Transfer of Power

chapter 20
They hit the first checkpoint three blocks away from the White House. A quarter of a moon shone in the night sky, and not a cloud was in sight. Rapp was riding in the backseat of the long, black Suburban with Milt Adams. Lt. Commander Harris of SEAL Team Six was in the passenger seat, and Chief Petty Officer Mick Reavers was driving. Following the Suburban through the checkpoints were a plain blue van and a larger black box van. Lt. Commander Harris handled the D.C. Metro Police at the first two checkpoints and then the Secret Service agents at the last checkpoint. Word had been sent down from on high that the CIA was moving in some sensitive equipment to conduct surveillance.

Approaching the White House from the east, they pulled through the last checkpoint at Pennsylvania Avenue and Fifteenth Street. Reavers, the large linebacker type that had been along on the mission to grab Harut, drove the Suburban onto Hamilton Place and continued past the southern edge of the Treasury Building. The White House was now in sight, ahead and to the right, the top floor of the mansion visible above the trees. On the right was the entrance to the underground parking garage that the terrorists had used just yesterday to assault and take the White House. A white Suburban was now parked at the top of the ramp, blocking its use. Straight ahead was a closed gate that led onto the south grounds of the White House.

Reavers extinguished the headlights and turned left onto East Executive Avenue. Continuing south for another fifty feet, Reavers took a hard right at the direction of Milt Adams and pulled up on the curb, the front grill of the truck stopping inches from the heavy black fence. As had already been decided, the blue van backed up onto the curb about twenty feet to the north of the Suburban and stopped with its rear bumper almost touching the fence. The large, black box van parked on the street, right in between the two vehicles, creating a space in the middle that would shield the men from prying eyes.

Doors began to open, and bodies piled out of all three vehicles. Everyone, even Milt Adams, was dressed in the standard black Nomex jumpsuits worn by Navy SEALs. Three of Harris's SEALs set up a security perimeter on the outside of the vehicles, while four more unfurled a massive black tarp. In a little over a minute they had the tarp stretched over the top of all three vehicles and secured. With the tarp in place, two of the men went to work on the fence. With a small handheld hydraulic jack, they began prying apart the vertical bars so Rapp and Adams could pass through.

Harris and Rapp approached the fence and tried to spy a look at the roof of the White House. The trees and undergrowth between them and the residence were dense, hopefully dense enough to conceal their movements.

Harris raised his small secure Motorola radio to his mouth and asked, "Slick, whada'ya got for me?"

Lying on his belly less than a block away, Charlie Wicker peered through a pair of night-vision binoculars. Wicker was set up on the backside of the pitched roof of the Treasury Building. Arriving thirty minutes in advance of the others, he had been watching the terrorist sitting atop the roof of the White House, trying to discern any patterns. Wicker lowered the lip mike on his headset and said, "He has no idea you're there. He spends most of his time looking west, over at that ugly building on the other side of the White House."

"Good," replied Harris. "Anything else to report?"

Wicker squinted as he looked at the hooded man no more than one hundred fifty feet away   the only thing separating them was a half inch o bulletproof Plexiglas. "Yeah . . . I think I can take this guy out with a pair of fifties." Wicker was referring to a . 50 caliber sniping rifle. The heavy-caliber weapon was used by Special Forces snipers to take out targets at distances exceeding a mile.

"I'll keep that in mind. Let me know if he starts looking our way. Over." Harris turned to Rapp. "So far so good."

"Good." Rapp led the way and he, Harris, and Adams walked over to the blue van. The side cargo doors were open, revealing an array of equipment stacked in electronic racks, or, as the man sitting behind the main console called them, "pizza racks." Marcus Dumond was a twenty-six-year-old computer genius and almost convicted felon. Rapp had brought Dumond into the fold at Langley three years earlier. The young cyber genius had run into some trouble with the Feds while he was earning his master's degree in computer science at MIT. He was alleged to have hacked into one of New York's largest banks and then transferred funds into several overseas accounts. The part that interested the CIA was that Dumond wasn't caught because he left a trail; he was caught because he got drunk one night and bragged about his financial plunders to the wrong person.

