Vince Flynn - Transfer of Power

How prophetic Dallas could be, Baxter thought to himself.

As the motorcade pulled onto the George Mason Memorial Bridge, the tightly wound Baxter allowed himself a moment to relish the fact that for now, he was for all intents and purposes the president of the United States.

SPECIAL AGENT SKIP Mcmahon of the FBI looked down at the White House from the Secret Service’s Joint Operations Center on the fifth floor of the Executive Office Building.

From his vantage point he could count the bodies of nine Secret Service officers. He had been told there were more on the other side of the building, but an accurate number was impossible to ascertain. Even now, four hours after the attack, information was sparse. No one knew what was going on inside the building.

Mcmahon was a twenty-six-year veteran of the FBI who had seen it all, or at least he thought he had. He had started with the Bureau right out of college and after doing a four-year stint investigating bank robberies in Las Vegas he was moved back to Washington, where he started working counterintelligence cases. After almost a decade of chasing spies he was moved into the FBI’s violent crimes unit. It was a transfer that led to the downfall of his marriage and almost his career. The former defensive tackle for Perm State had quickly found that he had a knack for getting inside the twisted minds of the individuals he was charged with catching. Six years of sloshing through the septic tank of American society had taken its toll. Mcmahon had been asked one too many times to step into the shoes of a serial killer and visualize how some sick pervert had abducted, raped, tortured, and then killed an innocent little girl.

Fortunately for Mcmahon he had seen the writing on the wall and gotten out before the job destroyed him. Mcmahon had recently been put in charge of the Bureau’s Critical Incident Response Group, or CIRG, which was the lead organization in resolving hostage situations. The FBI’s elite Hostage Rescue Team, or HRT, was under his command along with another half dozen investigative and support units. But not once in the hundreds of meetings that Mcmahon had attended on urban terrorism had he ever heard someone postulate that the White House was vulnerable to a full-scale assault.

Mcmahon shifted his attention from terra firma to the horizon. On a more immediate note, he was not happy with the current command-and-control situation. Both FBI and Secret Service sniper teams occupied every rooftop within a block of the White House. Each team reporting to and taking orders from its own agency. In short, it was not the way to handle a crisis, and it was something that needed to be rectified immediately.

A female agent standing next to Mcmahon held her watch in front of his face.

“You’d better get moving. The meeting is in twenty minutes.”

Mcmahon nodded. With sagging shoulders, he looked at the fallen officers on the South Lawn and asked, “What’s the body count?”

Special Agent Kathy Jennings looked at a small notebook and said, “We have it at eighteen, with God only knows how many more inside the building.” Mcmahon shook his head as he took in the carnage. He looked tired, and the crisis was only in its infancy. After a moment, he turned and headed for the door. Mcmahon dreaded attending meetings with the bigwigs. On his way out, he thanked several of the Secret Service agents for allowing him to take a look from their vantage point.

Jennings followed a half step behind, and as soon as she was sure no one could hear, she said, “I don’t think they were too happy to see us. Do you think they know we’re going to be running the show?”

“I don’t know. They’ve lost at least eighteen men… probably double that, and the White House is their baby.” Mcmahon turned for the stairs and started down.

“But they’re not set up for this kind of thing. This is clearly…Jennings stopped talking for a second as they passed two Secret Service officers who were on their way up the stairs. In a lower voice, she continued, “This is clearly the Bureau’s territory. It’s a domestic terrorist activity.”

“A lot of people are going to want to stick their hands in this pie before it’s over.”

“Like who?”

“Like the United States military, and again, the Secret Service.”

The confident young agent shook her head in disagreement.

“The military is forbidden from… “started Jennings.

Mcmahon raised his hand and stopped her.

“Save the lecture for one of your law-school buddies. “The senior agent was very proud of the fact that he was one of the few people in the Bureau without an accounting or law degree. “I’m talking reality here, and I’m talking from experience. Why do you think this meeting is being held at the Pentagon?

“Mcmahon let her think about the question while they descended another flight.

“If we’re so clearly in charge, why isn’t this meeting being held at the Hoover Building or over at Justice?” Jennings slowly started to see his point and nodded as they reached the first floor. While they continued toward the Seventeenth Street exit, Mcmahon said, “While I’m at the Pentagon, I want you to get the mobile command post in order. Get the shift changes set up, and don’t take any crap from anyone.”

With his voice raised an octave, he added, “And you tell those clowns I’m in a surly mood, and that when I get back from this stupid dog-and-pony show, I’m going to be looking to blow a little steam.”

Mcmahon’s temper was well known among his fellow law-enforcement officers at the Bureau.

“No one works longer than an eight-hour shift unless I authorize it, and I don’t want people loitering around when their shifts are over. We could be here for weeks, and I don’t want burned-out people sitting at the controls.”

“Anything else?”

“Yeah. Make sure HRT gets priority on everything. I want them in position ASAP”

THE EXPENSIVE SUIT was gone, replaced by drab green military fatigues, a holstered pistol, and a gas mask that was secured to his web belt.

Rafique Aziz sat at the head of the long table and stared at the bank of television sets located on the far wall of the Situation Room. Three of the six TVS were tuned to the major networks, and a fourth was tuned to CNN. all of them were covering the White House crisis from their studios in New “York and with live shots from across the street at Lafayette Square.

Much of aziz’s original anger at missing the president had dissipated.

With typical thoroughness, Aziz had prepared for this contingency, and if given enough time, everything could still be achieved. Now he had to at least allow himself a moment of satisfaction. He had done it. He controlled the most famous and decadent symbol of the West. He had taken his jihad, his holy war, to the heart of the enemy, and once he pried the president from his bunker, he would be able to complete his plan. No longer would America meddle in the affairs of the Arab world.

There was a knock on the door, and without turning, Aziz said, “Enter.”

The usually stoic Muammar Bengazi walked into the room with a smile on his face, an AK-74 slung over his shoulder, and a notepad in his left hand. He approached Aziz and said, “We are in complete control of the building. As you ordered, all outer walls and points of entry have been wired with explosive charges. “A gleam appeared in the terrorist’s eye.

“And as you predicted, we also have control of the Secret Service’s weapons and security system.” Bengazi stepped forward and placed his hands on the back of one of the table’s chairs.

“As ordered, I have taken their perimeter system off-line. We are using only their rooftop-mounted cameras and have disconnected the computers from their modems. They are no longer feeding their headquarters with images.”