Transfer of Power

chapter 37
Her elbows rested heavily on the table. The hum of computers, faxes, scanners, and monitors droned in the background. The control room at Langley was in the midst of a lull. Kennedy's hands cupped her chin, and her eyes were closed. Opening her eyes, she looked at the red digital clock on the wall. It was almost half past noon. She let out a yawn and stretched her arms above her head. Things were about to happen. She had felt it herself and seen it in the look Thomas Stansfield had given her.

The light on her phone blinked once and then began to ring. She grabbed the handset and answered, "Dr. Kennedy."

"Irene, it's Jane. I've been busy trying to get an answer to your question, but things have proved a little more difficult than I thought."

"How so?"

"Well, the subject is not entirely with us."

Kennedy frowned. "Will he be coming back?"

"No." There was a substantial pause and then, "At least, I don't think so." Then in a slightly defensive tone Dr. Hornig added, "You remember, this is all new, very cutting-edge stuff."

"Did you get anything out of him?"

"From what little I could gather, Harut had no idea what this Yassin fellows talents were. But please keep in mind, he's not all there."

Irene didn't want to hear excuses; she wanted answers. "Did you get anything out of him?"

"I'm afraid not."

"Okay. If you find anything out, please let me know." Kennedy disconnected the call and dialed an international number. While the secure satellite technology at Langley started the process, Kennedy turned around and checked to see what her boss was doing.

Thomas Stansfield sat comfortably in his chair while Jonathan Brown, the deputy director of central intelligence, relayed a slew of congressional complaints and inquiries. From what little Kennedy heard, she gathered that the congressman and senators on the Hill were demanding to know what in the hell happened last night.

The familiar voice of Colonel Fine answered on the other end, and Kennedy turned around. "Ben, it's Irene. Have you found anything out on Yassin?"

"Nothing firm. Some rumblings and rumors here and there, but we haven't been able to nail him down."

"Which one are we talking about? The Iraqi or the Palestinian?"

"I have heard nothing back about the Iraqi, but I have several sources who are claiming they have seen the eighteen-year-old Palestinian within the last four days."

"Hmm," pondered Kennedy.

"Let me caution you, though. We have not been able to track him down."

"I know, but we are definitely leaning closer to one than the other."

"My contacts in Iraq are not as deep, Irene. The man could be there, but I need more time to track him down."

Kennedy looked back at Stansfield and let him know that she needed to talk to him. Into the phone, she said, "Ben, I have to run. Thank you for the info, and please let me know the second you find out anything else."

"Before you go," said Fine loudly, "I have something I wish to discuss." Fine paused and then continued. "There are people in my government who are threatening to tear apart the entire peace accord if your country persists with this position of negotiation. We have a very good idea what Aziz's last demand will be, and we are prepared to occupy the territories with troops if it comes to that."

Kennedy stopped everything she was doing. She dissected the colonels' words carefully. Israel was prepared to go to war. "Has your ambassador been informed of this?"

"I do not know."

"Has your prime minister informed our vice president?"

"I do not know."

Kennedy paused momentarily. "Ben, Director Stansfield has the interests of Israel very high on his list, but he is only one man. Now is not the time to play games through back channels. I would suggest that certain people in your government start banging the drum and bang it loudly. They know who to talk to." Kennedy stopped for a moment and added, "Don't worry about your support from Langley. We have never wavered on this issue, and are not about to."

There was a moment of silence and then, "Good. I will pass that along."

"And I appreciate the information, Ben. Please let me know the second you find anything more."

Kennedy hung up the phone and swiveled her chair around. Brown was still talking to Stansfield. Kennedy was not sure about the new deputy director. It wasn't due to a lack of confidence in his skills. He was intelligent and professional. Her issue with Brown lay more in where his bread was buttered. Brown was not an insider at Langley. He had been with the Agency for less than a year. In his early fifties, he was a former federal prosecutor and judge who, after leaving the bench, went to work for one of Washington's poshest law firms, making close to a million dollars a year. After pressing the flesh with all of the bigwigs in Congress for a half dozen years, he had obtained a nomination for the deputy director slot and was confirmed.

It was a safe bet that his allegiance was more with the senators who had confirmed him than with the man he was now talking to. It was that simple fact that kept Kennedy from speaking in front of the man. She waited for several minutes until Brown left, then rose and approached the elevated desk behind her.

Stansfield leaned forward and asked, "What is it?"

General Flood also leaned forward, sensing that Kennedy might have obtained a valuable piece of information.

"I just spoke to Colonel Fine. He's gotten nowhere in terms of the Yassin from Iraq, and with the young Palestinian, they have several contacts who have claimed to have seen him in the last four days."

Flood shook his head and said, "That's it, Thomas. We have to tell him."

Stansfield's face remained passive, and Flood persisted. "It's our duty. Iron Man hasn't come up with anything definitive, but it sure does look like something is going on down in that basement. Aziz doesn't have enough men to tie up one of them down there."

"What about the ventilation duct?" asked Kennedy. "Maybe he's afraid we'll try and use it again."

