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“Well, I’d better get moving then.”
“We ah . . .”—Kennedy looked at the three men—“have some dissension on how to proceed.”
Rapp rolled his eyes. “I’m listening.”
“The new H-hour is set for nineteen-thirty.”
Rapp looked at his watch. “That only gives me about forty-eight minutes. Like I said . . . I’d better get moving.”
General Campbell had grabbed his headset and was standing next to Kennedy. “Iron Man, we will have Six’s element in place in approximately twenty minutes. We don’t want to risk precipitating a confrontation until we have everything in place.”
“But we have absolutely no idea what we’re up against there.”
Campbell looked at Flood and said, “Right now we think it’s better that we retain the element of surprise.”
Rapp was getting pissed. Milt Adams stood from where he had been sitting and asked, “What now?”
Rapp waved him off and said into his lip mike, “I disagree. If we don’t find out where the bombs are, and what we’re up against, this is a suicide operation.” Rapp listened for a response, but got none. He knew they were conferring with each other. Not wanting them to come to a decision without his input, he asked, “Why are we talking about changing the plan?”
Kennedy fielded the question. “The surveillance unit you placed in the ventilation shaft picked up a radio conversation between Yassin and, we think, Aziz. Yassin told him that he would be done with the drills in about an hour. After that it would take him anywhere from ten to twenty minutes to get the door open.”
“Anything else?”
“Only that Aziz wants Yassin to call him when he takes the drills off the door.”
Rapp thought about the number of terrorists. The information they had gotten from Harut told them there were eleven. He had personally reduced that number by one, leaving ten to be dealt with. Rapp tried to guess how Aziz would proceed with the next part of his plan, focusing on the operational aspect of how Aziz would have to extract the president. That was when it hit him.
“Aziz is going to want to be there when Yassin gets the door open, right?”
Campbell answered. “I suppose.”
“Not only will he want to be there, he’ll have to be there. He knows the president has Secret Service agents with him, right?”
“Probably.”
“Whether he wants the president dead or alive, he’s going to have to bring some firepower with him to deal with those agents.”
“Where are you going with this?” asked Campbell.
“He’s going to have to split his force. Our intel tells us Aziz went in with eleven people, including himself. He’s down to ten. One of those ten is on the roof and two more are in the basement by the bunker.” The plan crystallized in Rapp’s
mind. “The way we attack this is we wait for Aziz to split his force. When they shut the drills down, we’ll have a minimum of a ten-minute window of opportunity to strike. During that time, the number of terrorists guarding the hostages will be no more than six . . . maybe less if Aziz brings more men over to back him up.”
Back at Langley the plan was gaining ground. Especially with General Flood, a military tactician who loved the idea of dividing his enemy’s forces. “Iron Man, I like the idea. Sit tight for a minute while we run this one by the president.” General Flood set down his headset and looked at Stansfield. “What do you think?”
48
VICE PRESIDENT BAXTER sat behind the desk in his study and stared blankly at the TV. The images were nothing more than a blur and the voices a hum of background noises. He was immersed in the thought of becoming president. It was so tantalizing, so tempting, it had drawn him into a fantasy world. Since early childhood he could remember dreaming of being president one day, and now with it so close, he had some reservations. Not reservations about assuming the office, but how it would play if word leaked that he had been given information that the terrorists were working on getting President Hayes out of the bunker.
Baxter started to think angles. He started to think PR. First, he had been in New York when the whole mess started. He wasn’t the one that had invited these terrorists into the White House for coffee. Second, he would somehow have to let it be known that the Pentagon’s best and brightest had sworn the president was untouchable in his new bunker. General Flood’s information that the terrorists might be attempting to extricate the president would have to be downplayed. They would have to say the information was vague and incomplete. On top of that they could spin the story of the two SEALs getting caught in the ventilation shaft, and Aziz’s subsequent warnings.
Dallas King would be proven right, though. Eventually, they would have to rely on the morally superior premise that they acted in the interest of saving the hostages. That in good conscience, he could not have risked the lives of all of those people just to make sure the president was safe when, in fact, the information to the contrary was incomplete at best.
Dallas King entered the room eating a banana. He said, “We need to talk about something.” King continued walking across the large study. He sat in one of the two chairs sitting in front of the vice president’s desk and took another bite.
Vice President Baxter picked up the remote control for the TV and hit the mute button. “What now?”
“Everything went off great at the UN, but I’m a little nervous about tomorrow.”
