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“Well, it makes no sense.” Jones moved forward cautiously. “Everything you said about the FBI striking before sunrise made sense. I don’t understand why they wouldn’t have come.”
“There’s a lot we don’t know about. They could have plenty of good reasons why they’re waiting to attack.”
Jones was keenly aware of the problems between President Hayes and Vice President Baxter. She and the president had discussed them on many occasions. If she could get the president to focus his anger on Baxter, her minor role in this debacle would be forgotten.
In a voice just barely above a mumble Jones planted the seed that she hoped would shift the president’s righteous ire in a different direction. “Or Baxter likes being president.”
IRENE KENNEDY STOOD in her office and watched the sun rise over the trees of the Potomac River Valley. Any attempt to count her hours of sleep over the last week would be a wasted exercise. They were too few and too far between. She had more pressing things on her mind, and besides, thinking of sleep only caused her to worry more about Rapp. Kennedy had been hoping to steal a couple hours on the couch in her office after the two SEALs had made it into the White House and reported back on the bombs, but that never happened. Things had fallen apart, and they had done so miserably.
At 2:23 A.M. Kennedy had been sitting in the control room at Langley when an irate Skip McMahon called. McMahon had been rousted from his cot in the Executive Office Building just minutes earlier by Rafique Aziz. He had stumbled down the hall and into the FBI’s command post in his boxers and T-shirt. Once on the phone, McMahon was further confused by the wild accusations Aziz had flung at him. Everything Aziz said came up empty with McMahon. McMahon tried in vain to deny the accusations, but Aziz only grew more irritated. As Aziz began to threaten to kill hostages, McMahon began to link the recent events with a phone call he had received from FBI Director Roach, the previous evening. Roach had explained to McMahon that the CIA would be moving some sensitive surveillance equipment into position by the east fence of the White House. In less than a minute, one of McMahon’s agents had a set of blueprints rolled out on the table before him and was stabbing his finger at the location of a ventilation duct on the South Lawn. As things fell into place, McMahon assured Aziz that he would get to the bottom of the thing within five minutes. McMahon’s next phone call was to his colleague and good friend, Irene Kennedy.
That was when the control room at Langley started to piece together what had happened. Upon receiving McMahon’s call, General Campbell ordered Harris to send one of his men into the shaft to find out what was going on. Not long after that, the two SEALs were pulled out of the shaft by an electric winch. Nick Shultz had fulfilled the SEAL code of honor of never leaving a man behind in battle, dead or alive.
When the shooting started, Shultz was trailing just far enough behind to be safe from the shots, but within reach of the gear that Craft was pulling behind him by rope. Struggling, he pulled his swim buddy back through the narrow confines of the duct, inch by inch, praying his friend would be alive when they reached the other end. It was all for naught. Craft was dead.
Now, standing at the window of her seventh-floor office at Langley and watching the sun climb into the morning sky, Kennedy wished she could turn back the clock and do it all over again. Do it right, do it the way she had wanted to from the start. Kennedy had promised herself when she got into this business of ordering men into harm’s way that she would do everything possible not to become a detached bureaucrat. Seventeen men had died under her watch at Langley, the majority of them in one seriously botched operation. Craft would bring the total up to eighteen, and as with those before him, Kennedy would visit his grave.
A knock on the door pulled Kennedy from her trance, and without turning, she said, “Come in.”
The door opened and closed, but whoever had just entered had chosen to stay silent until recognized. Kennedy finally turned and saw a far from jovial Skip McMahon standing across from her.
“Skip, I couldn’t say anything to you last night. There were far too many people around.”
McMahon, dressed in a suit and tie, stared her down—his hands on his hips and deep dark circles under his eyes. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.”
“I’m sorry.”
McMahon shook his head slowly from side to side. “You and I have never played these games. We’ve always been straight up with each other.”
“I know; I apologize. It’s just that things happened too fast last night. I wanted to tell you . . . I asked if I could bring you in on it, and I was told to wait.”
“By who, Thomas?”
“It goes higher than that.”
McMahon frowned skeptically. “How much higher?”
Kennedy turned away, not entirely comfortable with telling McMahon.
McMahon reached out and grabbed Kennedy’s chin, forcing her to look him in the eye. “No more games. I want the truth.”
Kennedy reached up and pulled his hand down. “You have to keep it to yourself.”
“The hell I do,” snapped McMahon.
“Don’t talk to me like that,” chided Kennedy while taking a step back. “We’re friends.”
“Well, friends don’t let friends get ambushed by hanging them out to dry.”
“Skip, this came down from above. I wanted to tell you, but I couldn’t . . . and I didn’t have enough time to convince them otherwise.”
“Who authorized those men to go in, and who decided to shut the FBI out of it?”
Kennedy sighed and said, “Vice President Baxter.”
“That motherfucker!” McMahon wheeled away from Kennedy, his fists balled up in anger. “That arrogant motherfucker. Where in the hell does he get off . . .” McMahon stopped short of finishing the sentence and strained to regain some compo
sure. Through clenched teeth, he said, “This is an FBI operation. Not the CIA and not the Pentagon. If I am not briefed fully and truthfully by you people, I will march right over to the . . .”