At the time, Dumond was living with Steven Rapp, Mitch's younger brother. When the older Rapp heard about Dumond's problems with the FBI, he called Irene Kennedy and told her the hacker was worth a look.

Langley doesn't like to admit that they employ some of the world's best computer pirates, but these young cyber geeks are encouraged to hack into any and every computer system they can. Most of these hacking raids are directed at foreign companies, banks, governments, and military computer systems. But just getting into a system isn't enough. The challenge is to hack in, get the information, and get out without leaving a trace that the system was ever compromised.

The wiry Marcus Dumond poked his head out the open door, a cigarette hanging from his mouth and a pair of thick glasses perched on his nose. "Commander Harris, can you tell your men to cut a hole in the tarp? I have to raise my communications boom."

Harris turned to one of his nearby men and told him to cut the hole. Dumond then stepped out of the van with a large fanny pack. Over by the box van, a long folding table had been set up and a series of blueprints and schematics were being taped to the side of the van. Portable red-filter lights provided limited lighting and gave everyone's face an eerie, sallow look. Setting the pack atop the table, Dumond opened it and extracted a small black object. Holding it in front of Rapp, Harris, and finally Adams, he said, "Micro video-and-audio surveillance unit. You guys have both used these, right?" Rapp and Harris nodded. The objects were about an inch and half thick, about four inches long, and about three inches across. At the top of the unit was a small, thin bump about the size of a pen tip. The tiny, highly sensitive microphone was encased in black foam. Next to it was a thin three-inch fiber-optic cord, at the end of which was a tiny lens.

Dumond turned to Adams. "These little babies have two settings, regular and pulse. The regular will last about three days, and the pulse will give you almost twelve. The pulse still supplies full audio but only gives a snapshot every five seconds." Dumond shrugged his shoulders. "it's up to you guys how you want to use them, but I would suggest a little of both . . . just in case." Flipping the small unit over, Dumond said, "I've attached Velcro to the back of every unit. Here"   Dumond picked up a plastic bag   "are the corresponding Velcro patches. I've also thrown in these little alcohol wipes to clean the surface before you attach the Velcro patch, especially if you're in a place where there's a lot of dust, like a ventilation duct. I've packed twelve black and twelve white units." Dumond turned to Rapp. "You know the routine. Install them at choke points and area of high traffic. I can maneuver the cameras a little bit from remote, but I advise against it. It burns a lot of juice, so try to give us a good angle when you set them up. Any questions?" Dumond paused, giving them a chance, and then said, "Good, let's check your communications and get you on your way."

Dumond led the three men over to the blue van and retrieved two secure radios and headsets. Dumond had already checked out the units on the way over from Langley. Turning Adams around, Dumond placed the radio in a specially designed pocket that sat just above his left shoulder blade. Dumond then placed the headset on Adams and showed him how to adjust the lip mike. In the meantime, Rapp placed his radio in his vest and turned his black baseball cap backward. Over the top of the cap he secured the headset and checked the mike with Harris.

After they were positive the units worked properly, Dumond cautioned, "I'm probably going to lose you guys as you go through the tunnel. The jammer they are using to black out the president's bunker is creating a dead zone. All or sensors tell us that the interference dissipates as you reach the upper levels of the mansion, so I want you to come up to the second floor as quickly as you can and reestablish radio contact." Dumond reached back into the van and grabbed another pack. "I'm also going to give you this secure field radio. It has more range and power. And I put some extra radio batteries in here just in case." Dumond held up a small black nylon pack.

Rapp looked at the radio pack and started to wonder if he'd be able to carry all of the equipment through the shaft. Then responding to Dumond's statement, Rapp replied, "We'll try to get to the second floor, but I can't promise anything until I get in there and see what they have. If everything is booby-trapped, we might not even get out of the basement."

"I'll get us out of the basement," Adams said confidently.

Rapp took the second pack from Dumond and asked, "Anything else for us?"

"Nope." Dumond stuck out his fist, and Rapp did the same. Banging Rapp's once on top and once on the bottom, Dumond said, "Good luck, Mitch." Then looking to Adams, he said, "Try and keep this guy out of trouble, will you?"

