Transfer of Power

chapter 19
WASHINGTON, D.C.

As the sun set on the capital, two hulking C-130s descended from the darkening sky on their final approach to Andrews Air Force Base. The base, located a short hop to the southeast of the White House, had been chosen by the Joint Special Operations Command as the forward staging area for what was now known as Operation Rat Catcher. Security at the base had been doubled for the arrival of its newest contingent, and all nonessential personnel had been removed from the staging area. The Army took its secrecy surrounding Delta Force very seriously.

The large matte green cargo planes moved in perfect synchronicity, both banking for the runway at the same time and dropping their landing gear, their powerful turboprop engines rumbling in the stagnant humid air of the Potomac River Valley. The first plane touched down smoothly, followed just a dozen seconds later by the second. The control tower directed the two planes to a group of large hangars, where they were met by Air Force ground crews, who had been told in advance not to turn on the bright floodlights. The people who had traveled from Pope Air Force Base in North Carolina were used to working in the dark and rather preferred it.

As the planes taxied to a stop, they spun ninety degrees on a dime and left their tails facing the open doors of a sprawling hangar. Bright yellow chocks were thrown under the wheels by the ground crew, and the loud engines were cut. A hydraulic whir announced the lowering of the rear cargo ramps, revealing a mass of black-clad men standing in two rows, almost seventy in each plane. They represented the bulk of the A and B assault squadrons of Delta Force, the U.S. Army's supersecret counterterrorist assault and commando force.

The men filed down the ramps. They came in all shapes and sizes, but all were at the apex of physical condition and walked with the grace and confidence of world-class athletes. Each man carried a large black backpack loaded with equipment. Most of them had HK MP-10 submachine guns with integral suppressors strapped to the top of the packs, but there were others who carried assault shotguns, sniping rifles, and even several who had 7.62-mm heavy-caliber machine guns.

Colonel Bill Gray, Delta Force's commander, stood by the door of the darkened hangar and looked proudly at his men as they filed past. Gray was also dressed in the standard black ninja jumpsuit, although it was highly unlikely that he would be going into the fray, unlike his cowboy counterpart at SEAL Team Six. Gray got along well with Lt. Commander Harris, but thought it irresponsible for him to lead individual strikes, a point that he had just recently brought up with the general staff of the Joint Special Operations Command.

Colonel Gray had stayed in Washington after his afternoon meeting at the Pentagon rather than flying down to Bragg and coming right back. The colonel, who stood just above six feet, had a full head of close-cropped black hair and bushy eyebrows to match. The native Texan had the unanimous respect of his men due to the fact that he never asked them to do anything he hadn't already done or wasn't willing to do.

At the end of both columns, Gray spotted the two men he was looking for and moved out to meet them. As he approached, the two men saluted. Gray returned the salute and asked, "How was the flight up?"

The two men standing before Gray were the commanders of his A and B squadrons, Lt. Colonel Hank Kleis and Lt. Colonel Pat Miller, Kleis answered, "No sweat. We've been locked and loaded since two; we just had to wait around for it to get dark."

Colonel Gray nodded. "How are the men?"

"Good," answered Kleis. "If they can't get up for this one, I should be drummed out of the service."

Gray looked to Miller, the quieter of the two.

Miller answered, "They're ready."

Nodding, Gray looked over his officers' shoulders and watched the load masters taking equipment off the planes. "Here's how we stand. Pat, you and B squadron are in charge of the airports. Hank, you've got the airborne assault on the White House. Get your communications secured ASAP, and pass the word that I want a staff meeting in thirty minutes." Gray pointed over his shoulder. "There's a briefing room at the rear of the hangar; we'll meet in there. Also tell your troop leaders to bring their sergeant majors. We're gonna get a big intel dump from Langley and the Secret Service, and I want them in on it." Gray turned, and without his having to say anything, the two junior officers fell in astride their senior. "Training is going to be tricky for this. We don't have time for real-life takedowns. The full-scale mock-ups were usually built on a remote area of the massive Eglin Air Force Base, in northern Florida, and one with blueprints provided by the CIA and satellite imagery provided by the NSA.

