Transfer of Power

chapter 42
Rielly stretched out on the concrete floor, her legs before her forming a V. First the left leg, hold it for a twenty count, and then the right. The stretching felt good.

While she worked out the soreness in her legs and lower back, she thought about her career. Rielly was, after all, an insider. She had pulled back the curtain and had watched and participated in the Mighty and Powerful Oz's show. The public was not allowed to peer behind the curtain, to see how stories were shaped, how careers were made or broken around those one-week periods known as Sweeps Week. The public never saw how producers and executives juice up stories. Exaggerating some details and downplaying or ignoring others. How they went after something or someone, not based on how strong or important the story was, but what their ratings books told them.

Anna knew her story would be hot. It would be more than hot. It would be incredible. She would have to be cautious. NBC would try to suck the story from her on every possible outlet: the Today show, Dateline, CNBC, and MSNBC. They owned her; there were no illusions about that. She was on the clock, and her contract left no loopholes for appearing on other network news shows. To keep her happy, they would repay her with exposure, probably allow her to do some stories for Dateline. That was the way the game was played.

There would be a book deal for sure, but she would have to be careful about that. She wanted to write it herself, and take her time   no big-bucks, hire-a-ghostwriter, and have-it-on-the-shelves-in-two months deal. The key would be to find the right agent. One who was willing to push for money and more time. The result would be a more authoritative story. She honestly felt that this was a story that needed to be told, but in the right way   dignified, worthy of the seriousness of the situation and of the people who had died.

She would work with Mitch Kruse. Rielly smiled pleasantly at the thought of the man who had saved her. He was all man and then some. Nothing pretty about him. Handsome and rugged. A real man. As to his real identity, the no-brainer answer was that he worked for the CIA, but no one could never tell. He could be FBI. They weren't exactly forthright with information either   at least when dealing with journalists. Rielly could hardly blame them, though. She'd seen her father and his fellow law-enforcement brethren get burned countless times my dishonest journalists. Rielly had vivid memories of her father's scathing criticism of reporters, especially newspaper reporters. Barely a week passed when he wouldn't throw the paper down in disgust and explain to her mother how the reporter had his or her facts all screwed up. Seeing how lax reporting affected her father served as motivation for Rielly to get things right. That's what she would do with the book.

Rielly smiled as the ideas fell into place. The very thing that would make the story all the more appealing, and at the same time, honor Kruse's request, would be to keep him as he was   a very lethal, dark, rugged, and anonymous individual. She would be protecting her source, just like a good reporter, and it would only add to the intrigue of the book.

Rielly heard something on the other side of the door. Her heart leapt into her throat, but before she could scurry for cover, the door opened. Rapp and Adams quickly entered the room. Rielly placed her right hand on her chest and felt her pounding heart.

From her spot on the floor, she said, "You guys scared the hell out of me."

Rapp's face was tense. Sticking his hand out to help her up, he said, "Next time we'll be sure to knock."

Rielly ignored the comment and took his hand. Standing, she asked, "What's next?"

Rapp didn't speak at first. Instead he looked over at the room's second door. He was thinking something through. After a short while he looked Rielly in the eye. "We're gonna try something that might be a little risky, but there's no other alternative."

Rielly looked at the door, not knowing what was behind it, Kruse's intensity sent a shiver up her spine. With a focused confidence, she asked, "What's behind that door?"

* * *

Dallas King strutted back and forth in front of Baxter's desk. The two had been debating what to do with the new information, that there was a good chance Aziz was in the process of extricating President Hayes from his bunker.

In his typical defeatist tone, Baxter had whined that it was over. Everything they had done was for naught. Helicopters would be sent in, the men in black would rappel from ropes, and the bloodbath would ensue. He would forever be remembered as the man who presided over the destruction of the White House and the deaths of dozens of Americans. His presidential ambitions were gone. Snuffed out. This would be a disgrace the fragile American ego would want to forget. And Sherman Baxter the Third in the Oval Office would be a constant reminder of this entire ugly week and this gruesome assault on the American way.

King stopped his pacing and started snapping his fingers in front of Baxter. "You're not listening to me. Pay attention."

"Shut up, Dallas. I'm listening to you. I just don't believe you." The vice president leaned back in his chair and tossed a black pen onto his desk. It hit a leather-bound desk calendar and skidded to a stop in between a photo of Baxter's family vineyard and a photo of his parents.

King looked down at his boss, not really hurt by the harsh words, but acting as if he were. King was practicing patience. His boss needed to be both coddled and whipped, depending on the situation. Looking down, the chief of staff pulled back the white cuff of his blue dress shirt and looked at his watch.

"Maybe I'd better leave you alone for a while. You seem like you could use some rest." King pulled his cuff back over the watch with an aristocratic flair.

Baxter pointed to King. "Don't speak to me with that condescending tone of yours, Dallas."

"Well"   King looked down at his fingernails   "my opinion doesn't seem to matter much to you, so I thought it would be best if I left you alone."

Baxter rocked forward. "Don't give me this crap, Dallas."

King turned to face his boss. Now was the time to dig in and then hit him over the head with both the carrot and the stick. "Then why do I have to fight you at every turn?" King put his hands on his hips and looked to his boss for an answer. "Sherman, no one ever said this would be easy, but for Christ's sake, I'm getting sick of your loser attitude." To himself he added, If you had my problems, you'd want to crawl under a rock and die.

Baxter pulled himself, leaning back in his chair. After eyeing his agitated chief of staff for a second, he said, "I don't see what in the hell I should be so positive about."

"How about the fact   " King stopped and looked over both of his shoulders, making sure no one was around. Then leaning over the desk he whispered, "   that maybe a certain person might not make it out of the White House alive." Nodding his head confidently, he added, "One heartbeat away. Don't ever forget it."

Baxter looked down at his desk for a moment, too embarrassed to let King see the thirst in his eyes. The politician in him told him to say the right thing. "I don't want to become president that way."

"I know you don't, but, Sherman, it would be your duty."

Baxter chewed on the thought.

"We don't know where this thing is going to end up," King continued. "That's why we have to stay loose. That's why I need your head in the game." King studied Baxter to see if he was getting through. "Keep the pressure on the UN, and I'll worry about the rest of it. I have some ideas on how we can handle things if Flood and Stansfield keep leaning on you, but I have to think them through."

King looked out the window while he thought about his plans. It was getting late in the day. Maybe for more hours of sunlight, and then it would be dark again. If they could just make it until the morning and get another third of the hostages released, that would go a long way toward a victory. Then they could turn Flood and Stansfield loose, and hopefully his other problem would then be taken care of.