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King was shaking his head vigorously at his boss. No one was going to commit to anything until he and the vice president had a chance to discuss it. Vice President Baxter looked up at King and nodded. Then into the phone, he said, “General, this information seems a little thin to me. As I’ve already said, you have full authority to move your people into position, and to collect intelligence, just so long as you don’t endanger the lives of the hostages. But I want to make myself clear on this once again. I am the only person who will authorize the takedown of the White House.” Baxter straightened up in his chair. “Am I clear on this?”
“Yes, you are, sir,” answered a frustrated Flood. “That has never been in doubt . . . That’s not what’s at issue here. What is at issue is the safety of the president of the United States.” In firm voice Flood added, “I am asking you for the authorization to take back the White House. I am asking you to prevent President Hayes from falling into the hands of Rafique Aziz.”
In a soft voice, Baxter answered, “General, this is not an easy decision. I need some time to think about it.”
“But, sir,” snapped Flood. “We might not have the time.”
Baxter shot back, “I am running the show here, General Flood, and I will decide how much time we may or may not have. Now, I would suggest that while I’m consulting with my aides, you try and find out if this threat to President Hayes is real or imagined. I mean, for Christ’s sake, two days ago your own people stood up and told me he could last a month in that bunker.” Baxter shook his head.
Barely able to restrain himself, Flood looked to Stansfield for some support. The director of the CIA simply shook his head. Into the phone the general asked, “What do you want me to do, sir?”
“I want you to keep me informed, and make sure you do nothing to precipitate any more violence from Aziz.”
“Yes, sir.”
With that, the conversation was over. General Flood had hung up without waiting to see if Baxter had anything to add. Dallas King put the handset back in its cradle and walked toward his sullen-faced boss.
“You handled that perfectly.” When King reached the desk, he added, “Off the top of my head, we have several things working in our favor. First, this information they have sounds a little thin to me. I mean we can’t trust the Israelis for shit right now. They’d just as soon see us nuke the place. And secondly”—King tapped his chin with his finger—“there’s an angle here. Is the president’s life more valuable than fifty of his fellow countrymen? There’s an awfully strong argument to be made against the imperial presidency. No one American life is greater than any other single American life.”
Baxter frowned and said, “Come on, Dallas. Who’s going to buy that load of crap?”
“Your average Joe, that’s who.” King pointed his finger at his boss. “Even if what Flood says is true, which I doubt, since those guys can’t seem to find their ass with both hands, that doesn’t mean we need to storm the place. With the exception of Marge’s big fuck-up, this Aziz guy has been pretty reasonable. So far he hasn’t asked for anything that we can’t go back and fix later, and the polls tell us that, with the exception of a bunch of right-wing extremists, the American people want to see this thing resolved peacefully. Our job here is to continue to walk this fine line, Sherman. If they can’t give you solid proof that the president is in imminent danger, I wouldn’t budge an inch. We’ll get these UN resolutions passed by the end of the day, and in the morning Aziz will release the next group of hostages. That’s two-thirds you will have saved.”
King stopped and looked out the window. A thought had just occurred to him. Maybe he was cheering for the wrong results. If the terrorists were killed, most of his problem would be solved.
“Dallas, what are you thinking?” Baxter asked.
AKing shook his head and turned his attention back to his boss. “Nothing. I was just trying to figure something out.”
JACK WARCH WAS on his fourth set of crunches, the modern-day version of the much hated sit-up. He had considered skipping his daily regimen, but decided he had nothing better to do. Warch did four hundred crunches every day of the week except Sunday, and on alternate days he threw in two hundred push-ups, a three-to-five-mile jog, and some stretching. He had it down to a science, which allowed him to stay in shape without spending hours at the gym.
As Warch finished his crunches, he eyed the pile of weapons sitting on the table across the room. The sight was irritating. All of that hardware and a room full of the best-trained bodyguards in the world and the president wanted them to surrender. It was ingrained in Warch’s psyche to win, not to lose. Coming from the old Vince Lombardi school of “Show me a good loser, and I’ll show you a loser,” Warch couldn’t stand the thought of them raising their hands in surrender. He had risen to the most coveted post in the Secret Service by sheer dogged determination, and he was sure now there had to be a better alternative than surrendering. That’s when it hit him, with three more crunches to go. Warch stopped, hands firmly clasped behind his neck, staring at the mound of black steel on the table. Some of the most accurate and lethal firepower made and nine highly trained individuals. Warch’s mind started to scramble. He saw a crack, a slight opening, a way to pull off a Hail Mary.
Jumping to his feet, he almost blurted out his idea, but forced himself to sit down on his bunk and think things through thoroughly. He had to have this planned. He had to be able to head off all objections and sell it to the president.
38
STANSFIELD ALLOWED GENERAL Flood to blow off some steam. As Flood paced back and forth in front of his desk, Stansfield nodded from time to time in an effort to let Flood know he agreed with him. The elderly director of central intelligence had expected Baxter’s unwillingness to give them the green light, and in his usual analytical way, Stansfield was already looking three moves ahead. He could have forewarned the general how Baxter would respond but felt an angry General Flood would be better than a calm one. Things were coming to a head, and some decisions needed to be made.
Now would come the hard part. Stansfield knew Vice President Baxter-would never pull the trigger. In his opinion, they should never have started down this road to begin with, but now they had to do something before it got worse. Baxter was maneuvering, trying to buy as much time as possible. The fact that he was doing it during a crisis with such farreaching implications was almost unimaginable to Stansfield, and that was making his difficult decision much easier.
Thomas Stansfield was contemplating doing something that he had done only one other time in the fifty-plus years he had served his country. It was something that could end his career in public disgrace, but he was willing to take that chance. He still had his ace in the hole, and now was the time to use it.
General Flood looked like a football coach chewing out his team at halftime. Stansfield watched him walk back and forth, shaking his fist and letting a stream of expletives flow from his mouth. Stansfield stayed quiet, letting him take as much time as needed. Gradually the expletives became fewer and the pacing slowed.
The general approached, looking miffed. “You sure as hell are taking this well. It’s not as if things weren’t bad enough, and now we find out the president isn’t safe. I mean, for Christ’s sake, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that Aziz brought along this guy for this exact purpose. Now we know why he spaced the demands out the way he did. He needed time.”
Stansfield nodded and moved in to test the water. “Yes, but what can we do about it? If Baxter doesn’t give us the approval, we are left without recourse.”
“There’s nothing we can do about it. That idiot’s calling the shots, and unless we can find a way to convince him to attack, this will only get worse.”
Stansfield thought Flood to be a good soldier. The thought of orderingan attack without the approval of Baxter would not even enter his mind. With Stansfield, it was different. Spies were used to operating under a different set of rules; they were used to looking for creative ways to solve problems. Stansfield was not entirely free to do as he wished, but he had significantly more latitude than the general did. Although Stansfield’s idea was clearly in violation of the orders Baxter had given him, he had already made up his mind, and he would go it alone. The others had too much to lose. Nearing eighty, Stansfield knew the end was not far off. If ever there was a time to stick his neck out, this was it.
Looking up at the general with an almost mystical expression, Stansfield said, “There is one other option.”
Flood eyed him with skepticism. He had looked feverishly for a way out and had found no
ne. “I don’t see any way out of this other than hoping Baxter comes to his senses.”
