Transfer of Power (46 page)

Rapp set the small device in the palm of his hand and held it horizontally.

"This little wick at the end contains a fiber-optic camera. Make sure it has an unobstructed view of the bunker door."

Rielly took the device and nodded.

"I'm ready when you guys are."

"Milt?" Rapp looked at his partner.

"I'm good to go."

"Good." Rapp brought his hands together and said, "Let's do it." Rubbing them, he shrugged his head toward the second door and said, "Let's get that thing open, and then we'll lower Anna down."

Adams walked over to the gray door and extracted his S-key. He opened the outer door, and there stood a sturdy steel door with rivets securing the hinges and a handle on the right hand side. Adams brought his face to within inches of the control pad and then stopped. Stepping to the side, he looked at Rapp and said, "You'd better give this a try. You're gonna be on your own when you open the second door."

Rapp agreed and stepped up to the control pad. He entered the nine numbers from memory and pressed "enter." Immediately there was the hiss of air releasing and then a metallic click. Rapp stepped back and brought his submachine gun up.

Adams looked at him and pointed to the handle.

"Just lean on that thing, and she's all yours."

Rapp pushed Adams completely out of the way and pressed down on the handle. He didn't expect any trouble, but now was not the time to be lax. Rapp pushed the door in.

Before him was a small landing and a set of stairs The floor and lower half of the walls were covered with a brown carpet.

Rapp stood hugging the doorframe, with his silhouette minimized.

The thick black barrel of his MP-10 searched every inch of the dimly lit staircase before him.

He turned to Adams and Rielly.

"Everything checks out.

Let's get Anna on the move and hope this guy has a little bladder."

A minute later Rielly was wiggling her way back into the vent and Rapp was playing out the rope When she reached the vertical shaft, Rapp carefully eased her down it. From there Rielly inched her way through the narrow confines until she came upon her spot. Gingerly, she inched forward the last several inches and peered through the slats. The high-pitched whine of the drills filled the air. Clutching the surveillance unit Rapp had given her, she looked out intently at the large shiny door of the president's bunker. No one was in sight. The pudgy man that she had seen the time before was not visible. Rielly watched the three bulky drills working to breach the door. She wondered briefly if she should tug on the string and give the signal. After a moment she thought better of it. She could see only part of the room, and for all she knew, someone was in there, or he was gone and could be on his way back.

Taking the arm of her bulky sweatshirt, Rielly reached in front of herself and cleared out a spot for the Velcro patch. She secured the surveillance unit to the spot and made sure the fiber-optic camera had an unobstructed view between the bottom of the opening and the first slat. With that done, she stretched out and tried to get comfortable.

WICKER HAD A crew of eight motivated Navy SEALS working feverishly.

Planning ahead, as always. Wicker had called a lumberyard in Forestville, Maryland, and placed an order for the supplies he would need to build the shooting platform. When his CO, Lt. Commander Harris, had given him the green light' Wicker was on the phone within seconds.

SEAL Team Six's strike element, which would be used to chase the terrorists if they left the country, was billeted at Andrews Air Force Base, where they were biding their time in hopes that they would be sent into action. Wicker explained his situation to the unit's executive officer and told him that Harris had given him the okay. Wicker requested six men specifically, and within twenty minutes they had borrowed a truck from the motor pool and were on the way to the lumberyard. The fact that they had not obtained authorization for the truck was something the paper pushers could sort out later.

By a little past two in the afternoon they were downtown in their jeans and T-shirts unloading their equipment. Everything was ferried by hand up the bell tower of the Old Post Office, and now the men, all of whom were experienced snipers, were putting the finishing touches on the platforms.

Building one platform would not work. Two shots would be fired by two men using fifty-caliber rifles. Although the platforms' construction was sturdy, if only one were used, the slightest movement by one man could send the other man's shot dangerously awry.

The two platforms were actually rectangular boxes constructed of one-inch plywood and reinforced with four-by sixes and glued and screwed together. Wicker grabbed a hard plastic rifle case by the handle and laid it down on one of the platforms. With the others watching, he popped the clasps on the case and opened it. Inside sat a massive .50 caliber Barrett rifle. Sixty-one inches from muzzle to shoulder butt and weighing thirty pounds, it was one of the largest rifles in the world.

