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Yesterday morning, when the White House was hit, the pagers started going off, and within hours all three teams were converging on the White House, vying for intelligence and position. There was a competitive edge between the three that was fostered more than anything by shooting competitions and mock takedowns. They all shared information on training and lessons learned in the field and were respectful of each other, but in the end they each thought their team was the best.
This was where the problems started. Like three quarterbacks fighting for the starting spot, they clashed, invariably, because of egos. And make no mistake about it, the men who ran these teams had huge egos. This was the issue General Flood was going to try to handle.
The general looked down at the assemblage and started calmly, “We have been given full authority by the vice president to prepare plans for the rescue of the hostages and the retaking of the White House. It goes without saying that none of what we are about to discuss is for public consumption.” Pausing, the general held up a finger. “First issue. There is a certain myth that has been promulgated over the last several decades that we are forbidden by law to use the American military in domestic policing operations. In my mind, and the minds of many others, including Director Roach, this very narrow interpretation of the law does not apply to our current crisis. This is not Waco or Ruby Ridge; this is a paramilitary assault on a federal building by foreign soldiers, and we are going to use every resource at our disposal to resolve this conflict.” The general paused to make his point clear. “We have three top-notch counterterrorist strike teams at our disposal, and we plan on using all of you in one way or another.” Flood looked at the leaders of each unit to make sure he was understood. “I am a firm believer in interservice rivalries. It’s a great training tool that helps instill unit cohesion and a sense of fighting pride. But,” cautioned the general, “there is no place for that rivalry in war, and this is war. Over twenty people have died already, and we are sure to lose more. Now, I have been receiving reports about little turf wars flaring up around the White House between your people.” Flood looked individually at the leaders of Delta, HRT, and SEAL Team Six. “As of this moment, this bickering is over,” growled Flood. The general let his words sink in. “We know what your strengths are. Delta is best at taking down airliners and has a slight edge on airborne assaults, HRT is best at negotiating and has the most practical experience in standoffs, and SEAL Team Six has a clear edge in jumping, diving and explosives.”
Flood pointed to the director of the FBI. “I have already consulted with Directors Roach, Tracy, and Stansfield and General Campbell, and we are in agreement on the following deployment of assets. First”—the general stressed the word and held up his forefinger—“the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team will deploy across the street from the West Wing in the Executive Office Building and make plans for a ground assault. If we need to go in on short notice, HRT will probably be our first option.” Flood shifted his attention to Colonel Bill Gray, the man in charge of Delta Force. Gray was a former ranger and had been with Delta since its inception in 1977. “Billy, you and your people still know your way around Andrews, National, Dulles, and Baltimore?”
“Yes, General.” One of Delta Force’s specialties was handling hijackings, and they had developed the good habit of gathering advance site intelligence at potential airports. With the cooperation of airport officials, Delta would send operators to various installations to learn the ropes as mechanics, flight attendants, baggage handlers, and a variety of other skills that might come in handy in the event of a hijacking. Delta also liked to conduct security checks on the airports to see how their systems, procedures, and people would stand up. Delta’s operators would ferret around the facilities, sometimes announced and sometimes unannounced, and check out underground runway tunnels, rooftop sniping positions, and other areas of interest. The simple logic being, the more advance work they did the easier it would be to handle a real crisis.
Flood continued. “Good. We’ve decided to use Delta Force to handle anything that goes down at the airports, and also, as an airborne strike force if needed.” Flood looked at Colonel Gray. “General Campbell will brief you on the deployment of your assets later.” The general pulled back and looked around the room. “This is no Waco, ladies and gentlemen. Once we go in, we go in and we keep going in until we take the building. If we send HRT through the door, we need Delta Force up in the air and ready to come in hot.” Flood looked to SEAL Team Six’s commanding officer, Dan Harris, the same man who had helped Rapp kidnap Fara Harut. “SEAL Team Six is going to play two roles. First and foremost they are to advise both Delta and HRT on explosives, and secondly they will be used as the primary chase team. If Aziz leaves the country, Six will pursue.” Flood had other plans for SEAL Team Six, but he was not about to discuss them in front of the group.
“Director Roach and I have decided that General Campbell, of the Joint Special Operations Command”—Flood pointed across the table at the bristly haired ranger—“will coordinate the activities of all three units. Dr. Irene Kennedy”—Flood gestured to his left—“from the CIA, will commence an intelligence briefing in this room as soon as I’m finished. Each unit will also be augmented with Secret Service agents who will act as liaison officers in regards to questions about the floor plans of the White House and the West Wing, where we currently believe the majority of the hostages are being held.”