"General Flood tells me there is no way this thing will last for more than a week and that we could conceivably be ordered in tonight, so we need to be ready to go, pronto. Hank"   Gray pointed to the commander of his A squadron   "I want you to divide the White House into sections immediately and get your troops assigned to handle specific sectors of the building. If we get the phone call in two hours, I want to have, at the very least, a basic plan . . . . As time goes on and we get more intel, we can fine-tune it."

Gray turned to his B squadron commander. "Pat, I want advance teams in place at Reagan, Dulles, and Baltimore. Prewire at least two planes at each airport for video and sound, and do it quietly . . . . We don't want the press covering any of this. Put your people in the airline-mechanic uniforms while they're doing it. The less attention we raise the better. Langley tells us that Aziz is using the Situation Room, so we have to assume he's getting real-time coverage from the media. The FBI is sending us some agents to help with subpoenas." Gray stopped abruptly and slapped both men on the back. "Now get moving. I want updates at the staff meeting in"   Gray looked at his watch   "twenty-eight minutes."

The two squadron commanders hustled off in earnest to form up their groups, and Gray turned back toward the open hangar door. Grabbing his secure digital phone from his tactical assault vest, Gray hit the speed dial for the operations center at the Pentagon. As the colonel waited for the encryption to kick in, he noticed a string of navigation lights descending on the runway. They would be his MD-530 Little Birds, flown by the Army's 160th Special Operations Regiment. These were the stealthy, almost silent, helicopters that would be crucial in any assault on the White House. Farther down the valley, Gray could see another string of red and green lights. Unlike the Little Birds, Gray could already hear this second flight of helicopters. Those would be his MH-60 Black Hawks. Faster, larger, and louder than the Little Birds, the Black Hawks, would be used to chase Aziz if he headed for an airport.

Gray watched as the first of the Little Birds came in and touched down softly. Seven more of the small black helicopters quickly followed. Gray shook his head. Everything was happening too fast. If they went in tonight, it wouldn't be a calculated raid; it would be a bloodbath. They would lose hostages, and he would lose men. He needed more time to get things set up.

* * *

Two miles northwest of the White House sat the Naval Observatory, the official residence of the vice president of the United States. The large circular estate was located off Massachusetts Avenue on Embassy Row, atop a hill. Its many gardens and rolling wooded lawn provided a serenity and seclusion that was quite absent at the Executive Mansion.

Irene Kennedy drove north in her maroon Toyota Camry on Massachusetts Avenue. Every time Kennedy drove through this area of Washington, she couldn't help but think that this one-mile strip of asphalt had to have the single largest concentration of electronic surveillance equipment in the world. With all of the embassies spying on each other and their host country, and the FBI, the CIA, the National Security Agency, the Defense Intelligence Agency, and the National Reconnaissance Office all spying on the embassies, it was unlikely that any conversation went unrecorded.

As Kennedy continued north, the large plantation-style home of the vice president came into view on her left, its fresh white paint bathed in floodlights. Kennedy drove past the main gate and the slew of reporters and camera crews that had besieged the compound. Not far past the main gate, she took a left onto Observatory Circle and worked her way around the north side of the estate. A small unmarked gate appeared on her left, and Kennedy turned off the city street and onto the private drive.

Four uniformed Secret Service officers and a German shepherd approached her car. The men all wore flak jackets over their white shirts. Kennedy rolled down her window and presented her credentials.

The officer looked at her ID and said, "Could you please pop your trunk, Dr. Kennedy?"

After the dog had taken two laps around the small sedan and the trunk had been thoroughly checked, Kennedy was granted admission. Two white steel retractable bollards standing three feet tall and one foot wide dropped down beneath pavement, and then the heavy black gate opened inward. Kennedy maneuvered her car up the winding driveway and passed several of the outlying buildings that were used for offices. Near the main house she saw her boss's limousine and parked next to it. She was several minutes late for the nine-thirty P.M. meeting.

The normal complement of uniformed officers was bolstered by the black-clad, machine-gun-toting men of the Service's Emergency Response Team. These heavily armed men could be seen patrolling the elevated tree line just beyond the fence. They moved ominously from shadow to shadow, determined not to allow another debacle to take place. A second line of ERT officers ringed the actual residence, and the vice presidential detail was inside the home, never more than one room away from their charge.

