the secretary general of the UN and then said, “Thank you.”
King looked down at his boss and said, “I think I’d better listen in on this.” Baxter nodded his consent, and King quickly crossed the room and stood poised above the phone on the credenza. When his boss reached down to punch the proper line. King did the same.
Baxter said, “Hello, General Flood.”
“Mr. Vice President, I’m on the line with Director Stansfield.
We’ve come across some troubling information that we must bring to your attention.” In less than a minute Flood brought Baxter up to speed on what was going on in regard to Mustafayassin and the information provided by the Israelis and CIA. Dallas King watched his boss silently from across the room.
He listened to Flood, and in some twisted way the news excited him. King knew it shouldn’t, but this was real high drama, and he was one of just a few who were privy to this jarring information. The president was not as safe as they had thought.
General Flood moved from stating the facts into stating his case, and he did so with two sentences.
“Mr. Vice President, under no circumstances can we allow the president to fall into the hands of these terrorists. Delta Force and HRT are ready to retake the White House on your order.”
Vice President Baxter let out the moan of a man who could take no more bad news. And then after a moment or so of fidgeting, he asked, “How can we be sure? Aziz has said nothing about the president in any of his demands.”
“We can’t be sure,” answered Flood.
“But we sure as hell can’t take the risk of letting the president become a hostage.”
“What if this information is wrong?” Baxter looked up at King.
“We still have quite a few hostages in there, and from what you’ve told me, the odds of them surviving a takedown are not good.”
“Sir, at this point I see no other alternative. We cannot, under any circumstance, allow Rafique Aziz to get his hands on President Hayes.”
There was a long pause while Baxter looked up at King.
Finally he sighed into the phone and asked, “What is it that you want from me. General Flood?”
“I want you to do what’s right. I want you to give me the green light to retake the White House.”
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 a 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?”
“Our average Joe, that’s who.” King pointed his finger at his boss.
“Even if what Hood 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. King 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 Lombard! 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.
