Transfer of Power

chapter 30

"You know what he's doing, don't you?" Rapp sat with the handset of the secure field radio gripped tightly in his left hand. He stared lankly at the wall in front of him while he listened to General Campbell give his take on Aziz's national address. They had played the speech for Rapp over the radio and had asked if he would like to hear it again. Rapp had declined. He knew exactly what Aziz was up to and didn't need to waste a second more analyzing it.

Rapp nodded in response to what General Campbell was saying and said, "That's right. He's trying to play you guys for patsies."

"Excuse me," replied the stern ranger on the other end.

"Patsies," repeated Rapp, never one to choose his words too carefully. "He wants Vice President Baxter and all of the other politicians up on the Hill to roll over and meet him at the bargaining table. Then, once he gets what he wants, he'll go back to the Middle East, disappear, and a year from now he'll be building more bombs and killing more people."

"What if he seriously wants to make peace?" chimed in Irene Kennedy.

"It's out of the question," Rapp replied emphatically.

"How can you be so sure?"

"Irene, don't play this game with me. I don't have the time or the patience to sit here and listen to you play devil's advocate. You know as well as I do that Rafique Aziz could give a rat's ass about the American people, or his Arab brothers and sisters, for that matter. Hell . . . the other Arabs he cares about are the ones that want to wipe Israel off the map. As far as the rest of us are concerned, he'd slit our throats in a second if we got in his way."

"Then what's he up to?" asked Kennedy.

Rapp sat back, swinging one of his legs out from underneath him as he thought about it. He looked over at Rielly, propped up in the corner with the blanket wrapped around her. She was watching him intently.

Looking away from her, Rapp said, "He's trying to find a way out of this without getting his head blown off. We know he's a meticulous planner. He thinks everything through from start to finish and prepares multiple contingencies in case things go wrong. As I look at his plan, the one big problem I see is how he gets out of there . . . how he gets home. We can bank on the fact that he's thought it through every step of the way in terms of how we'd react. And from that, we can assume he knows there would be a strong contingency in the government that would push hard for an all-out raid. Now, if he had gotten his hands on the president, everything would be a little different. My guess is that he was planning to use Hayes as his bargaining chip to get home, but he blew it, and now he's been forced to fall back and use a different plan."

"And what would that be?" asked General Campbell.

Rapp looked up at Rielly while he thought about it. She was still staring at him with those emerald green eyes. He knew she was listening to everything he said, but there wasn't much he could do about it.

Rapp looked away and said, "he's trying to manipulate the media and sway public opinion. He knows without the president he's not getting home. Let's face it   "Rapp paused, feeling somewhat awkward about saying the next part in front of Rielly, but there was really no other way. After clearing his throat, he said, "If you look at the big picture, we all know every one of those hostages is expendable, and if we know it, so does Aziz. If he was to continue an aggressive, hostile position, he would eventually force us to storm the place. There is no way we could just sit by while he killed hostages on national TV. So by going in front of the public this morning and putting on this bullshit peace-loving attitude, he's taken the wind out of our sails. Baxter won't let us take action until an effort is made at peace."

"I agree," said Kennedy. "In the end, he knows every single one of those hostage is expendable. The president was his trump card, and he didn't get it."

General Campbell added, "He's trying to give the politicians a way out of this mess without firing a shot."

"Well, that's not gonna happen as long as I have a say in the matter."

"Iron Man," stated Campbell in a firm voice. "I don't want you doing anything unless you are authorized. The last thing we need right now is you running around half-cocked. Now, Irene and I have to get over to the Pentagon for a meeting, and in the meantime. We want you to stay put. When we get back, we'll have a better idea of how we shall proceed. Am I understood?"

Rapp looked down at the floor and held his temper in check. He'd already learned his lesson. Don't ask a question if you're not going to like the answer.

"Yes, sir," was Rapp's simple two-word reply as he placed the handset back in its cradle. Pausing for a second, he looked at the power switch and debated his next move. After about fifteen seconds of indecision he turned off the radio and looked up at Rielly.

Anna Rielly sat passively in the corner with the blanket wrapped tightly around her body. Milt Adams sat in the opposite corner, behind Rapp, and chewed on a granola bar. Rielly continued to stare at Rapp and finally asked, "What was that all about?"

Rapp glanced sideways at her as he began rifling through one of his packs. "Nothing."

"It sure sounded like something to me," Rielly said.

"Listen, Anna, you're a reporter. I can't exactly let you in on what going on."

Rielly smiled. "Who am I going to tell? What do you think, I'm going to call the station with your radio and give them a live update?"

Rapp grabbed several more granola bars from his pack and held one up for Rielly, "Here, chew on this." And with a grin, he added, "And stop asking questions."

Rielly took the bar and while she tore the wrapper off asked, "Who do you work for, Mitch Kruse, the FBI?'

"Ah. . . no. Not exactly."

"What are you, then   military?"

Rapp ignored the question and continued looking for something in his pack.

Rielly smiled and said, "Hey, listen, you saved my life. I don't care who you work for." Rielly continued to watch him.