It used the powerful .50 caliber Browning cartridge and was capable of taking out targets at distances in excess of one mile.

Wicker, not a particularly large man, was only a half foot taller than the rifle. Scooping the heavy black weapon from its foam encasement, he pulled the fixed bipod into its extended position and set it down. He climbed onto the platform, slid in behind the rifle, and drew close to the scope. He peered through the circular eyepiece, and within seconds he was staring at the hooded terrorist sitting in the guard booth on the roof of the White House. At this short distance, the .50 caliber Barrett would normally be way too much firepower, but considering the security afforded the terrorists by the bulletproof Plexiglas, it was the right weapon for the job. Not just one Barrett, but two.

Wicker shifted his weight and moved subtly while he kept the crosshairs of the scope centered on the hooded man six hundred twenty feet away.

There was no wobbling. The platform was sturdy. Satisfied, Wicker stood and placed his rifle back in its case. While he put the case back in the corner, his men went to work to complete the project. Wicker looked at the setting sun and noticed a change in the weather just over the horizon. A welcome change. Grabbing the digital phone from his hip, he punched in a number and waited for the person on the other end to answer. RIELLY DIDN'T HAVE her watch and had forgotten to ask what time it was before she was lowered into the vent. From the stiffness in her hip, she was guessing that she had been in the tiny space for at least thirty minutes, maybe even an hour.

For the better part of that she had seen no movement from the room With nothing else to do, her mind wandered and fatigue set in. Several times she caught herself dozing off only to have her head bob back up and bump the top of the vent. The cramped confines and the drone of the drills reminded her of lying in a tanning bed.

That she was not seeing any sign of the terrorists began to make her nervous. She started to wonder if the room was vacant, if now was the right time to give the signal. The problem was that she couldn't see all of the room. If they did this again, she reminded herself, ask for a watch and a better set of instructions.

As the minutes passed by, Rielly grew more stiff and tired.

Finally, when she was really beginning to doubt that there was anyone in the room, she heard a sound that was different from the steady drone of the drills. She squinted so she could get a clear shot through the slats, and Rielly saw something move. It was a shadow. There was someone in the room. A moment later the pudgy man she had seen on her previous trip stepped into the full view of the open door and stretched his arms above his head, his potbelly bulging outward. She watched as the man moved out of sight and then approached the drills to measure their progress as she had seen him do on her first trip. When he was done taking his measurements, he tossed the tape measure onto something that was not in Rielly's view, and then, with his hands stretched over his head once again, he started down the hall toward her, his mouth agape, a yawn squirreling its way out of his rodent like face.

Rieuy's face grimaced in disgust at the man's slovenly appearance and harsh features. At first she drew closer to the vent and then quickly moved back for fear of being discovered.

As he neared her position, the fingers of her right hand reached up and fumbled for the black loop around her neck.

Rielly found what she was looking for, and as the man turned the corner beneath her, she pulled hard on the shoelace twice.

RAPP AND ADAMS had stood alert for the first ten minutes, Adams standing by the open vent with the rope in his hands and Rapp poised at the top of the stairs, his MP-10 strapped across his chest and his silenced pistol in his left hand. Rapp had decided that the submachine gun was too much to handle for this little foray. After ten minutes of standing awkwardly across the room from each other, Rapp saw that there was a better way to utilize their time.

Crossing over to Adams, Rapp had taken the rope and asked Adams to pull out his blueprints. After Adams spread the documents out on top of one of the containers, Rapp gave him the rope back. He then proceeded to pick Milt's brain on the layout of the West Wing. Exactly where the tunnel came out on the other end and what he could expect to find when he opened that door. Rapp and Adams had already gone over most of this before, but Rapp wanted to make sure he had a good grasp of the floor plan. He knew if he could pull off this phase of the operation, his next task would be to get into the West Wing and get a firsthand look at how the hostages were being held.

