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“I might be old, but I’m fit as a fiddle.” Adams turned to Rapp. “Should I show ’em?”
Slightly embarrassed, Rapp nodded and said, “Sure.” Milt had already given Rapp proof of his fitness.
Adams hit the deck and ripped off twenty push-ups in quick order; then he sprang back to his feet, barely out of breath. “I do a hundred push-ups and two hundred sit-ups every morning, and I walk five miles a day.” Adams licked his lips. “Except Sundays . . . Sundays are my day off.”
General Flood eyeballed the little spark plug before him, unsure of what to make of the unorthodox display and slightly envious, since he had let his own fitness slide so far.
“I don’t think his fitness will be an issue,” Rapp added hastily. “If there’s any heavy work to be done, I can handle it. The key is his knowledge of the interior. It’ll be invaluable to me.”
Stansfield was skeptical. “Why not grab someone from the Secret Service?”
“They don’t know where everything is.” Adams shook his head. “They know where some of the stuff is, but not all of it. I know every inch of that building.”
Flood studied Adams for a moment and said, “You know things could get hairy in there.”
Milt Adams looked up at the general with a no-nonsense grin on his face. “You know, General, I spent almost two months on Iwo. We lost over six thousand marines, and the Japs lost over twenty thousand soldiers. I saw buddies get their heads literally blown clear off; I saw men burned to death; I saw people die in the worst ways you could imagine.” Adams shook his head, “No offense, gentlemen, but it’s all child’s play compared to the hell I went through on that island.”
Flood had been in battle himself, but nothing that even came close to the hell that had occurred in the battle for Iwo Jima. “I would imagine you’re right.” The general was beginning to admire the old man’s spunk. After another moment of consideration, Flood said, “Mitch, if you think it’s a good idea, I’m behind you.” Then turning to the director of the CIA, he asked, “Thomas?”
Stansfield, with his typical calm demeanor answered, “If Mitch thinks it wise . . . I’m behind him as well.”
Just then there was a knock on the door, and everyone turned. General Flood bellowed across the room, “Enter.”
Lt. Commander Harris and Admiral DeVoe stepped into the room and saluted. The admiral said, “You wanted to see us, General.”
Flood returned the salute and said, “Yes. Come over here, gentlemen. I don’t want you to think your talents are being squandered while Delta Force and the FBI get all of the action. I have plans for you, but I didn’t want to discuss them in front of the group.”
The two naval officers approached the group. Admiral DeVoe was the commander of the Naval Special Warfare Group and in charge of all SEAL teams. Harris, looking quite a bit more like an officer than the last time he and Rapp had met, walked at his boss’s side. His ponytail and beard had been removed at the direction of Admiral DeVoe. The unruly hygiene of a terrorist was fine when Harris was holed up down at HQ in Little Creek or out in the field, but a meeting with the Joint Chiefs was cause for a more by-the-book appearance.
“I think you know these two gentlemen.” Flood pointed to Rapp and Stansfield.
Harris nodded professionally. “Director Stansfield, Mr. Kruse.” The admiral did the same.
Rapp stuck out his hand. “It’s good to see you again, Harry.”
Harris locked on to Rapp’s hand and shook it firmly. “Good to see you, Mitch.”
Flood grabbed the two naval officers by the shoulders and showed them the blueprints strewn out across the conference table. “Gentlemen, I’ve asked you to join us because I’d like your opinion on something.”
19
Washington, D.C.
AS THE SUN set on the capital, two hulking C-130s descended from the darkening sky on their final approach to Andrews Air Force Base. The base, located a short hop to the southeast of the White House, had been chosen by the Joint Special Operations Command as the forward staging area for what was now known as Operation Rat Catcher. Security at the base had been doubled for the arrival of its newest contingent, and all nonessential personnel had been removed from the staging area. The Army took its secrecy surrounding Delta Force very seriously.
The large matte green cargo planes moved in perfect synchronicity, both banking for the runway at the same time and dropping their landing gear, their powerful turboprop engines rumbling in the stagnant humid air of the Potomac River Valley. The first plane touched down smoothly, followed just a dozen seconds later by the second. The control tower directed the two planes to a group of large hangars, where they were met by Air Force ground crews, who had been told in advance not to turn on the bright floodlights. The people who had traveled from Pope Air Force Base in North Carolina were used to working in the dark and rather preferred it.
As the planes taxied to a stop, they spun ninety degrees o
n a dime and left their tails facing the open doors of a sprawling hangar. Bright yellow chocks were thrown under the wheels by the ground crew, and the loud engines were cut. A hydraulic whir announced the lowering of the rear cargo ramps, revealing a mass of black-clad men standing in two rows, almost seventy in each plane. They represented the bulk of the A and B assault squadrons of Delta Force, the U.S. Army’s supersecret counterterrorist assault and commando force.
The men filed down the ramps. They came in all shapes and sizes, but all were at the apex of physical condition and walked with the grace and confidence of world-class athletes. Each man carried a large black backpack loaded with equipment. Most of them had H&K MP-10 submachine guns with integral suppressors strapped to the top of the packs, but there were others who carried assault shotguns, sniping rifles, and even several who had 7.62-mm heavy-caliber machine guns.
Colonel Bill Gray, Delta Force’s commander, stood by the door of the darkened hangar and looked proudly at his men as they filed past. Gray was also dressed in the standard black ninja jumpsuit, although it was highly unlikely that he would be going into the fray, unlike his cowboy counterpart at SEAL Team Six. Gray got along well with Lt. Commander Harris, but thought it irresponsible for him to lead individual strikes, a point that he had just recently brought up with the general staff of the Joint Special Operations Command.
Colonel Gray had stayed in Washington after his afternoon meeting at the Pentagon rather than flying down to Bragg and coming right back. The colonel, who stood just above six feet, had a full head of close-cropped black hair and bushy eyebrows to match. The native Texan had the unanimous respect of his men due to the fact that he never asked them to do anything he hadn’t already done or wasn’t willing to do.
At the end of both columns, Gray spotted the two men he was looking for and moved out to meet them. As he approached, the two men saluted. Gray returned the salute and asked, “How was the flight up?”