Rapp stared back for a long moment thinking about what he should say. Finally, he replied, "Anna, if I tell you something off the record, will you promise that you'll never report it? That is, since I saved your life and all." Rapp said the last part with a smile.

Rielly took the question seriously. "I'm a reporter. Whatever you tell me in confidence will be kept a secret."

Chuckling, he said, "My dad always said, Don't bullshit a bullshitter,' " Rapp studied an abrasion on Rielly's cheek and a spot of dried blood on her lip.

Changing the subject once again, Rapp pulled a penlight from his assault vest and said, "Now, let's see how you're doing this morning." Holding the light up in front of her face, he said, "I want to check your eyes and see how your pupils dilate." Rapp held Rielly by her chin and checked the left eye first and then the right. Both dilated properly, and then he asked her to follow the light as he moved it from one side of her face to the other. Again she checked out fine.

Turning the light off, Rapp gently touched the abrasion on her cheek and asked, "How does this feel?"

Rielly frowned and said, "I don't know. How does it look?"

After studying her face for a second, Rapp nodded. "I'd say considering what you're been through, you look pretty good. Darn good actually." He meant it.

Rielly smiled slightly. "Well, in that case I feel fine."

Looking back toward Adams, who was on his second breakfast bar, Rapp asked, "I'd say we have a regular tough girl on our hands."

"I'd say so," replied Adams with a nod for emphasis.

Rapp turned his attention back to Rielly's cheek, and when he got closer to inspect the mark, she said to him, "You know women have a higher tolerance for pain than men."

"So I've been told." Rapp fished a sterile alcohol pad from his first aid kit and tore the small package open. Gently, he started to wipe the dried blood from the corner of Rielly's mouth, and then the light scrape on her cheek.

When Rapp was done, he turned her head from side to side to check for any other cuts. He had not missed the obvious beauty of the reporter. He felt slightly guilty, under the current circumstances, for letting his mind wander, but it couldn't be helped. Her skin was soft and smooth with just the right touch of color. Rapp nudged her chin to the side and noticed a trail of dried blood that ran down the back of her neck. He wiped away the blood and then placed both hands on her scalp. Rielly flinched slightly and pulled away.

"Does that hurt?" asked Rapp.

Rielly nodded, and Rapp said with a smile, "What happened to that high tolerance for pain you were bragging about a moment ago?"

"I don't know, but whatever you just touched hurt like hell."

"try to hold still for a second. I want to find out how bad the cut is." Rapp lifted and separated her thick brown hair. The cut ran only about an inch but looked to have broken the first several layers of skin. Holding one hand on her scalp, he reached behind him and grabbed another sterile alcohol pad. Without looking, he said, "Milt, would you do me a favor? Take those blueprints that you brought, and spread them out on the floor."

Rapp wiped the cut several times and then waved his hand over the area to dry the alcohol. Rielly's face twisted in pain. After a moment, Rapp let her hair fall back down onto her shoulders and sat back on one heel. "How's that?"

Rielly brought her hand up and gently touched her head. "I'm fine if I don't move too much." But Rapp noticed the flicker of pain moving across her face when she raised her arm.

"What was that?" asked Rapp.

Gently, Rielly touched her side. "Something hurts in my side."

"Can you stand up for me?"

"I think so."

Rapp helped her up. "Does it hurt on the back, the front, or the side?"

She gestured with her hand. "The back and the side."

"I need to take a look at it. Are you all right with that?'

Rielly looked at Rapp's concerned face, and the corners of her mouth turned up ever so slightly. Reaching out, she placed her hand on his cheek and said, "If I can't trust you, I don't know who I could."

Rapp blushed slightly and said, "Good, then turn around so I can take a look." Rielly did as she was asked, and Rapp lifted up her sweatshirt.

Her skin was a golden olive from her narrow waist up and then the discoloration began to appear. Halfway up her back, on her left side, a red mark about four inches long and three inches wide had started to form. He checked for bright red streaks and found none. Rapp touched the area softly at first, and Rielly showed no sign of pain. Then he pressed a little harder, and she winced sharply.

"Can you take several deep breaths for me?" Rielly did so without pain, and Rapp let her shirt fall. "It's probably just a bruise, which can still hurt like a bitch, but it's ten times better than having a broken or cracked rib." With a smile, he added, "You must be one tough chick."

Rielly smiled slightly. "I have a lot of brothers."

Rapp nodded. "I think you're going to be all right, but then again, I'm no doctor."

"What are you Mr. Kruse?" asked the persistent Rielly.

Squeezing her shoulder, Rapp said, "I've got some work to do." Turning toward the seated Adams, Rapp said, "Milt, I need you to show me every stairwell and elevator that leads from this floor to the third, and from this floor to the first."

* * *

Dallas King was already on his second battery. His digital phone had left his ear only momentarily over the last hour and a half. He walked at a hurried pace next to Vice President Baxter as their entourage moved down the wide hallway of the E Ring at the Pentagon. A slew of serious-looking Secret Service agents surrounded them. King thought the large contingent a bit much; they were, after all, in the Pentagon; but he had other things to worry about. As the group continued forward, the sea of people before them parted as Pentagon employees moved out of the way and clung to the walls while the current commander in chief passed by.

