Vince Flynn - Transfer of Power

As the elevator came to a stop, Rapp spoke into his lip mike, “Iron Man to control. We’re back in the basement. Give me a check on the hallway.”

A monotone male voice came back.

“The hallway is clear. Over.”

Rapp nodded for Adams to open the door. When Adams did so, Rapp stepped out into the hallway, his MP-10 sweeping from left to right. Adams joined him, and, after closing the outer door to the elevator, they moved quickly down the hall.

With key in hand, the wiry old engineer opened the door to the china storage room, and the two of them entered. Anna Rielly looked up, relieved they were back.

“How did it go?”

“Fine,” answered Rapp as he set his weapon down and started to take the heavy backpack off.

“Except Milt had to go to the bathroom again.”

“Again?” asked Rielly Adams stood there looking the miniature version of Rapp, with his matching black baseball cap and black Nomex coveralls.

Placing his hands on his hips, he shook his head and said, “You two, just wait. I’d like to see you try and do this secret agent junk when you’re my age.”

Rapp laughed.

“If I could only be lucky enough to live that long.”

The statement sobered up Rielly in a snap. She realized that although he had said his statement with levity, he was serious.

Rapp moved his gear to the floor and said, “Milt and I are going to go over to the West Wing and check some things out while you wait right here.”

“Why can’t I come with you?” Rielly asked.

“Because”-Rapp kept a level tone-“this could get real hairy, Anna, and I’m going to have a hard enough time keeping an eye on Milt.”

“I promise I won’t get in your way. In fact, I could probably be a help.”

Rapp shook his head.

“It’s not going to happen, Anna. And I don’t have the time to sit around and discuss it with you. I’ve been ordered to find out what is going on in the West Wing, and I need to do it quick. Because of the situation with the president, we might be forced to launch a raid at any minute.”

Rielly nodded reluctantly.

“Is there anything I can do while you’re gone?”

“If things proceed as I think they might, there’s a chance I might need your help with something later. Okay? For now, just sit here and look pretty.”

She gave a fake smile.

“Thanks.”

“Well”-Rapp stood-“it shouldn’t be very hard for you to do.” Turning to Adams, he said, “Milt, come here.” Adams walked over, and Rapp affixed a small object to the side of his headset. The camera was about three inches long and an inch in diameter, with a lens at the front and a cord at the back that was hooked up to a transmitter. Rapp tucked the transmitter into a pocket on the back of Adams’s combat vest, then arranged another camera on his own headset.

Rapp adjusted his Up mike and said, “Iron Man to control.

You should have two more feeds from the head-mounted cameras. Can you confirm?”

The reply came over their headsets a second later.

“That’s affirmative. Iron Man. We are receiving both feeds.”

With his baseball cap on backward, Rapp swung the arm of his headset up above his forehead and grabbed one of the fanny packs. After strapping it around Adams’s waist, he said, “There are ten of the surveillance units in here. We’ll decide where to put them when we get over there.

Are you ready?”

He nodded.

“All right.” Turning back to Rielly, he said, “You should be safe here until we get back.”

“What if someone shows up?”

Rapp put a hand on his hip and thought about it. There was a chance he and Adams might not make it back. Grabbing for his thigh holster, he drew his silenced 9-mm Beretta. “You told me your dad taught you how to shoot?”

“Yep” Rapp checked to make sure the weapon was on safety and then handed it to Rielly. He pointed to a spot on the far wall almost thirty feet away.

“You see that scuff mark just above the shelf?”

Rielly nodded.

“She’s locked and loaded. One in the chamber and fifteen more in the magazine. Take her off safety, and squeeze one off at the scuff mark.”

Rapp always felt that you could learn a lot about someone by watching how they handled a firearm.

Rielly held the weapon in both hands confidently. Keeping it pointed down range, she turned it slightly, and with the thumb of her right hand, she flicked off the safety. She stood with her feet a shoulder width apart and took aim The silencer made the gun nose heavy, forcing her to adjust for the weight.

When she had the scuff mark lined up in the sights, she squeezed the trigger.

There was a spitting noise from the end of the gun, and a split second later the louder noise of the bullet hitting the smooth concrete wall. A chunk the size of a quarter broke free and fell to the floor. Rielly’s shot missed the mark by about twelve inches, low and right. She put the gun back on safety and said, “The silencer makes it heavy.”

“But nice and quiet,” replied Rapp.

“Yeah.” Rielly looked at the smooth black weapon.

“That’s not a bad shot. My advice is for you to sit right over there.”

Rapp pointed toward the door that led into the hallway

“If anyone comes in that door dressed in green fatigues and carrying an AK-74, you put a bullet in his head and ask questions later.”

Rielly licked her lips and nodded.

Rapp started back toward the door that led to the tunnel.

“Whatever you do, Anna, don’t come looking for us. If we’re not back within an hour, that means something has gone wrong. You better off waiting right here until someone from our side comes and gets you.”

Rapp turned to Adams, who had the outer door open, and said, “Let’s go.”

Adams punched the code into the reinforced tunnel door and pushed it in.

Rapp followed him into the tunnel and turned to give Rielly a smile and a nod Then they were gone, the door closed, on their way to the West Wing.

AZIZ LOOKED UP at the digital clocks on the wall to his left. The clock closest to him gave him the East Coast time. It was 6:29 P.M. He took the remote control and turned the main TV from CNN to NBC the nightly national news was about to start, and he wanted to feel the force of America’s number one news network announcing another victory for him and his jihad.

When the overly dramatic music announced the start of the program, Aziz grinned with anticipation as the logo flashed across the screen, followed quickly by the words “White House Crisis-Day Three.”

Tom Brokaw came on and, after a brief lead-in, he cut to the United Nations in New York. The network’s correspondent clutched her microphone and passionately retold the late breaking news. The UN Security Council had unanimously voted to lift all economic sanctions against Iraq except those involving military imports and technology. The reporter went on to tell how Israel was the only UN member to protest the vote, but since they were not a permanent member of the Security Council, they could do nothing to prevent the lifting of sanctions.

Aziz stood and smiled triumphantly. He had won again.

Now all he needed was the president and he would have complete victory.

Aziz grabbed his radio and barked the name of his little thief.

“Mustafa!” Aziz repeated himself two more times, and then one of his other men answered. “Rafique, it is Ragib. “The man was standing watch in the basement by the door to the boiler room. “I don’t think he can hear you because of the drills. Do you want me to get him?”

“Yes.”

Ragib let his radio fall to his side, and he walked down the hallway toward the bunker. When he rounded the corner, he yelled, “Mustafa!” The plump man appeared from behind the door and peered down the hallway.