Transfer of Power

chapter 10
The Joint Chiefs briefing room is located in the inner sanctum of 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 prepped 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. An Army major walked over to the tall double doors and swung them closed with a finality that let everyone know the meeting was starting.

"People," announced Flood, "I'm not going to p-ssyfoot around on this. There are a lot of rumors going around about what happened over at the White House this morning   some of them scratch the surface, but most of them are way off base. Here is what happened. At approximately oh-nine-hundred a group of terrorists attacked and took control of the White House."

Before Flood could continue, the room erupted into a series of fragmented conversations and expletives. "People!" bellowed Flood, restoring order. "We have a lot of ground to cover, so keep a lid on it." Flood angrily eyeballed the group, daring someone to defy him. After making sure everyone understood implicitly that his patience was thin, the general continued. "As I was saying, this group is in control of the White House and holds an unknown number of hostages. The only good news we have in all of this is that President Hayes was safely evacuated to his bunker during the raid. Communications have been cut, but we know the president is safe. This brings us to our first point of order. It is obvious that President Hayes is not in a position to discharge his duties as commander in chief. So, according to the Twenty-fifth Amendment, the powers of the president of the United States have been transferred to Vice President Baxter until such time as President Hayes may resume his duties. I have been informed that the majority of the cabinet has agreed to this, and I apologize to those of you who could not be reached earlier, but things have been rather hectic."

The general brought his hands together and clasped them tightly in front of his chest. "Let us be clear about this. For the time being, Vice President Baxter is the acting president and the commander in chief of our armed forces." Flood again looked around the substantial table, giving the group a moment for thought, and then added, "However, for reasons of clarity, we will continue to refer to him as Vice President Baxter. Are we all clear on this?"

General Flood waited a brief moment to see if anyone was crazy enough to draw his ire and then looked to his left at the director of the Secret Service. "Director Tracy is now going to give us the specifics on what transpired this morning. Again, hold all questions until he is done."

A solemn-faced director of the Secret Service stood and walked to the podium located at General Flood's end of the table. Alex Tracy was a squat man with a sizable head and the standard amount of intensity required to run one of the world's finest law-enforcement agencies. Tracy walked toward the podium with the enthusiasm of a man being sent to the gallows. He set a file on the top shelf and placed his hands on the sides.

With a look of exhaustion and a shaky voice, he started. "Late last night DNC Chairman Piper called over to the White House and obtained a meeting with the president. That meeting was scheduled for this morning at nine. White House staff broke with Secret Service policy and granted Piper and his guest a meeting without giving us time to run a background check on the chairman's guest. We now know that guest to be Rafique Aziz, the world-renowned terrorist." Tracy looked up at no one in particular and then continued. "It appears that Aziz approached the Democratic National Committee under the assumed identity of a Prince Kalib of Oman. Aziz gave a give-hundred-thousand-dollar check to the party and, in return, requested that he meet with the president personally." This time when he paused, the director focused his look more precisely on the group of politicians at the far end of the table.

Almost every cabinet member was a Democrat, and a murmur broke out as they shot each other anxious looks. This little nugget of information had "congressional investigation" written all over it.

Tracy continued after about six seconds. "Aziz and Chairman Piper arrived at the White House this morning at about the same time that we received a tip from the CIA that the White House was targeted for a terrorist attack. While Aziz and Piper were entering the White House, a locally contracted linen truck arrived at the Treasury Building, as it does every morning, Monday through Friday. In a complete breakdown of security, the truck was allowed admittance into the underground parking facility by a uniformed Secret Service officer without being properly inspected." Tracy forced himself to straighten his posture. Out of sheer embarrassment he paused and looked down at his notes. Aziz getting into the White House could be blamed on Chairman Piper, but the truck was the Secret Service's fault. "It appears the back of this truck was loaded with an unknown number of terrorists and equipment that was used to breach the security of the Treasury tunnel. This was a major breakdown on the part of my agency, and we have already started an internal investigation." Tracy looked down the length of table at Vice President Baxter. "We will have a preliminary report ready by this evening."