"Bullshit," grumbled Flood. "All he has to do is booby-trap the only stairwell that leads up from the basement, and he has us boxed in."

Kennedy agreed.

Flood leaned toward Stansfield and said, "We have to tell him, Thomas. We should have told him this morning."

Stansfield looked at the large general. He knew Flood was right but also knew how Vice President Baxter would react. He would wiggle. He would question the validity of their conclusion. He would put off making any decision until he absolutely had to. Despite all of that, Flood was right. They had to tell him.

* * *

Dallas King sat across from his boss and watched him talk on the phone. The afternoon sun spilled through the windows of the vice president's study at the Naval Observatory. King was still obsessing over his roll in aiding the terrorists. He had decided only one thing thus far, that he would keep his mouth shut. There wasn't a snowball's chance in hell that he would volunteer what he had done to the FBI. It would do no good. They couldn't turn back the clocks. What he had to do right now was damage control. Who else knew about the late-night excursion? There were the two women of course, but they were bombed. There was Joe, the Secret Service officer who had let them in. King thought about checking up on Joe, but that might make things look worse if they story came out. No. For now, he would sit and do nothing and hope that no one would ever link him to the terrorist.

Aides shuffled in and out of the room on an almost continuous basis. The large dining room and living room of the mansion had been converted into offices for Baxter's support staff and the dozen or so essential personnel who had been displaced when the Old Executive Office Building had been shut down by the Secret Service.

It was one of those essential aides who quietly entered the room and approached King. In a voice low enough to not distract the vice president, she said, "Director Stansfield and General Flood are on the line, and they wish to speak to the vice president immediately."

King stood. "Which line?"

The young woman held up two fingers and began her retreat. King watched her leave. Out of habit he checked out her backside as she sauntered for the door. It was nice. He'd been eyeballing her for the better part of the new year, but knew it would be trouble. Office romances were a big no-no. Stick with the married women, King told himself.

King made his way over to a credenza on the other side of the large study. After running a hand through his hair and checking himself out in an ornate gilt-framed mirror, King grabbed the receiver from the phone and stabbed the blinking red button.

"Director Stansfield, General Flood, Dallas King here."

It was General Flood who spoke first. "Dallas, where is the vice president?"

"He's right here, but he's on the line with the secretary general of the UN."

"Well, tell him we need to speak with him." Flood's voice was even gruffer than normal.

King held the receiver to his left ear and with his right forefinger he smoothed out his eyebrows. Looking into the mirror to check on is grooming, he replied, "As I said, he's on the line with the secretary general, and it's rather important. Is there something I can help you with?"

Flood, the highest-ranking officer in the entire United States military, was used to people jumping to his requests. Add to this the tense situation and a lack of sleep, and the result was predictable.

"Goddammit," bellowed Flood. "You've got some things to learn about the chain of command, son. When the chairman of the Joint Chiefs calls and says he wants to talk to the vice president, you put him on the phone!"

King pulled the receiver away from his face and looked at it with a frown. Under his breath, he said, "Give me a break." Then into the phone, he replied, "Let me see if he can take your call." Without waiting to see if that was okay, King pressed the hold button and set the phone down. Looking into the mirror one more time, he straightened his tie and checked his perfect white teeth.

Walking across the spacious study, he approached the vice president's desk and gave his boss the proper signal. Baxter looked up and when the moment was right, he said, "Excuse me, Mr. Secretary. Would you hold one moment please?" Baxter covered the phone. "What now?"

"General Flood and Director Stansfield are on line two and they want to talk to you immediately."

"Immediately," Baxter repeated the word in the same tone as King.

"Yep, General Flood has got his undies in a bind about something. He snapped at me when I told him you were busy."

Baxter took his hand off the receiver and said, "Mr. Secretary, I want to continue this conversation, but I must take an urgent call. May I call you back in a few minutes?" Baxter nodded several times while he listened to the secretary general of UN and then said, "Thank you."

King looked down at his boss and said, "I think I'd better listen in on this." Baxter nodded his consent, and King quickly crossed the room and stood poised above the phone on the credenza. When his boss reached down to punch the proper line, King did the same.

Baxter said, "Hello, General Flood."

"Mr. Vice President, I'm on the line with Director Stansfield. We've come across some troubling information that we must bring to your attention." In less than a minute Flood brought Baxter up to speed on what was going on in regard to Mustafa Yassin and the information provided by the Israelis and CIA.

Dallas King watched his boss silently from across the room. He listened to Flood, and in some twisted way the news excited him. King knew it shouldn't, but this was real high drama, and he was one of just a few who were privy to this jarring information. The president was not as safe as they had thought.

General Flood moved from stating the facts into stating his case, and he did so with two sentences. "Mr. Vice President, under no circumstances can we allow the president to fall into the hands of these terrorists. Delta Force and HRT are ready to retake the White House on your order."

Vice President Baxter let out the moan of a man who could take no more bad news. And then after a moment or so of fidgeting, he asked, "How can we be sure? Aziz has said nothing about the president in any of his demands."

"We can't be sure," answered Flood. "but we sure as hell can't take the risk of letting the president become a hostage."

