Man to control.
Over.” Rapp had to repeat himself before he got a reply.
Kennedy’s voice came back clearly, “Iron Man, this is control. We read you. Over.”
“We have a problem. There is at least one Tango in the third basement. I repeat, one Tango in the third basement.”
“Where in the third basement?” was General Campbell’s question.
“Two minutes ago he was standing just outside the stairwell, by the door to the boiler room.”
“Any others in sight?”
“Not that I could see, but my only shot was with the snake under the door.” Rapp added earnestly, “My immediate suggestion is to put the brakes on the next two through the chute.
It’s not worth the risk at this time to bring them into an unsecured area.”
“Hold for a second. Iron Man,” was Campbell’s reply.
While Rapp waited for the brass on the other end to finish their little powwow, he opened up his monitor and attempted to get a feed from the second surveillance unit he had placed in the basement. He was still playing with the unit when Kennedy came back on the line.
“Iron Man, any thoughts on what the Tango is doing in the basement?”
“Probably looking for the girl, which means Aziz and Bengazi might also be down there.”
There was another period of silence over the line while the brass conferred. Kennedy came back ten seconds later and said, “Iron Man, we concur. Stay put while we see if we can slow things down.”
“Roger.” Rapp pressed the speaker button and placed the handset back in its cradle. From the tiny speaker on the control panel of the radio, an electronic hum told Rapp the line was still open. Turning his attention back to the monitor strapped to his chest, he went to work trying to get something from the surveillance unit in the basement.
AZIZ’S SPIRITS HAD rebounded. The news that he would have his hands around the neck of the president by dusk today had helped temper the loss of the idiot Hasan. If he could just hold out until then, the chances for complete success would double, if not triple. The next fifteen or so hours would be the tensest of the siege. Aziz corrected himself on that point: it would be the next five hours. Once the sun was up he would be safe again. But come nightfall the chances of a strike would increase once again. Aziz had gone to great pains to study the techniques used by the world’s elite counterterrorist strike teams, such as Germany’s GSG-9, France’s GIGN, Britain’s SAS, and of course, America’s three premier teams. The groups all shared information on training, strategy, intelligence, and tactics, and competed in annual competitions to help hone each other’s skills.
All of the groups followed a fairly standard procedure when confronted with a hostage crisis: initial deployment of assets; intelligence collection; planning, development, and practice of the takedown; mission approval; and finally, execution of takedown. All of the groups were good, and the three U.S. teams were always ranked at or near the top in every category except one. When it came to mission approval, the U.S.teams were consistently ranked at the bottom. The common critique from the international counterterrorism community was that the U.S. had too many people in the chain of command. Too many people throwing their opinions into the arena and thus slowing down a process that depended on speed and efficiency.
This was one of the things Aziz was planning to exploit.
This, as well as the American media and ultimately public opinion. The morning would bring a new day in the media cycle, and Aziz would begin to implement another crucial part of his plan. If he succeeded, it would keep the dogs at bay for another day. The politicians were his allies, and he needed to keep them believing there was a way out of the situation. Aziz needed to keep them and their opinions directly involved in the chain of command, because as long as they stayed involved, the generals would be unable to strike.
As Aziz walked down the hall with Bengazi, he started to see one fundamental flaw in his plan. He had succeeded in negating the Americans’ manpower advantage through the use of explosives and the exterior surveillance cameras he had seized from the Secret Service.
With the amount of explosives he had deployed, any attack would result in the deaths of all the rescuers and, if need be, the hostages too. The flaw, Aziz was now sure, was created once again by the separation of the West Wing and the Executive Mansion. The West Wing was one hundred percent secured, but the mansion was not. If the Americans found out that he was in the process of extracting the president from his bunker, there was no telling what they might do. It was entirely likely that they would risk everything to prevent the president from falling into his hands.
As Aziz and Bengazi neared the end of the hall, Aziz stopped and said, “Muammar, I want you to stay here for the rest of the night. I will send you a replacement at”-Aziz looked at his watch-“seven. I want you to make sure that nothing happens to my little ferret.” Aziz pointed in the direction of the bunker.
“If you fail me this time, you will be begging for a quick death.” The subordinate nodded while main taming his ramrod posture.
Aziz turned to go back upstairs and was confronted by two doors, one of them he had not noticed before. Turning to Bengazi, he asked, “Where does this lead?”
“To the boiler room,” the heavily bearded Bengazi answered.
“Boiler room,” Aziz repeated while he mulled over the words.
“Was it secured after we took over?”
“Yes,” stated Bengazi.
“I checked it personally.” Aziz stood looking at the doorway, thinking for a long moment.
“Do you remember,” he asked Bengazi,”the incident at the Indonesian consulate in Amsterdam… back in the seventies?”
Bengazi’s face twisted as he tried to jog his memory. After a while, he replied, “Yes, I remember what happened. The terrorists surrendered after a long standoff with the police.”
“Two weeks,” answered Aziz, referring to how long the siege had lasted.
“Did you know that during the standoff the CIA assisted the Dutch government by getting one of their- people into the building via the sewer pipe?”
“No.”
“Neither did the terrorists. The man came in through the basement and bugged the building. Everything the terrorists said and did was heard by the Dutch authorities.” Aziz looked back at the door.
“When was the last time you checked this room?”
“I checked it yesterday afternoon.”
“A lot has happened since then. I think we should check it again.
“Without waiting for Bengazi’s opinion, Aziz started for the door.
THE TWO SEALS trudged forward through the ventilation duct in complete darkness. Craft in the lead and Shultz close behind. This is what they had trained their whole lives to do.
There wasn’t a Special Forces operator in the service worth his salt who wouldn’t have given his left nut to be in their position.
All the push-ups, early morning runs, icy swims, hour upon hour of target practice, live fire drills, parachute jumps that ran into the triple digits-it all came down to this.
“Apprehension” was a word that didn’t belong in their vocabulary. Maybe “caution” from time to time, but not “apprehension.” These men relished the task before them and knew all too well what the stakes were. Death was a distinct possibility. They had seen team members die in both training and covert operations. That was the life they had decided to live, and there wasn’t a day they regretted the decision.
The younger Craft was in the lead because he had asked to be. The two SEALS were now experiencing the same problem that Rapp and Adams had.
The closer they got to the White House the worse their radio reception became. Like the two that had gone before them, they had removed their earpieces after a while because the static became so bad.
It had not occurred to anyone, either at Langley or at SEAL Team Six’s mobile command post, to have Shultz and Craft string along a phone line-a military practice that had been commonplace for almost a century, but had