From everything they could guess and from what Rielly had told them, they knew the bulk of the hostages were being held in the mess The problem that Rapp faced was finding out if any of the Secret Service agents and officers were still alive and if so, where they were being held. As Rapp prodded Adams about the best way to check out the other areas of the West Wing, Adams lurched suddenly.

Looking at Rapp, he spat, "That was it. Two tugs."

Rapp was instantly moving across the floor. Looking over his shoulder, he whispered, "If you get the recall sign, start calling my name, and bust your ass down these steps so I can hear you." Rapp was gone, into the tunnel, racing down the steps like a running back going through a set of tires. Out of habit he had his pistol out in front of him, leading the way. When he hit the bottom step, he looked briefly down the length of the tunnel and then turned immediately to his left. Leaping down the next flight, he came to a crashing halt at the reinforced door and switched his gun from his right hand to his left.

Breathing a little heavier, he paused for a second to listen for Adams.

Nothing, no warning from above. Pulling the numbers up from memory, he punched in the first eight and once again stopped to listen. Not more than two seconds later he punched the last number and stood back. The 9-mm Beretta went back into his right hand as the rubber gasket surrounding the door hissed. There was the metallic click of the locking stems retracting, and Rapp's left hand shoved down on the door handle.

It was no time to be timid.

Shoving the door open three feet, Rapp led with the pistol.

The first thing his senses picked up was the sound of the drills and then a strange smell. His eyes picked up the back of the open door that led out into the hallway, and as he continued to open the steel door and step into the anteroom, the door hit something and there was the sound of metal hitting metal. The noise startled Rapp but wasn't loud enough to be heard over the clamor of the drills. Rapp slid around the door, leading with the gun, careful to show only as much of his body as necessary.

Quickly, he jerked the pistol to the left and then the right, his eyes following. The room was empty. He approached the open door and took a quick peek down the hallway. Nothing.

Taking a longer look this time, he looked up at the vent in an attempt to see Rielly. He was relieved to see that he couldn't.

Returning his attention to the task at hand, he turned and looked for the source of his and many others' frustration.

There it sat, immediately to the left of the bunker door, touching the shiny polished steel The black box was no bigger than a large stereo receiver. Rapp stepped over a toolbox and around another. Dropping down to one knee, he looked at the control panel and studied the dials and digital readout The unit was manufactured by one of Westinghouse little-known subsidiaries who just happened to do a lot of work with the CIA, FBI, and Secret Service. Aziz had taken this baby from the Secret Service's arsenal. Rapp pulled the box away from the door so he could get at the wires and antenna in back. He grabbed a small pair of wire cutters from his web vest and lowered the arm of the lip mike on his headset. Rapp snipped the wire that led to the antenna.

"Milt, can you hear me? Milt, can you hear me?" Rapp waited a couple seconds. After failing to raise Adams a second time, Rapp flipped the jammer onto its front and looked at the perforated black metal on the back. Through the cooling slats, he could see several bound groups of wire. Turning the thing off wouldn't work. He had to disable it. The key was to make it look as if it were still on.

Rapp plunged the wire cutter in between two of the cooling slats. The pointy nose of the wire cutter bent the metal.

Rapp twisted the tool back and forth several times to get more access, and then opened the snips. As he clamped down on the first group of wires, it never occurred to him to unplug the machine first. Rapp squeezed hard, and as soon as the metal jaws of the wire cutter broke the protective insulation of the wires, sparks shot up, and Rapp was knocked back onto his butt.

With tingles shooting up his right arm and feeling as if he'd lost all of the hair on his body, Rapp mumbled, "Shit." Shaking his right arm vigorously, he started to get back up. Over his headset he heard the voice of Milt Adams, and then someone else. A voice he didn't recognize.

IRENE KENNEDY sat at her elevated position in the control room with a phone to her ear. On the other end of the secure line. General Campbell was explaining Lt. Commander Harris's plan to send in a small team of demolition experts to clear the path for the strike teams. Kennedy was not excited about the plan at first, that was until Campbell explained to her that Harris and the three men he had chosen had all succeeded in accomplishing what seemed to be the most difficult aspect of the operation during a training operation with the Secret Service some eight years earlier. She still wasn't crazy about the idea, but the fact that they had already proven they could do it went a long way.