Transfer of Power

chapter 17
Sleep had been out of the question. After Warch had discovered someone was trying to breach the bunker door, everyone was up for the night. Tensions were running high as the grinding noise grew a little louder with each passing hour. Another foreboding sign was that the door was no longer cool to the touch. Areas of heat could be felt as one placed one's hand in different spots.

In an effort to lower the tension and keep his people focused, Jack Warch had drawn up a duty schedule with Special Agent Ellen Morton, the day shift's whip. The first order of business was to collect all of the radios and phones. With nine Secret Service agents in the bunker, that amounted to nine encrypted Motorola radios and nine digital phones. One of each would be kept on and monitored around the clock. Since the batteries on the phones were interchangeable, Warch's phone was to be used and the batteries from the other phones were to be rotated through.

While one agent monitored the communications, another agent was to stand post by the bunker door and report any strange noises or occurrences. Two more agents were assigned to remain at all times between the president and the bunker door. While these four agents were manning their posts, the other four were to sleep or eat. The two teams, as they were now referred to, were on four-jour rotations. Warch was the only one not included in the rotation.

After checking on the battery supply, Warch walked over to the vault door and placed his hand flat on the surface. He ran his other hand through his thinning hair and tried to remember the details that had been passed on to him about the construction of the bunker. If he remembered correctly, it could withstand any conventional bomb and most nuclear bombs as long as it wasn't a direct hit. If the White House was ground zero, they were toast like everyone else. As for how it would hold up against a bunch of bloodthirsty terrorists using drills and God only knew what else, Warch had no idea.

The commanding agent turned away from the door and glanced over at the president, who was sitting on one of the couches with his chief of staff. The president looked at Warch and gestured for him to join them.

President Hayes was one of those men who shaved twice a day. Having already missed two shaves his face was covered with a solid growth of gray and brown whiskers. His tie and suit jacket were lying on the bunk he had slept in. looking over at Special Agent Warch, the president said, "Jack, please take your tie off, and tell the men to do the same."

After the raid Warch had torn his tie off in frustration. His feelings toward his president were at an all-time low. Hayes and his chief of staff had circumvented Secret Service security procedure, and people were dead because of it. Now, over twenty-four hours later, he had put his personal feelings aside and put his tie back on. He had a job to do, and part of that job was to show respect to the presidency, regardless of the individual.

Warch nodded his thanks to the president and began to tug at the silk knot around his neck.

"Anything new to report?"

"I'm afraid not, sir." Warch kept his expression neutral.

"Are you sure," started Valerie Jones, "that those aren't our people trying to drill through the door?"

Warch paused and checked his desire to snap at the president's chief of staff. He had already been over this with them twice. "It's not our people."

"Are you sure?" Jones's tone was more pleading than asking.

Warch exhaled a tired sigh and said, "I don't like it any more than you do, but it would make no sense for our own people to drill through the door. They have the code. All they have to do is punch it in like we did, and the door opens."

Jones moved forward on the couch, tugging the hem of her black skirt as she did so. "What if the terrorists damaged the door control?"

Warch called on his patience. They had already been down this road before. He decided he would go over it with her one last time. "Outside this door"   Warch pointed over his shoulder   "is a second room. That room has two reinforced steel doors. One leads into the tunnel, and the second one leads into the third basement of the White House. Again, my people have the codes to get through either of those doors. So there would be no reason for them to be drilling now."

"No." Jones shook her head. "You're not listening. I said what if the terrorists blew apart one of the other doors and that damaged the control panel for this door?" She pointed at the door with her bright red fingernail.

"Ms. Jones, you are the one who is not listening." Warch kept his voice low but firm. "If our people were the ones drilling out there, they would have called us and told us so." Warch drew her attention to the nearby table filled with radios and digital phones. "They would not be jamming our communications and drilling at the same time." Warch didn't see it as his job to like or dislike people at the White House, but this Valerie Jones was really getting on his nerves.

Jones started to speak again, but President Hayes reached out and placed his hand on her knee. "I think Jack has made his point, and I agree with him. It's the only thing that makes sense."

"Who says it has to make sense?"

Hayes eyeballed her and said, "Valerie."

Jones sat back and folded her arms. "Sorry, I'm just trying to think of a way out of this mess."

Hayes ignored her and looked to Warch. "What do we do now?"

Warch was tempted, really tempted to let fly, to explain very forcefully to Ms. Jones that they wouldn't be in this mess if she had followed Secret Service procedure, but now was neither the time nor the place. That would all be discussed later, if they ever got out of this mess alive.

Warch thought about the president's question for a moment. He looked over at the seemingly impervious bunker door and wondered how long it would take for the terrorists to breach it.

Looking back to the president, Warch knew he had to stay positive. "The FBI's Hostage Rescue Team is the best. I'm sure they're making plans to retake the building as we speak."

* * *

Rafique Aziz grinned as he watched the money flow into the Swiss bank account. His people in Iran would start transferring the money into different accounts within the hour. He was winning, but his elation was tempered by the news about his mentor Fara Harut.

Aziz wondered what his captors could get out of him   if he was still alive. Harut was a tough old man, but no one was tough enough to withstand torture.