The buzz level was high. Everyone had either seen Aziz's national address or heard about it. Now the natural question was, what would the U.S. government do in response? The answer was actually tied to a lone individual in Omaha, Nebraska. Reginald Boulay was his name, and at this exact moment he was giving Dallas King the results of his Husker Poll. Boulay had built up his poll over the years and made it into one of the most accurate in the political-consulting business. And he only supplied it to a few well-paying clients. The numbers from the Husker Poll were never found in the newspapers or on TV. Boulay wasn't in the business to skew results by push polling and a variety of other techniques; he was in to get the most accurate results possible. And he did it by asking brutally honest questions in plain English. King had decided after talking to two of his regular pollsters, and being irritated at their inability to understand what he wanted, that if there was ever a time to spend money on Boulay and his Husker Poll, now was it.

King nodded as he listened to Boulay relay the results. Although King had honestly expected them, he was, nonetheless, surprised. They reflected the new trend in America, almost a refusal to judge and condemn. King had sensed it while listening to Aziz's speech and wondered if he was smart enough to know what he was tapping into, or if he was just one lucky bastard.

The handsome King liked what he was hearing from Boulay. According to the Husker Poll, a little over sixty percent of those surveyed felt that Vice President Baxter should exhaust almost all options in an effort to resolve the crisis in a peaceful way. When it came to lifting economic sanctions against Iraq except those involving weapons of mass destruction, the numbers jumped to almost eighty percent. As Boulay had explained it to King, "There's bout twenty percent of the population that would just as soon level the White House before giving these terrorists a thing, and nothing you do or say will change that."

King had also expected that. The zealots at either end of the spectrum would always be around. They were not the people you had to worry about. The rest of the populace was whom he had to keep his eye on   the sixty to eighty percent of the people who were not too far from the middle on any given issue. As a political adviser, King saw it as his job to try and get those people leaning in his direction or, more precisely, to position his boss in the middle of them. That would be his next course of action. After asking Boulay to fax him the results, King ended the call and brought the vice presidential armada to a screeching halt. Grabbing his boss by the arm, King stopped at the next door on the right and pulled Vice President Baxter over with him. The Secret Service agents were used to this type of semiprivate consultation between their charges and their aides, and without having to say a word, they turned their backs to the vice president and deployed in a protective shell.

King placed a hand on Baxter's shoulder and said in a whisper, "It's just like I thought. Over sixty percent of the people want to see a peaceful resolution to this mess, and almost eighty percent think we should lift the economic embargo against Iraq, just so long as the military embargo is kept in place.

Baxter nodded and said, "So we're safe if we push for the UN to raise the sanctions?"

"I think so," said King with confidence. "Besides, if we can get him to release another third of the hostages, we'll be in a really good position to get some mileage out of this."

Baxter pointed down the hall toward the direction of the room they'd be meeting in. "They aren't going to like this."

King shrugged. "They're not going to like anything short of storming the place with a battalion of commandos. You have to prevent that from happening. You have to take the higher moral ground. You have to protect the lives of those innocent hostages."

"What about policy? What about precedence?" Baxter shook his head. "We think the American people are behind it, but what about the Hill? There're going to be some hard-liners up there who are going to scream bloody murder over this. Hell, some of them are already pissed that we gave them the Iranian money."

"F*ck em, " snarled King. "They're gonna hate you no matter what you do, and if you do what they want and send in the troops, you're gonna have a group of hard-liners from the left trying to crucify you." King shook his head. "You can't please both groups. You have to stay with the majority of public opinion and stick with your base. That's where your protection is."

It was Baxter's turn to shake his head. "That's comforting. Public opinion, which you are so infatuated with, is about as predictable as the weather." Baxter continued shaking his head. "Public opinion is like a mob. It's fine just so long as you can predict where it's going, but the second you screw up and they turn on you . . . you're screwed."

King looked at his boss, his eyes sagging. He had been working nonstop for the last three days, he was tired, he was sick of hearing his boss whine, and he had bigger problems of his own. "Sherman"   King's face twisted into an expression of contempt   "maybe you should just quit. If you can't see that we have a golden opportunity here to build you up as a great statesman, as the man who saved the day, as the politician who stepped in and brokered the peace during the biggest crisis this nation has faced in possibly"   King paused while shaking his head   "its entire history? Then maybe you really should just let General Flood and Director Stansfield and the rest of the warmongers storm the place, destroy that great building, and kill all of the people in it, and then you can go down in the history books as the butcher who sent fifty Americans to their death because he was afraid to step up to the plate."

Baxter stood silently and looked at his chief of staff. He was not used to being spoken to in such a manner by anyone, not even a peer. This was probably the principal reason why King's words sank in. It was true, Baxter thought to himself. If he wanted to be president someday, which he did badly, more than anything in the world, he would have to stand up and be a leader. Slowly, he started to nod in an affirmation of King's words.