Looking back to his notes, he continued, "After receiving the tip from the CIA, Jack Warch, the special agent in charge of the president's detail, left his office in the EOB and went over to the West Wing to consult with President Hayes. When Warch arrived, Piper and his guest were already in the Oval Office. As soon as Warch found out about the unauthorized visit, he entered the Oval Office to check on the president. After that things happened very fast. A sniper on the roof of the Washington Hotel opened fire on the Secret Service officers posted on the roof of the White House. Within seconds the outer door to the Treasury tunnel was breached, and Warch ordered the president's evacuation to his bunker. As many of you know, the old bunker at the White House dates back to World War Two and is really nothing more than a reinforced tunnel. Construction of a new bunker, located in the third basement of the mansion, was completed this past January. The Army Corps of Engineers did the work. They used the standard military design that has been incorporated into all of our command-and-control centers . . . Excuse me." Tracy turned his head to the side and coughed.

"This new facility is not, however, fully operational. The actual construction of the bunker is complete. Its biological, chemical, and radioactive filtration systems are in place and operational, but its communications package has not been installed. That was to take place this summer. The bunker has been stocked, however, with rations and other necessities." Tracy was slowly gaining back some of his normal confidence. "We know with one hundred percent certainty that Special Agent Warch succeeded in evacuating President Hayes, Valerie Jones, and eight other Secret Service agents to the White House's basement bunker. Up until approximately nine-fifteen we were in contact with the bunker via our encrypted radios, and then all communication was severed. My technical advisers have informed me that the terrorists are using a jammer to block the radio signals.

"We have confirmed that eighteen secret service agents and officers have been killed and fifteen are unaccounted for." Tracy's voice wavered slightly. "We assume that the fifteen have either been killed or are being held hostage." Tracy felt a lump forming in his throat his notes for several seconds, he continued, "Our best estimates are that Aziz and his men hold somewhere between eighty and one hundred hostages, with an unknown number of fatalities. We have secured the perimeter of the White House, and our counterassault team is in place and prepared to retake the building if and when you ask them to do so." Tracy closed his file and again looked down the length of the table at Vice President Baxter. He finished by saying, "The only good news I have to report is that the president is safe. I have spoken to the engineers who built the new bunker, and they say there is no way Aziz can get to him."

Vice President Baxter sat leaning back in his chair with one hand under his chin and the other dangling from his armrest. He and Dallas had rehearsed this next part. As a newcomer to the unique power circles of Washington, he needed to let everyone in the room know he was in charge. An example had to be set, and Tracy's head was on the chopping block. Baxter kept his eyes on Tracy, as he uncrossed his legs and let his chair tilt forward. In a voice devoid of compassion, he asked, "Director Tracy, would you mind explaining to me how in the hell something like this could happen?"

Tracy stood silent at the podium, a little caught off guard by the bluntness of the question. Vice President Baxter looked at him while drumming his fingers on the table. After a long moment, Baxter said, "Director Tracy, your agency has failed our country miserably. You have put us in dire straits, and now you stand before us with nothing to say." Baxter looked around the table trying to build a mood of consensus. "I have decided that the FBI will relieve your people as soon as Director Roach can have his agents in place." Baxter turned to look at FBI director Roach.

Secret Service Director Tracy's embarrassment was quickly replaced by anger. "Sir," he protested, "the White House falls under the Secret Service's jurisdiction. We are   "

Baxter raised his voice and cut Tracy off. "I have been advised by the attorney general that although the White House normally falls under the purview of the Secret Service, it is still a federal building and that makes it the FBI's territory."

"But my men have an intimate knowledge of the building and its grounds," stated Tracy n earnest. "We have agents that are being held hostage. . . "

Baxter shook his head vigorously. "Director Tracy, the Secret Service had its chance, and they have failed. . . . miserably, I might add."

