Vince Flynn - Transfer of Power

The pager began its vibration, announcing that after almost a year of planning it was time for action. Rusan reached down and turned the pager off with one hand while grabbing the light nine-pound rifle with the other. He burst from the closet into the empty hallway and walked quickly for the rooftop’s patio doors. Rusan counted to himself slowly to help keep his heart rate low, a trick his Soviet trainers had taught him while he had stalked the burned-out buildings of Beirut as a teenager.

With his sniper’s rifle clutched in one hand, he opened the door to the patio and dropped to his stomach. Quickly, he crawled the thirty feet to the edge and stuck the long black barrel through the railing. Hugging the rifle tightly against his shoulder and cheek, he looked through the scope and acquired the large South Portico of the White House. From there, Rusan followed the edge of the building to the Oval Office and prepared to fire. When he reached the door that was just outside the president’s office, he found nothing.

Rusan searched the patio quickly and again found nothing. Not having time to waste, he moved on to his secondary target. The scope quickly found not one, but four Secret Service agents standing near the guard booth on the roof of the White House. Rusan picked the agent on the far left, centered the crosshairs on the man’s head, and squeezed the trigger.

The White House

THERE ARE VERY few things, short of a gunshot, that can get a Secret

Service agent’s heart beating faster than the phrase “Harden up.” Those two little words, heard so often during training exercises, are rarely uttered while on duty at the White House. Just outside the main door to the Oval Office, the two agents standing post drew their weapons without hesitation.

The shorter of the two also pulled out a set of keys and opened the door to a seemingly benign wooden credenza. A second later a third agent appeared from around the corner with a gun clutched in both hands. The agent who had opened the credenza quickly extracted three Uzi submachine guns, passing one to each of the other two agents and keeping the third for himself. The entire process took less than five seconds.

One floor below, in Horsepower, the details command post, the agent sitting at the security console rose and walked quickly across the room.

He bolted the door shut and returned to his seat without speaking. Two more agents, at the far end of the room, unlocked a metal cabinet, revealing a cache of weapons. Each man took an MP-5 submachine gun. They both chambered a round and walked to the room’s other door, which led to a hidden staircase to the Oval Office. Upstairs Jack Warch entered the Oval Office with his suit coat open and thrown back over his right hip.

His right hand was wrapped around the grip of his still holstered weapon.

Warch quickly approached the president’s side, not taking his eyes off the dark-featured man standing by the fireplace.

“Excuse me for the intrusion, Mr. President, but I need to talk to you for a second.” The president stopped in his tracks, alarmed by the forceful entrance. He looked to Warch and then his chief of staff.

There was a moment of uncertainty. As Warch eyed the president’s visitor, he couldn’t quite discern the intent of the well-dressed man he was staring down. Then he saw it, something in the other mans eyes.

Gripping his gun tighter, he pulled it up a half an inch out of the smooth leather holster.

The president was saying something, but Warch wasn’t listening.

He was waiting for one more sign that this man standing in the Oval Office was not who he said he was.

Back downstairs in Horsepower, the young agent sitting at the security console looked intently at the array of surveillance monitors before him. His eyes searched for anything that could be even remotely construed as a threat. Midway through his sweep, his focus was broken by the beeping of his computer. The agent’s eyes snapped from the monitors to his computer screen to find four capitalized words flashing.

Grabbing the arm of his headset the agent blurted out the words,

“HORSEPOWER TO DETAIL! WE HAVE A SECURITY BREACH IN THE TREASURY TUNNEL!

I REPEAT, WE HAVE A SECURITY BREACH IN THE TREASURY TUNNEL!”

Up in the Oval Office the stream of words blared into Warch’s right ear like Klaxons. His gun was out of his holster and aimed at the president’s guest in a split second. His left hand snapped to his lips, and he barked into his hand mike, “WARCH TO DETAIL. HARDEN UP ON WOODY IMMEDIATELY!”

Three of the four doors to the Oval Office burst open instantly, and four agents rushed to surround the president, their weapons drawn and ready. As the wall of agents closed around the commander in chief, the next sign of danger came blaring over their earpieces.

“AGENTS DOWN! AGENTS DOWN! HERCULES IS UNDER FIRE!”

With his SIG-Sauer aimed at Aziz’s forehead, Warch screamed, “EVAC, EVAC!”

Ellen Morton was standing directly behind the president when the evacuation order was given, and in a tribute to her training, she didn’t waste a second. Morton reached up and grabbed President Hayes by the back of his shirt collar and yanked him to the left. Two more agents rushed through the main door with their guns drawn and joined the crowd that was moving toward the president’s private study. Morton kicked a chair out of the group’s way as they moved in unison.

The president’s chief of staff was caught up in the wave of bodies and was rushed out of the room with them. Jack Warch stood his ground and covered the evacuation, his eyes still locked in a stare with Aziz.

The Treasury Tunnel

THE HEAVY FORKLIFT screamed down the smooth concrete tunnel, gaining speed as it went. The two men riding on the sides wrapped their inside arms around the cage and aimed their armor-piercing shells at the door in their path. Both men sighted in on the hinges and fired. There was a loud swooshing noise marked by a white trail of smoke as the warheads raced forward in unison and then slammed into the steel door. The ensuing explosion was deafening as debris, smoke, and fire erupted back down the throat of the narrow passageway.

Bengazi closed his eyes and kept the accelerator to the floor.

The forklift maintained its speed, passing through the bright showering debris and then into total darkness. There was a moment of silence, and then a foundation-cracking collision as the forklift thudded into the steel door, knocking it off its twisted hinges and lurching to a stop inside the basement of the White House.

The collision had jolted Bengazi forward, knocking his foot from the gas pedal and sending his two men flying from the vehicle. His ears were ringing from the explosion, and he couldn’t see past the cage of the forklift due to the thick smoke and dust. By the time he had righted himself in the seat, his two men were back at his side and climbing back onto the vehicle. Bengazi pressed the gas pedal to the floor, the engine roared, and the forklift lurched forward.

The heavy machine continued through the thick smoke, finding its way down the main hallway of the White House’s first basement. Without warning, the butted front end of the forklift slammed into what Bengazi knew to be the first set of double doors. The center bar and two doors peeled away from the frame as if they were tin. On the other side of the double doors, there was no smoke. Bengazi’s men immediately opened up with their AK-74s on full automatic as three uniformed Secret Service officers, rushing to head off the security breach in the Treasury tunnel, were caught in the open. The bullets cut them to the ground instantly, and what little life may have been left in them was squeezed away as the forklift rolled over them.