One of the vice president's staffers appeared in the entrance doorway, and Kennedy was ushered into the large foyer. Director Stansfield was sitting on a couch to the right with his legs crossed. He was, as always, wearing a dark conservative suit, white shirt, and striped tie. Stansfield peered over the top of his spectacles when Kennedy entered, a questioning expression on his face.

Kennedy plopped down next to him and said, "It looks good. Mitch went over to the White House and checked out the fence line. He thinks the can get to the shaft without any problems."

Stansfield nodded thoughtfully. "What do you think?"

Kennedy glanced up at the ceiling for a second. "We need someone in there, and he's the best we have."

"What about bringing Adams along?"

"I'm not crazy about the idea, but again, I have to defer to Mitch. He's the one with the field experience."

Kennedy looked at her boss. "You seem to have some reservations."

Stansfield pondered the comment for a second and shook his head. "No. I trust Mitch. How are you holding up?"

Kennedy rolled her eyes. "I could use a little sleep, but besides that, I'm fine."

The sound of dress shoes clicking on the hardwood floor caught their attention, and both looked to see Dallas King coming down the hallway. The vice president's chief of staff was dressed in a pressed French blue dress shirt and a pair of black slacks, looking dapper as always. King stopped about ten feet away and said, "The vice president is ready to see you."

Stansfield and Kennedy followed the swaggering young chief of staff down the hallway.

Without knocking, King opened the door to Baxter's private study, and Stansfield and Kennedy followed. Vice President Baxter sat in a large leather chair in front of the fireplace reading over the speech he was to give to the nation in a little over an hour. Upon seeing his guests, he set the speech and his pen down.

Stansfield and Kennedy sat on the couch, and King stood in front of the fireplace next to his boss. Baxter leaned forward and folded his hands. "What would you like to talk to me about?"

"We think," Stansfield started, "that we may have found a way to get someone into the White House undetected by the terrorists."

"Really," Baxter said, showing his interest by moving forward to the edge of the chair. "How?"

Stansfield looked to Kennedy, and she said, "There is a ventilation system that circulates all of the air in the White House. The main intake and exhaust ducts are located on the roof, but there is a backup duct that leads from the basement of the White House to an area on the South Lawn."

Baxter looked at Stansfield and said, "I've never noticed any ventilation ducts on the South Lawn."

"Neither have I," replied the director of the CIA. "They're concealed with trees and bushes. We've done a reconnaissance of the area and feel we can get to it without the terrorists being alerted."

"So what do you want to do?" asked King.

Kennedy remained focused on the vice president. "Before we can consider staging a rescue of the hostages, we must know what's going on inside. Unless we get someone on the inside to coordinate an attack, our chances for success will be almost nothing."

"So, we're not talking about sending in a team of commandos." Vice President Baxter squeezed his hands together. "I want to be very clear about that. Until we're sure what he wants, I'm not going to rush into anything."

"We only want to send in one person." Kennedy spoke in a reassuring voice. She thought it would be best to leave Milt Adams out of the picture for now. "Once that person has given us a clear picture of what we're up against, we will present you with a plan to retake the building by force."

"If needed," added King.

"If needed." Kennedy glanced up at King and then back to the vice president.

King placed one hand on the mantel of the fireplace and the other on his hip. He had a feeling he knew whom the CIA would use to check out the building. "This person," King started to ask, "would he by any chance be that Mr. Kruse fellow?"

Kennedy and Stansfield shared a look, and Kennedy replied, "Yes."

"Well, that's funny," said King in an off voice, "because I did some checking on your Mr. Kruse, and I don't think his dossier matches up with the man I met yesterday."

" Mr. Kruse' is an alias for the man you met," Stansfield answered flatly.

"What's his real name?" King asked.

"That's classified."

"Come now." King smirked. "If we're going to risk the lives of all of these hostages by sending your man in, I think at the bare minimum we should know who he is."

Stansfield looked at King for a moment and then turned to the vice president. "There is no rational reason that I can think of for telling you his name."

"I can," answered King with confidence. "If we are going to stick our necks out, I want to know who this guy is and where he's from."