The humiliating public rebuke caused Tracy's cheeks to flush. He couldn't believe it was happening. He had worked in Washington for twenty-nine years and had seen countless others thrown to the lions in situations far less serious than this. He should have seen it coming, but everything had happened so fast. He had spent the last several hours worrying about the men he had lost, not the political fallout of the crisis. Tracy stood a little straighter and tried to salvage some honor. "We saved the president's life today and lost at least eighteen of our own men . . . I would hardly   "

Baxter slammed a fist to the table, and with a rage no one in the room had witnessed before, other than King and Tutwiler, he cut Director Tracy off in midsentence.

"You have lost the White House, and you have embarrassed the entire country!" Baxter glared at Tracy a moment longer and then sat back in his chair. After taking a deep breath, he reined himself in a notch and continued in a quieter but equally firm voice, "I have consulted with treasury Secretary Rose and have decided I want your resignation on his desk before I address the nation tonight." Shaking his head, Baxter added, "It is entirely beyond me how you could have let this happen."

Rather than cowering, the tenacious director stood his ground. The combination of the murder of his people and becoming the sacrificial lamb to satisfy the media sent Tracy's blood pressure shooting upward. Baxter had no idea what it was like to devote one's life to the pride-sucking job of guarding men such as him, some of whom had fewer scruples than a pimp. Tracy's complexion reddened as he stared at Baxter. In the briefest of moments he had to decide if he would bow to protocol and be dismissed like a servant or stand and fight. He decided on the latter. He owed at least that much to the men and women who had died under his command.

"I'll tell you how it happened. It happened because you and all of your esteemed colleagues have ignored every request the Secret Service has made for increased security since I have taken over the agency." Tracy raised his voice. "It happened because in your obsession with raising money for your beloved party, your chairman sidestepped Secret Service procedure and invited the most notorious terrorist in the world to the White House!"

Baxter shouted, "That will be enough, Director Tracy! You may gather your things and leave!"

Tracy stared down the long table with a look of flagrant disrespect. In a voice dripping with contempt, he said, "You go ahead and blame all of this on the Secret Service when you address the nation tomorrow morning, I'll be sure to remind everyone of your comment regarding the Secret Service during the last election." Tracy shook his head. "I remember it verbatim because it seemed rather inconsiderate of you to be taking a shot at the very people who were putting in one-hundred-plus-hour weeks protecting you. You said that the Secret Service is comprised of a paranoid group of people, who, although well-meaning, have an inflated sense of self-importance.' I'm sure those words, combined with your and President Hayes's recent refusal of a request for an increase in our budget, will go over just great with all of your voters. And let's not leave out the fact that while my people were being killed, you were getting ready to attend a five-thousand-dollar a plate breakfast with all of your network buddies in New York."

Tracy turned his rage on the secretary of the treasury. "And let me remind my boss of his response to my request to expand the security perimeter around the White House. In a letter this last February, Secretary Rose refused, saying that the White House is one of the securest buildings in the world and that any further requests to expand the building's security perimeter will be denied."

Tracy grabbed his file from the podium. "How dare you call into question my commitment and professionalism! I have spent twenty-nine years of my life protecting presidents and their families!" He started for the door and then stopped abruptly, turning to look at the assembled crowd. "Right now we need to be worried about saving the men and women who are trapped inside the White House. . . not worrying about our careers."

Having spoken his piece, Tracy turned for the door, and with a stiff arm, he slammed it open and disappeared into the hallway.

Director Tracy's exit left the room in a shocked silence. After several moments the attendees began to whisper comments to one another, and then the room broke into a series of regionalized conversations. At the far end of the table Dallas King asked his boss if he had, indeed, made such a comment, and all Vice President Baxter could do was nod in frustration. King then turned to Treasury Secretary Rose and asked him if he had put his words in writing. Rose confirmed that he had, and Dallas King turned back to his boss and stated the obvious, "We're screwed."