As Aziz tried to assess the potential damage, he wondered if it was wise to deviate from his plan slightly   to demand the return of Harut. As he drummed his fingers on the table, he decided no. The Americans might not have him; it could have been the Israelis or the British. If he went back on his word, it might provoke them into a premature attack, and Aziz was not ready for that. He needed his hands around the president's neck, or his chance for survival would be close to zero.

For now he would stick to his plan. It was time to talk to the FBI. Aziz had been ready to kill another hostage at ten A.M., but the money had started to flow and kept flowing. It was nearly noon and almost all of the money had been transferred. Aziz picked up the phone and dialed the number that the FBI had given him. After two rings the now familiar deep voice of McMahon answered.

"You have kept your word," said Aziz, "and I will keep mine. At half past noon, I will release one-third of the hostages. Keep your people back. I don't want to see any of them on the street, or I'll open fire. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes. Which door will you bring them out of?"

"That is not your concern," snapped Aziz. "I will release my next set of demands at seven A.M. tomorrow. Until then I do not want to hear from you." The terrorist hung up the phone and looked at his watch. It was exactly 11:53. Aziz decided he would release the hostages immediately instead of waiting until twelve-thirty. This would keep the FBI off balance. Aziz doubted they would try anything this early, but after his execution of their national security adviser, it was best to be safe.

* * *

Anna Rielly felt weak. Her captors had allowed them to go to the bathroom around eleven, and Rielly had been able to grab several handfuls of water from the sink while she was in the bathroom. The water hitting her empty stomach had made her realize just how hungry she really was. The terrorist with the slicked-back hair had again followed her into the stall and watched her.

Back in the White House mess, Rielly looked up from her uncomfortable position on the floor and noticed him gloating over her still. She wondered when he would strike, and if he would do it alone or with the others. Her vision started to blur. Lowering her head, she brought both fists up to her eyes, fighting the tears before they started flowing uncontrollably.

She could handle anything but this. Would it be better to die? she honestly asked herself.

* * *

Rafique Aziz came marching into the White House mess and glared at the huddled mass of frightened hostages. No one dared look at him after seeing what he was capable of.

With his hands on his hips, Aziz said, "Everybody, listen to me and you will not be hurt." Aziz began to walk around the circle. "If I tap you on the shoulder, I want you to go stand against the wall by the door. A third of you are being set free. If your government cooperates tomorrow, another third of you will be set free."

Aziz knew the second part of the statement to be a lie, but honesty was hardly his strong suit. "If any of you talk or do not cooperate in any way, you will be forced to sit back down." Aziz began tapping the shoulders of those hostages closest to the door. Those farthest from door quickly realized they would not be released. Several of them started to cry, and Aziz shouted, "Silence, or I will come over there and shoot you!"

Anna Rielly couldn't believe it; her prayers were about to be answered. As the leader worked his way closer, her spirits soared. She was going to be set free. Rielly grabbed Stone Alexander and told him to sit up. The pretty male reporter's hair was pasted to one side of his head, with a large clump sticking straight up in the air, and he gave no sign that he knew what was going on. Aziz tapped Rielly on the shoulder and then Alexander. Anna stood and pulled Alexander to his feet. As she walked toward the door, she felt as though it were all a dream. Rielly looked at the other hostages that were standing by the door and smiled. It was really going to happen.

Her smile vanished instantly when she felt a hand on her shoulder. Trying to ignore it, Rielly took another step, but the fingers dug in deep and yanked her to a stop. Alexander kept walking in his tracelike state toward the others that were being set free.

The terrorist with the slicked-back hair, the one who had driven the delivery truck into the underground parking garage of the Treasury Building, yanked Anna Rielly to a stop and yelled to Rafique Aziz in Arabic. Aziz stopped his count for a second, looked at the woman his man was talking about, and nodded his consent. Then, pointing to another hostage that was still seated, he said, "You take her place." Aziz could not have cared less what his men wanted to do with these women. They were the spoils of war.

With a quick yank, Rielly pulled herself from the terrorist's grip. "Take your filthy hands off me."

Abu Hasan, somewhat surprised at the strength of the slender woman, paused for a brief second and then raised his hand. In a wide arcing motion he swung at her head with an open hand.

Rielly, at her father's suggestion, had enrolled in self-defense classes after the rape. She had taken them very seriously, and the instincts were still there. She saw the blow coming and raised her forearm. The blow knocked her slightly off balance, but she remained defiantly on her feet.

What Rielly didn't know was that she would have been better off if she had kept her instincts in check. Like most Arab men, Abu Hasan was used to submissive women and was not about to tolerate this type of behavior, especially in front of the other men. This time he swung with a closed fist and hit a cowering Rielly in the temple.

The blow sent Rielly to the floor, where she curled up in a ball. Kicking her in the back viciously, the terrorist then grabbed her by the hair and dragged her back to the main group of hostages. He released her hair and dropped her to the floor like a sack. Rielly lay there, her hands covering her face as the tears flowed from her eyes, her back and head screaming in pain. She wasn't crying as much from the pain as from the mental anguish. Anna Rielly knew what was going to happen to her, and the vision of what lay ahead only made her cry harder.