Secrecy was an issue Stansfield never budged on. Being a former field operative himself, he understood firsthand the perils of sharing information too freely. That, combined with the fact that King needed to be reminded of his station in life, caused the director to reply, "Mr. Kruse has been sent on highly delicate missions by three presidents, and not one of them ever knew his real identity. I am not about to tell the chief of staff for the vice president   who, I might remind everyone, has a penchant for talking to the press   the real identity of one of my top operatives." Stansfield turned to Baxter and in the same even tone asked, "Mr. Vice President, maybe you and I should talk about this alone?"

Baxter looked at King sideways. The message was clear   get back in your cage and stay quiet. Turning his focus back to Stansfield, Baxter said, "I don't need to know his real identity, Director Stansfield. I trust you. One thing, however, does concern me . . . this Mr. Kruse fellow seems to be a bit volatile. Possibly uncontrollable."

"What are you basing that assumption on?"

"From what I saw firsthand at the Pentagon, yesterday."

"What you've seen, sir," answered Kennedy, "might lead you to believe he is uncontrollable, but in reality he is extremely reliable. He follows orders to a T, and, most important, he gets results." Kennedy knew her words were slightly skewed, but she also knew there was no one better suited for the job than Mitch Rapp. "His only fault, which some would argue is why he is so good, is that he doesn't tolerate mistakes or stupidity." Kennedy stopped momentarily and then added, "In Attorney General Tutwiler's case I think he proved to be correct."

Vice President Baxter nodded soberly. "Yes, he did."

"Mr. Vice President," Stansfield interjected with finality. "Mr. Kruse is one of the best operatives I've ever seen . . . and you know how long I've been doing this."

Baxter leaned back in his chair and folded his hands in front of his mouth. "Are there any legal issues to be concerned about?"

"Such as?"

"Using an employee of the CIA for something like this. The American people are very squeamish about your agency operating within our borders."

"Technically, I think we're fine, and given the circumstances, I don't think anyone is going to make an issue out of it."

"As long as he's successful," added King. "Does the FBI know anything about your plan?"

"No."

The vice president stood and walked over to a window away from the group. Baxter thought about the potential pitfalls. If this Kruse didn't perform as advertised, there could be some serious repercussions. Why wasn't someone from the FBI sent in? Why didn't they wait to see if they could get more hostages released? The questions would go on and on. Baxter saw a risk hell, the whole thing was a risk, and his political instincts told him to protect himself. After another minute of thought, Baxter decided to walk that thin line again.

The vice president came back over and sat. " Director Stansfield, I have given you . . . " Baxter paused, searching for the most innocuous word, "permission to collect intelligence in this matter. What you choose to do specifically is up to you. I don't need to be kept in the loop for every decision along the way."

Stansfield, an expert at interpreting politicalspeak, understood the vice president clearly. It was another Iran-Contra. Baxter wanted Stansfield and the CIA to stick their necks out, and if things fell apart, he would have his plausible denial.

Stansfield looked at Baxter and nodded his understanding. There would be time to handle these details at a later point. For now they needed to get the ball rolling.

Baxter continued, "I'm reluctant to do anything until Aziz releases his next set of demands, which, of course, will be tomorrow morning. If we can exchange more hostages for money, I'm inclined to do it."

"Sir," said Kennedy, "if I may be frank, I don't think he's going to keep asking for money."

"What do you think he will ask for?"

Stansfield leaned forward and fielded the question. "That is anyone's guess." The director of the CIA wasn't about to divulge his ace in the hole, their custody of Fara Harut   especially to someone like Baxter. "But, I would agree with Irene."

Baxter pondered what the next demand might be and then turned his attention back to the matter at hand. "Who knows about your plans for Mr. Kruse?"

"General Flood, a select few others at the Pentagon, and us."

"No one at the FBI?" Baxter repeated.

"No."

"For now I think you should go about collecting your intelligence independent of the FBI . . . . They have enough to worry about."

Stansfield again read between the lines and nodded. The FBI was to be kept in the dark about Rapp. More proof that the vice president wanted to insulate himself from any potential disaster.

Baxter looked at Stansfield and asked, "Is that all?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Good. Thank you for keeping us informed." Baxter motioned for the door. "Now, if you'll excuse us, I need to get ready to address the nation."

Stansfield and Kennedy stood and started for the door. As they neared it, Vice President Baxter called out, "If you decided to send your man in, please keep him on a short leash."

Stansfield gave his silent answer with a nod, then followed Kennedy into the hallway.