Baxter shot his chief of staff a look of irritation and then turned his attention to General Flood at the far end of the table. The vice president twirled his finger in the air, signaling to the general that he wanted to get things moving. The general nodded, and with his baritone voice, he quieted the room. Flood then nodded to Irene Kennedy, who rose from her chair and made her way to the podium.

* * *

Rafique Aziz looked at the Situation Room's TVs and then his watch. It had been almost twenty minutes since the vice president had arrived for the meeting. The timing should be about right, he thought to himself. Aziz studied the large phone next to him and looked at the twenty or so labels that marked preprogrammed telephone numbers. Most of the labels Aziz didn't recognize, but some were familiar. Not far down the first column he found the one he was looking for. It was marked Pentagon JCBR, which he understood to be the Joint Chiefs briefing room. Aziz went over his scripted words one more time, and then picked up the phone and pressed the button.

* * *

General Flood was listening to Kennedy give the background briefing on Aziz when he heard the quiet ring of the phone next to him. Flood glanced down and looked to see where the call was coming from. The screen at the top of the phone read, "WH SIT ROOM."

Flood raised one hand to stop Kennedy from talking, and with the other, he snatched the handset from its cradle. "General Flood here."

"I hope I'm not interrupting your meeting."

Flood squeezed the phone and asked, "Who is this?'

"That is none of your concern. Put me on speakerphone so I can talk to the entire group. I do not want to have to repeat myself."

Flood considered the demand for a moment, and then reluctantly gave in and pressed a button. He then placed the handset back in its cradle and folded his arms across his chest. "You are on speakerphone. Go ahead."

Aziz's voice came pouring down from the room's overhead speaker system. "I have complete control of your White House. Any attempt to retake it will be futile. The United States currently holds fourteen point seven billion dollars in frozen assets that belong to the country of Iran. You illegally seized this money when the corrupt government of the Shah was overthrown by the people of Allah. If you return all of this money to Iran by nine tomorrow morning, I will release one-third of the seventy-six hostages I currently hold. This is nonnegotiable. If this demand is not met precisely as I have stated, I will kill one hostage every hour until it is met. It will remind you one more time, any attempt by you to rescue the hostages will be futile. The FBI's vaunted Hostage Rescue Team is no match for my men; just as your highly touted Secret Service was no match. In fifteen minutes I will place all of the wounded and dead outside of the West Entrance. Medical technicians in short-sleeve shirts and pants will be allowed to come in groups of two, one stretcher at a time, to pick up the bodies. No equipment or bags. Only two men at a time and a stretcher. Anything unusual and we will open fire."

The voice paused for a second and then said more firmly "The account numbers that the money is to be transferred to are as follows . . . "

* * *

It took Aziz a little over a minute to give all of the numbers. Then, without giving them a chance to ask any questions, he repeated the demand one last time and hung up the phone. Aziz leaned back and took in the moment. Keep it short, keep them off balance, and most important, let them know who is running the show. Aziz knew what would happen at nine tomorrow as sure as if he had a crystal ball. He had read all of the books that had been written by former FBI agents on hostage negotiations, and most important, he knew Vice President Baxter was in charge, and with Baxter came Attorney General Tutwiler.

Aziz had done his homework on Tutwiler. Via the Internet he had obtained copies of her speeches and lectures. She had been an outspoken critic of the FBI's techniques at Ruby Ridge and Waco. In Tutwiler's opinion the FBI should have worn the captors down over time and obtained the incremental release of hostages through negotiation and actually giving in to some of the group's smaller demands.

What a fool she was to speak in public and give him the chance to study her, Aziz thought. These Americans were fat and lazy. He knew what her every move would be. He would break her within two days, and when Baxter finally realized he should listen to his generals, it would be too late. Aziz would have the president, and everything would be in position for his final demand.

* * *

President Hayes looked at Valerie Jones and asked, "What in the hell happened?"

