“Correct.”
“How much time will it take to get them from the forward staging area to the White House… assuming the skids are warmed up and the shooters are locked and loaded?”
“Colonel Gray tells me he can put twelve operators on the roof in under two minutes, and have twelve more on-site within the next thirty seconds.”
“Excuse me for asking”-back in the bunker President Hayes was frowning-“but if we can put that many people on the roof by helicopter, then why in the hell are we screwing around with parachuting these SEALS onto the roof?”
General Flood fielded the question.
“Element of surprise, sir. If we start moving the troops in by helicopter, the media and the thousands of people downtown will see them. We hope to land the SEALS and get them into the mansion without anyone noticing. It’s risky, but it’s the only chance we have of defusing some of the bombs so we can get the HRT in to save the hostages in the West Wing.”
Rapp grabbed the chance to drive his plan home.
“And my point, Mr. President, is if we wait for Aziz and an unknown number of terrorists to head over to get you out of the bunker, we will significantly increase the chances of successfully rescuing the hostages.”
General Flood liked the idea and added, “It’s a sound plan, Mr.President. We divide their forces at a time when you are still safe in your bunker, and our main concern is saving the hostages over in the West Wing. Instead of having to deal with eight Tangos, we’ll only have to worry about five or six.”
“So you’re telling me it will increase our chances of saving hostages.”
“Yes.”
Hayes didn’t pause for a second.
“Then lets do it.”
There was a knock on the conference room door, and then one of General Flood’s aides entered. “Excuse me, General The vice president is on the line and he wishes to speak to you and Director Stansfield immediately.
If you’d like, I can have the call patched through to you here.”
President Hayes’s voice floated down from the overhead speaker system. “I think it’s time we let Vice President Baxter know that he’s no longer running the show.”
Flood turned to his aide.
“Patch the call through.”
Ten seconds later one of the lines on the main telecommunications console started to ring. Irene Kennedy punched the proper buttons and brought the newest party into the teleconference.
She nodded to her boss and Flood to let them know the line was up.
Flood called out in his deep voice, “Vice President Baxter?” A woman’s voice answered and told them to hold the line while she got the vice president. For more than a minute the group sat in silence, waiting for the man who had initiated the call to join them. No one spoke. They all waited with anticipation to witness the ensuing confrontation between the two biggest players in American politics.
When Baxter finally came on the line, he said, “General Flood, are you there?”
“Yes, I’m here with Director Stansfield.”
“Good,” replied Baxter in a voice that implied anything but.
“I just received some troubling information.” Baxter paused, waiting for them to ask him what it was. No one bit on his lead, so Baxter expanded.
“My national security adviser just informed me that Israel has been making certain threats.”
Baxter stopped again, waiting for Stansfield or Flood to respond The two men looked at each other and said nothing. If it weren’t for the tense situation, they probably would have been smiling, taking the time to enjoy the impending moment.
Baxter started again, frustration showing in his voice.
“Have either of you heard any of these rumors?”
“Yes,” replied General Flood.
“We have.”
“Well, why haven’t you bothered to tell me?”
Flood looked up at the speakers, wondering when the president would decide to join the conversation.
“We’ve been busy, sir.”
“Busy.” Baxter mocked General Flood.
“Too busy to pick up the phone and inform the commander in chief of a crucial development.”
“Commander in chief.” President Hayes’s voice floated down, neither angry nor calm, just supremely confident.
“I don’t think so, Sherman.”
Only Stansfield kept a straight face. Flood, Campbell, and Kennedy all grinned with satisfaction. There was a long moment of silence before Baxter responded. When he did, it came forth with a combination of insincere relief and fear.
“Robert, is that you?”
“Yes, it is, Sherman.”
“How did… What happened… How did we get ahold of you?”
“Never mind, Sherman. I hear you’ve done a super job setting our foreign policy and national security back a half a century.”
“I don’t know what you’ve been hearing”-Baxter sounded panicked-“but this has been no easy task, trying to save American lives and balance our foreign-policy concerns.
We have been working very hard to ensure-“ President Hayes cut him off by saying, “I have been fully briefed on what you. Marge Tutwiler, and your lapdog Dallas King have been up to, and I don’t like one bit of it.
I don’t have the time, the patience, or the energy to deal with you right now, but when I get out of here, you are going to have some explaining to do.”
“But, Robert”-Baxter’s voice was cracking from the tension-“I think you have it all wrong. I don’t know what General Flood and Director Stansfield have been telling you, but I’m sure I can explain. I have had the best of intentions in every decision I have made during this crisis.”
“I’m sure you have,” replied a skeptical President Hayes.
“You’ve had your chance to sit on the throne, and you’ve screwed things up miserably. Now it’s time to get the hell out of the way and let the professionals handle things.”
“But, Robert…”
“But nothing, Sherman! This conversation is over!”
All that was heard from the vice president was the click of his phone hanging up. After a couple of long moments of silence, the president’s voice floated back down, asking, “Now, where were we?”
THE AIR FORCE MC-13 °Combat Talon cruised through the skies over Washington, D.C.” at ten thousand feet. Part of the 1st Special Operations Wing, the Combat Talon was a unique asset in the delivery and retrieval of Special Forces operators. Lt. Commander Harris stood in the back of the modified C-130, looking out the open ramp and down at the city. The wind whistled through the back of the cargo area, and the four engines outside rumbled in the evening air, making communication difficult. To Harris’s right, the bright orange orb of the sun was falling beneath the horizon. To his left, storm clouds were moving in.The first was a good sign-darkness was something that he welcomed-but the second was not. Wind and rain did not go well with parachuting.
The pilots were flying up and down a fifteen-mile corridor five miles east of the White House. Harris and his fellow SEALS had made every jump there was. He’d done both high-altitude, high-opening (HAHO) and high- altitude, low opening (HALO) jumps, as well as static-line jumps from five hundred feet all the way up to thirty thousand plus. Eight years earlier, when he had participated in the exercise for the Secret Service, he and his men had conducted a HAHO jump out of the back of an Air Force C-141 Starlifter. At an altitude of twenty-five thousand feet the men leapt from the plane and popped their chutes. From almost five miles up, Harris and his team expertly guided their double-canopy parachutes over a forty-five-mile distance and set themselves down gently on the roof of the Executive Mansion. At first the Secret Service was shocked by the results. But, after they sat with the SEALS