Flood paused for a moment and looked at his watch. “I want fully briefed strike teams in place and ready to move by twenty-one hundred this evening. That gives us eight ho
urs.” Looking at the other members of the Joint Chiefs sitting around him, Flood said, “These men and their units are our number one priority. If they ask for something, they get it.” Then addressing the entire group, the general said, “Dr. Kennedy will now brief you on the intelligence situation. Director Roach”—Flood nodded to the head of the FBI—“the show is yours. Director Stansfield and I have some business to attend to.” With that, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs started for the door as Stansfield slowly rose out of his chair. When the two men reached the door, Flood grabbed one of his aides and said, “Wait five minutes and then bring Admiral DeVoe and Lieutenant Commander Harris to my office.”
THE BLUEPRINTS were spread out on the large table in General Flood’s office. Mitch Rapp was nodding his head in understanding as Milt Adams showed him the whereabouts of a secret passageway not noted on the drawing. Adams had changed into more appropriate attire and was wearing a blue suit, with a white shirt and solid maroon tie. The tie was held in place by a shiny brass USMC tie bar.
Rapp looked down at a marking on the blueprint and asked, “That door is fake?”
“Well, it’s not fake exactly. It works, but it’s always locked.”
“How are we going to get through it? . . . Do we have to pick it?”
“No.” Adams grinned dubiously, and then reaching into his pocket, he extracted a large key ring. “This right here”—Adams found the right key—“this is an S-key.” He held up the key proudly for Rapp to see.
“What in the hell is an S-key?” Rapp asked.
“An S-key,” Adams said in a dramatic tone, “gets you into all of the sensitive areas. All of the agents on the presidential detail have one and only a select few others. This little key opens stuff like the weapons lockers and”—Adams tapped the blueprint—“doors that lead to places that don’t exist.”
Rapp took the key from Adams and studied it. He had taken a liking to the old man. He knew his stuff, and if Rapp’s gut was right, he could trust him in a pinch. “If this thing is so important, how did you just walk off the job with one?”
Adams snatched the key back, acting more offended than he really was. “How many times do I have to tell you? I ran the place. Those goofy White House ushers like to think they run things . . . the way they always strut around; well, let me tell you, it was my place. When something needed to get done, I was the one they called.”
“Take it easy, Milt. I believe you. I’m just ribbing you a little bit.”
“You’re a funny guy, Mr. Secret Agent Man.” Adams reached out with surprising quickness and poked Rapp in the stomach.
At that exact moment, the door to General Flood’s office opened and in walked Director Stansfield and the chairman of the Joint Chiefs himself. Flood wasn’t more than a step into the room before he was tugging at the buttons of his uniform blouse; he always seemed to be in a hurry to get out of the constricting tunic. By the time he reached the conference table, the jacket was off. “This must be Milt Adams,” he said. The capacious general walked over to the considerably smaller Adams and extended his hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Milt.” Flood then gestured to Stansfield. “Have you met Thomas Stansfield?”
Adams shook his head and extended his hand. “Nope.”
Stansfield smiled ever so slightly. “It’s nice to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you.” Stansfield pumped his hand. “General Flood tells me you fought with the Marines on Iwo Jima.”
“Yep. The Sixth Ammunition Company.”
There was an awkward moment of silence, and then the general said, “Mitch here tells us you think you may have found a way into the White House.” Flood glanced down at his conference table.
“Yep.” Adams waved them over to his blueprints and proceeded to show Stansfield and Flood the way in.
Adams was about sixty seconds into his song and dance, and everything seemed to be going pretty well with one exception. He kept using the plural we instead of the singular I . Stansfield picked up on this and began glancing at Rapp for clarification. Milt Adams had offered his guide services to Rapp, and Rapp had instantly seen the value in bringing Adams along. What he hadn’t yet figured out was how to pitch the idea to his boss.
General Flood made the question moot when he interrupted Adams by asking, “What’s this ‘we’ stuff?”
Looking up from the blueprints, Adams waggled his thumb back and forth between himself and Rapp. “Mitch and me . . . that’s who the ‘we’ is.”
“Hmm,” snorted Flood with a frown thrown in for good measure. “Aren’t you a little old for this kind of stuff, Milt?”
