Wicker would have everything in place by the appointed hour.

Now came the hard part. He would have to convince the big boys that an exercise he had participated in eight years ago would work today. Harris already had the pitch formed. He would keep it as simple as possible and use SEAL Team Six as the tip of the spear. Delta and HRT would provide the overwhelming force when the time was right.

THE WORDS WEREN'T going to come easy At least not at first. Anna Rielly was both a proud and a stubborn person, but she was not, as Rapp thought, an ingrate. Milt Adams had closed the door to the stash room, and Rielly was left facing the man who had saved her life.

As Rielly looked at him, she decided she liked him much better when he smiled. In his current serious mood, he looked dangerous. Not just his dark clothes and the various weapons strapped to his lean body, but his chiseled jawline and those dark eyes. The man had an intensity about him that Rielly hadn't noticed before. His tanned weathered face had the strong lines acquired by a man who does not spend his days in an office.

It was the eyes, though, that both drew her in and made her want to shiver. Dark pools of brown. So dark they were almost black. Framed on top by two thick eyebrows. This was the man who was capable of killing.

The man who had plunged his knife into her assailant.

Rielly's mouth must have been slightly open because it was suddenly void of moisture. She closed it and swallowed hard; then opening it slowly, she said, "I'm sorry for the way I handled that situation earlier. I don't want to seem like I'm"—she paused, struggling to get the next word out—"ungrateful."

Rielly had to look down. It was difficult to look into those dark eyes and make the apology.

"I'm not crazy about signing anything. Especially something the government wants me to sign." Rielly looked up and made a halfhearted effort at a smile, but the dark orbs on Rapp's face turned her gaze back down.

"I realize this thing is a lot bigger than me, and if there is anything I can do to help save the rest of the hostages, I'm more than willing to do my part. As far as what happens when this is over… if you wish to remain anonymous, I will honor that. If you feel, or whoever you work for feels, that you need to edit my story before I tell it…" Rielly was forced to pause again, feeling very uncomfortable with this particular concession.

Still looking at the ground, she said, "If you really feel the need to edit out material that you are absolutely sure is too sensitive to report… I'll go along. I'll probably do it kicking and screaming, but I'll do it."

Rapp was conflicted. His opinion of the young and attractive Ms. Rielly had already been etched into his mind and filed away. Now it appeared he might have been mistaken. She had been wrong, but now she was correcting that, taking a big step to humble herself and admit it. The ball was back in Rapp's court. HER ELBOWS RESTED heavily on the table. The hum of computers, faxes, scanners, and monitors droned in the background. The control room at Langley was in the midst of a lull.

Kennedy's hands cupped her chin, and her eyes were closed.

Opening her eyes, she looked at the red digital clock on the wall. It was almost half past noon. She let out a yawn and stretched her arms above her head. Things were about to happen.

She had felt it herself and seen it in the look Thomas Stansfield had given her.

The light on her phone blinked once and then began to ring. She grabbed the handset and answered, "Dr. Kennedy."

"Irene, it's Jane. I've been busy trying to get an answer to your question, but things have proved a little more difficult than I thought."

"How so?"

"Well, the subject is not entirely with us."

Kennedy frowned.

"Will he be coming back?"

"No." There was a substantial pause and then, "At least, I don't think so." Then in a slightly defensive tone Dr. Hornig added, "You must remember, this is all new, very cutting edge stuff."

"Did you get anything out of him?"

"From what little I could gather, Harut had no idea what this Yassin fellow's talents were. But please keep in mind, he's not all there."

Irene didn't want to hear excuses; she wanted answers.

"Did you get anything out of him?"

"I'm afraid not."

"Okay. If you find anything out, please let me know."

Kennedy disconnected the call and dialed an international number. While the secure satellite technology at Langley started the process, Kennedy turned around and checked to see what her boss was doing.

Thomas Stansfield sat comfortably in his chair while Jonathan Brown, the deputy director of central intelligence, relayed a slew of congressional complaints and inquiries. From what little Kennedy heard, she gathered that the congressmen and senators on the Hill were demanding to know what in the hell happened last night.

The familiar voice of Colonel Fine answered on the other end, and Kennedy turned around.

"Ben, it's Irene. Have you found anything out onyassin?"

"Nothing firm. Some rumblings and rumors here and there, but we haven't been able to nail him down."

"Which one are we talking about? The Iraqi or the Palestinian?"

"I have heard nothing back about the Iraqi, but I have several sources who are claiming they have seen the eighteen year-old Palestinian within the last four days."

"Hnun," pondered Kennedy.

"Let me caution you, though. We have not been able to track him down."

"I know, but we are definitely leaning closer to one than the other."

"My contacts in Iraq are not as deep, Irene. The man could be there, but I need more time to track him down."

Kennedy looked back at Stansfield and let him know that she needed to talk to him. Into the phone, she said, "Ben, I have to run. Thank you for the info, and please let me know the second you find out anything else."

"Before you go," said Fine loudly, "I have something I wish to discuss."