The two of them were sitting next to each other on the couch. Jones looked very uncomfortable. Hayes had finally got around to asking the obvious question, and his chief of staff didn't know how to answer it.

Shaking her head and looking at the ground, she replied, "I don't know."

Hayes had met Jones years ago when she worked on his congressional staff. After that, the Ivy League-educated New Yorker had gone to work for CBS and risen through the ranks. Jones was bright, hardworking, and at times a little pushy. If she were a man, she'd be called a hard-ass, but because she wore skirts, she was referred to by some as a real bitch. Jones knew this and didn't let it bother her. As gatekeeper to the president, it worked to her advantage. Every day she received dozens of requests for the president's time. If she were patient and nice with everyone that called, those requests would double within a week. The very definition of her job required that she be blunt and firm. Not enough time. Not enough energy.

"Valerie, you have to have some idea who in the hell that was." Hayes watched her for a response. He got none and expanded his questioning. "What did Russ tell you?" Hayes asked, referring to the chairman of the Democratic National Committee.

"He said the man was a wealthy Arab prince who wanted to make a donation to the DNC."

"A foreigner making a donation to the DNC." Hayes shook his head in anger.

"Russ said it would all be legit."

Hayes frowned. "I thought I told all of you people, No funny stuff.' I want everything to be aboveboard." Hayes kept his voice low, but it was obvious he was angry.

Without looking up, Jones replied, "It was a lot of money, and it was going to be legal."

Hayes almost lost it. This was something he had been adamant about since the day he had decided to run for president. The expression on his face told his chief of staff that the amount of money would not make the transgression any easier to take.

Jones realized it had been the wrong thing to say.

" Sorry' might not be good enough for this one."

Jones looked up with a fair amount of fright. "What are you trying to say?"

"Exactly what I said. Sorry' might not be good enough. People have died, Val, and there are a lot of questions that are going to have to be answered." President Hayes stared at her, making sure she truly understood the gravity of the situation.

Across the bunker, near the door, Special Agent Jack Warch was sitting on his bunk, sprawled against the cool concrete wall. The usually rigid Warch had removed his tie and jacket, both of which were neatly folded next to him on the hinged navy-style bunks. Two sets of four, one lower and one upper, were bolted along each of the long walls and two more on the wall by the door. The bunks were of the no-frills military style. One side of the bed was attached to the wall by two hinges, and the outer corners were each attached to a three-foot chain that was bolted to the wall. When not being used the bunks could be swung up and out of the way. The floor and the first four feet of the wall were covered by the same plain brown carpet that adorned the floor and walls of the evacuation tunnel. At the opposite end of the bunker there was a small bathroom and kitchenette. In the middle of the room was a square arrangement of two couches and two love seats, all four made of brown vinyl tying to disguise itself as leather. The seamless ceiling and walls were painted an off-white that helped to soften, just slightly, the room's bleak appearance.

The special agent in charge of the presidential detail reached out and picked up his black Motorola encrypted radio. His flesh-toned earpiece and hand mike lay uselessly coiled on the bunk's pillow. Not more than ten minutes after they made it into the bunker the expensive little radio had dropped code   the Secret Services euphemism for the radio not working. It was not just Warch's radio. All ten agents had looked at each other at the exact same moment, knowing instantly that they were cut off. The terrorists had gotten to the digital encryption system and crashed it, taking all of the radios off-line. Warch had switched to his digital phone, and for five minutes he tried frantically to reestablish contact with the Secret Service's joint operations command. The phone was working, but they weren't answering. Then the line went dead.

They were completely cut off from the outside and could only assume the worst. If the Secret Service had fended off the attack, they would not still be sitting in the bunker. With or without communications, his people knew the codes and could simply come and open the door. The worst had to be assumed. They had lost the White House. Warch looked across the bunker at a disheveled President Hayes and his chief of staff. They were sitting on one of the couches talking in whispers. It was time to tell him the truth.