AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Less than a minute later, Reavers came to an abrupt stop near General Flood’s limousine and its two security sedans. Several Pentagon pukes were standing around in their cleanly pressed green uniforms, keeping an eye on the cars. Inside, no doubt, were more of them waiting to wipe General Flood’s nose in case he got a sniffle.
Harris and Reavers jumped out of the Suburban, Harris with a file folder, Reavers with a submachine gun. The file folder Harris carried contained a “briefback.” The briefback was a Special Forces document that outlined a specific mission that was being proposed down to the last detail.
Harris and Reavers moved toward the rear of the hangar, where Harris spotted two of General Flood’s staff pukes milling about. Approaching the door, one of the general’s aides, a major, put up a hand and attempted to ask Harris his business. Harris, not wearing any rank or insignia, continued right past the officer and opened the door. Reavers followed his boss and closed the door behind him.
Inside, standing in front of a chalkboard, were Generals Flood and Campbell. They were both listening to Colonel Gray, Delta Force’s commander. Several other Pentagon, JSOC, and Delta intelligence and administrative types were seated at a long table working among themselves. Harris and Reavers approached the front of the room and snapped off salutes to General Flood. After Flood returned the salute, Harris apologized for the interruption.
“That’s all right. We wanted to talk to you anyway.” Then, gesturing to the blackboard, Flood said, “We were just going over several takedown scenarios. I’d like to hear what you think.”
Harris eyed the old blackboard for a second and said, “Billy and his people know their stuff. They don’t need me looking over their shoulder.” Harris looked to Colonel Gray and winked. Gray gave his counterpart at SEAL Team Six an approving nod.
“I do have an idea about something else, however. A solution to an obstacle that we need to overcome before we even consider launching something like this.” Harris gestured to a large diagram of the White House compound taped to the right side of the long blackboard. “We know from Iron Man’s recon of the mansion that there are explosive devices to be dealt with. He found a bomb in the president’s bedroom. Why put a bomb there if you’re Aziz?” Harris looked quizzically at the two generals and Colonel Gray. “All of the hostages are over here”—Harris pointed to the diagram—“in the West Wing. The only reason I can think of is to bring the whole building down and add to the chaos surrounding any attempt by us to retake the building.”
Flood thought about and slowly nodded. “I would agree.”
“Knowing this, we can infer that, like with rats, when we see one, we can assume there are many more.” Pausing for emphasis, Harris let them think about the harsh reality of sending dozens of operators into the building only to see them engulfed in a ball of flames and flying debris. “Before we launch any type of a mission, we need to get someone in there, and they need to find a way to neutralize those bombs.”
Colonel Gray nodded emphatically. “This hasn’t been lost on us. Right now we’re banking on the fact that we can get in and shoot fast enough to stop one of them from hitting the plunger.” Gray didn’t look too enthused about his odds.
“And if Aziz has the hostages booby-trapped?” Gray shook his head, knowing that this was probably the case. “We’re screwed.”
“Exactly. That’s why I think we have to get a small team of operators into the building just prior to the main assault. To assess the situation and find a way to defuse or temporarily disable the bombs, otherwise we can kiss our asses good-bye.”
The other men thought about the ugly scene, and after a moment General Campbell spoke. “Let me guess, Dan. You know just the person to handle this delicate aspect of the operation.”
Grinning, Harris replied, “As a matter of fact I do, sir.”
“Let’s hear it.”
With his voice a touch lower Harris said, “Did any of you ever get wind of a training op we did with the Secret Service eight years ago?”
General Flood, at the time, had been in Korea, and General Campbell had been on a special detachment working with the SAS in Britain. Colonel Gray, however, had been with Delta. Gray searched his memory. They were constantly doing training ops, but off the top of his head, he couldn’t remember doing anything with the Secret Service.
“You’re gonna have to refresh my memory,” said the CO of Delta Force.
Harris leaned in a little closer. “It was very hush-hush. They wanted the boys at Six to help them test certain security precautions . . . and for obvious reasons, they didn’t want it publicized. Especially after the results.”
Before Harris could continue, one of the general’s aides approached the group and apologized for the intrusion. Extending a secure digital phone, the captain said, “Director Stansfield is on the line, General.”
Flood took the phone in his hand and said, “Thomas?” The general’s eyes tightened, and he said nothing. After about twenty seconds, he said simply, “Shit.” After another ten seconds, he replied, “I agree. I’ll catch a chopper back. Get everything set up.” Flood ended the call and handed the phone back to his aide. Then, looking at the men around him, he said, “We just got some really bad news. Iron Man confirmed that they are drilling into the president’s bunker.” Shaking his head, he looked to Colonel Gray and said, “Bombs or not, you’re going in.” Then looking to Harris, he said, “I have to get back to Langley, immediately. Whatever this idea of yours is, I hope it’s good and I hope you can put it together in a snap.”
Harris nodded confidently. “My men have been on it since this morning.”
RAFIQUE AZIZ LEANED back in the president’s chair. The long shiny surface of the Situation Room’s conference table was laid out before him. Aziz’s eyes were closed and his arms folded across his chest. It was the middle of the afternoon, and he was try
ing to get some sleep in anticipation of a long night. In front of him on the table was his MP-5. The overhead lights were extinguished, the glow of the bank of muted TVs at the far end throwing a dim light.
There was a knock on the door. Aziz’s alert eyes snapped open, and he said, “Enter.”
The door opened slowly, and Muammar Bengazi stepped into the room. “You asked me to wake you at three.”
“Thank you.” A yawn crept up from his throat. “How are the men?”
“They are well.”
“Are you making sure they get some sleep? This will be their last chance for a long time.”
Bengazi approached the conference table and placed his hands on the back of one of the leather chairs. “As you ordered, they are sleeping in two-man rotations for two hours at a time.”