"What is this information is wrong?" Baxter looked up at King. "We still have quite a few hostages in there, and from what you've told me, the odds of them surviving a takedown are not good."

"Sir, at this point I see no other alternative. We cannot, under any circumstance, allow Rafique Aziz to get his hands on President Hayes."

There was a long pause while Baxter looked up at King. Finally he sighed into the phone and asked, "What is it that you want from me, General Flood?"

"I want you to do what's right. I want you to give me the green light to retake the White House."

King was shaking his head vigorously at his boss. No one was going to commit to anything until he and the vice president had a chance to discuss it. Vice President Baxter looked up at King and nodded. Then into the phone, he said, "General, this information seems a little thin to me. As I've already said, you have full authority to move your people into position, and to collect intelligence, just so long as you don't endanger the lives of the hostages. But I want to make myself clear on this once again. I an the only person who will authorize the takedown of the White House." Baxter straightened up in his chair. "Am I clear on this?"

"Yes, you are, sir," answered a frustrated Flood. "That has never been in doubt. . . . That's not what's at issue here. What is at issue is the safety of the president of the United States." In firm voice Flood added, "I am asking you for the authorization to take back the White House. I am asking you to prevent President Hayes from falling into the hands of Rafique Aziz."

In a soft voice, Baxter answered, "General, this is not an easy decision. I need some time to think about it."

"But, sir," snapped Flood. "We might no have the time."

Baxter shot back, "I am running the show here, General Flood, and I will decide how much time we may or may not have. Now, I would suggest that while I'm consulting with my aides, you try and find out if this threat to President Hayes is real or imagined. I mean, for Christ's sake, two days ago your own people stood up and told me he could last a month in that bunker." Baxter shook his head.

Barely able to restrain himself, Flood looked to Stansfield for some support. The director of the CIA simply shook his head. Into the phone the general asked, "What do you want me to do, sir?"

"I want you to keep me informed, and make sure you do nothing to precipitate any more violence from Aziz."

"Yes, sir."

With that, the conversation was over. General Flood had hung up without waiting to see if Baxter had anything to add. Dallas King put the handset back in its cradle and walked toward his sullen-faced boss.

"You handled that perfectly." When King reached the desk, he added, "Off the top of my head, we have several things working in our favor. First, this information they have sounds a little thin to me. I mean we can't trust the Israelis for shit right now. They'd just as soon see us nuke the place. And secondly"   King tapped his chin with his finger   "there's an angle here. Is the president's life more valuable than fifty of his fellow countrymen? There's an awfully strong agreement to be made against the imperial presidency. No one American life is greater than any other single American life."

Baxter frowned and said, "Come on, Dallas. Who's going to buy that load of crap?"

"Your average Joe, that's who." King pointed his finger at his boss. "Even if what Flood says is true, which I doubt, since those guys can't seem to find their ass with both hands, that doesn't mean we need to storm the place. With the exception of Marge's big f*ck-up, this Aziz guy has been pretty reasonable. So far he hasn't asked for anything that we can't go back and fix later, and the polls tell us that, with the exception of a bunch of right-wing extremists, the American people want to see this thing resolved peacefully. Our job here is to continue to walk this fine line, Sherman. If they can't give you solid proof that the president is in imminent danger, I wouldn't budge an inch. We'll get these UN resolutions passed by the next group of hostages. That's two-thirds you will have saved."

King stopped and looked out the window. A thought had just occurred to him. Maybe he was cheering for the wrong results. If the terrorist were killed, most of his problem would be solved.

"Dallas, what are you thinking?" Baxter asked.

King shook his head and turned his attention back to his boss. "Nothing. I was just trying to figure something out."

* * *

Jack Warch was on his fourth set of crunches, the modern-day version of the much hated sit-up. He had considered skipping his daily regimen, but decided he had nothing better to do. Warch did four hundred crunches every day of the week except Sunday, and on alternate days he threw in two hundred push-ups, a three-to-five mile jog, and some stretching. He had it down to a science, which allowed him to stay in shape without spending hours at the gym.

As Warch finished his crunches, he eyed the pile of weapons sitting on the table across the room. The sight was irritating. All of that hardware and a room full of the best-trained bodyguards in the world and the president wanted them to surrender. It was ingrained in Warch's psyche to win, not to lose. Coming from the old Vince Lombardi school of "Show me a good loser, and I'll show you a loser," Warch couldn't stand the thought of them raising their hands in surrender. He had risen to the most coveted post in the Secret Service by sheer dogged determination, and he was sure now there had to be a better alternative than surrendering.

That's when it hit him, with three more crunches to go. Warch stood, hands firmly clasped behind his neck, staring at the mound of black steel on the table. Some of the most accurate and lethal firepower made and nine highly trained individuals. Warch's mind started to scramble. He saw a crack, a slight opening, a way to pull off a Hail Mary. Jumping to his feet, he almost blurted out his idea, but forced himself to sit down on his bunk and think things through thoroughly. He had to have this planned. He had to be able to head off all objections and sell it to the president.