"I will." Adams smiled.

Rapp thanked Dumond and grabbed Adams. As they walked back over to the Suburban, Rapp's thoughts turned to something he'd been debating for most of the day. The question was whether to arm Adams with a weapon. Rapp's concern was not whether Adams could shoot straight enough to hit anything, but whether he would accidentally shoot Rapp in the back. It was no small concern considering the fact that the Special Forces community rarely went a year without someone accidentally getting shot, and those people were cream of the crop.

With reservation, Rapp asked, "Milt, what do you think about bringing a gun with you, just in case?"

Adams reached into his pocket and pulled out a . 357 revolver. "I already have one."

Surprised, Rapp extended his hand. "May I?" Adams handed him the gun, and Rapp immediately recognized it as a Ruger Speed-Six. Before automatics became all the rage with cops, the Speed-Six was a popular, dependable gun for a lot of police departments. The barrel was short, making it easy to draw, and since it was a revolver, jamming was not an issue. Rapp considered for a moment if he should give Adams one of his own silenced weapons and then decided against it. He would just as soon have Adams use a gun he was comfortable with. Besides, if it ever got to the point where Adams had to start shooting they'd already be well past the point of stealth.

Rapp handed him the gun back and asked, "Do you want a holster?"

Adams shook his head. "Naw. . . I'm used to carrying it in my pocket."

"All right." Rapp stood awkwardly for a second looking down at the tiny Adams, wondering if he really knew what he was getting himself into.

Adams sensed Rapp's mood. "Don't worry about me, Mitch. I wouldn't be doing this if I didn't think it was the right thing."

Rapp smiled and nodded with more respect than Adams could have guessed. The right thing, he thought to himself. What a difference between his generation and Milt's.

Rapp took the next five minutes to get his gear together. With all of his weapons, communications equipment, surveillance equipment, and some limited rations, his gear weighed more than seventy-five pounds. Because of the tight space of the shaft, he and Harris had decided it would be best if he towed it behind him with a rope.

Finally, with all of their equipment assembled, Rapp, Adams, and Harris waited at the fence line for the green light.

* * *

In a windowless room on the seventh floor of the main building at Langley, a select few had gathered to monitor the progress of Mitch Rapp and Milt Adams. The room was strikingly similar to a television network control booth. On the main wall was a bank of nineteen-inch monitors, four rows of them, running ten across. In front of the monitors, at a slightly elevated table, sat four technicians. At their disposal was the latest in video-production equipment. Behind them, and elevated still further, sat Dr. Irene Kennedy, General Campbell, and several of their assistants. The work surface at this level was cluttered with hones and computers. At the third level sat Director Stansfield, General Flood, Colonel Bill Gray, and Admiral DeVoe. The fourth, and last row, was occupied by a half dozen other high-ranking Pentagon and CIA officials. Conveniently absent from the group was any representative from the FBI, something that Irene Kennedy did not like.

The four monitors in the bottom left corner were showing the networks and CNN preparing for the vice president's national address. Ten of the monitors, just above the bottom four, showed different shots of the White House's exterior. One was zoomed in on the terrorist sitting in the rooftop guard booth, and the others were either trained on specific doors and windows or general areas.

The remaining twenty-six monitors were pale blue with the exception of one near the middle. It glowed with a reddish hue, showing Rapp and the others at work in the strange light.

Irene Kennedy's hair was pulled back, and she was wearing a lightweight operator's headset, as were all of the others in the first two rows. Kennedy nodded slowly as she listened to Marcus Dumond. After a moment she raised the arm of her headset and turned to look up at the two men sitting directly behind her. "Everything is ready. They're waiting for authorization."

Stansfield and Flood looked at each other briefly, Flood nodding first and Stansfield following suit. Stansfield then looked down at Kennedy and gave his okay.

The director of the CIA watched Kennedy relay the orders and wondered again if he should pick up the phone and tell FBI Director Roach what they were up to. He had in part covered himself by passing the word that they were conducting electronic surveillance, but this was much more than that. If things went bad, it would jeopardize the safety of the hostages.