Vince Flynn - Transfer of Power

Wicker continued to search for targets right up to the last second, but there were none to be found. The miniguns from the helicopters had cleared the street. As the Pave Low neared his position, the sniper saw the escort come screaming down the street for another pass. Wicker grabbed his gear, and as the ramp of the Pave Low neared, he jumped up and into the back of the cargo area.

The second the pilots heard the last man was onboard, they twisted the throttles to the stops and headed for sea. Twenty excruciating seconds later they were feet-wet hugging the water of the gulf, the Pave Hawk back in formation, heading for home.

Washington, D.C.

Midnight

THE PLUSH ROOM was located on the southwest corner of the tenth floor. It was one of the Washington Hotel’s finest rooms. A faint gray light from the street below spilled through the windows and reflected off the white ceiling and walls. The sole occupant stood in front of an ornate mirror and stared at his reflection, his fingers gently probing the tender areas around his eyes and then his jaw. He was a handsome man, strikingly so. Even more so since the surgical changes had been made. The more rugged features had been smoothed and refined. He had been looking at this new face for almost a month and had yet to grow accustomed to it. Pulling the cigarette from his mouth, he turned his head to the right and studied his profile. The red scar tissue had healed but was still sensitive in the areas where the skin was thin. The cheeks were more sallow, partially from the surgery but also because he had lost twenty pounds. He was pleased with the results. They were not perfect, but they would be good enough.

Exhaling a cloud of smoke, he stepped away from the mirror and turned.

Through the haze of smoke he looked out the large window at the city before him. His posture was erect; his dark skin and short black hair stood out starkly against the handmade white dress shirt he was wearing.

To his left, the stoic Washington Monument jutted into the night sky, marking the center of the National Mall. Beyond that, the curved dome of the Jefferson Memorial shone just above the trees, while further to the west, marking the end of the mall, were the beautiful alabaster pillars of the Lincoln Memorial, and directly across the street lay the expansive Treasury Department. None of this, however, interested him.

What did, sat just on the other side of the Treasury Department.

He inhaled and then extracted the cigarette with a slow, even motion, letting his hand and the cigarette come to rest at his side. As the dark-eyed man took in the historic landscape, the corners of his mouth turned upward ever so slightly. It was an ominous smile. Rafique Aziz hated everything before him with more passion than any American could ever understand.

The monuments and buildings before him were all symbols of America’s imperialism, greed, corruption, and arrogance. The very things that had corrupted his homeland and pitted brother against brother. There were even those who were talking about peace with Israel, the Zionists who, with the aid of the mighty America, had plunged his Beirut into a hell on earth. It was time again, time for another revolution. It was time to ignite the jihad.

Washington, D.C; 6:55 a.m .

THE MAJORITY OF the United States Secret Service’s five thousand plus agents were assigned to field offices around the country and focused their attention on catching counterfeiters.

But the better known role of the agency was that of protecting politicians and, more specifically, the president of the United States.

The Secret Service’s presidential detail carried a roster of approximately two hundred special agents at any given time, and their positions were arguably the most competitive and sought-after jobs in all of law enforcement.

Secret Service agent Ellen Morton was one of the lucky few. Morton walked through the Executive Mansion and stopped at the detail’s down room located on the ground floor of the White House. The tiny cramped room was officially designated Staircase; the name derived from the room’s location, which was underneath the stairs that led to the First Family’s private residence on the second and third floors of the mansion.

Morton poked her head through the open doorway.

“Morning, Ted. How’d the night go?”

The agent leaned back and clasped his hands behind his head. With a yawn he gave his one word answer, “Quiet.”

In order to give the First Family a certain amount of privacy, the Secret Service did not venture up to the second and third floors of the mansion unless called. They instead relied on a series of pressure pads installed in various areas beneath the carpet to track the president’s whereabouts on the floors above. “Is he up?” asked Morton.

“Yep. The steward phoned down and said he’s putting on a suit.”

On most mornings President Hayes went straight over to the West Wing at seven, but there were times, usually after he had been traveling, when he liked to work out in his private gym on the third floor and then walk over to the office at around eight. The agents on the detail usually had no idea what to expect until the Navy steward called down to tell them the president was wearing either workout clothes or a suit.

The security panel on the wall of Staircase beeped and a red light blinked, announcing that the president’s elevator was moving.

Morton nodded to the other agent and raised her hand mike to her mouth.

“Horsepower, from Morton. Woody, on his way down.” Horsepower was the designation for the presidential detail’s command post located under the Oval Office.

The presidential detail’s chief concern and focus was the president, while the actual security of the White House compound was handled by the Secret Service’s Uniformed Division.

There was a second command post located on the fifth floor of the Executive Office Building, across the street from the White House, that coordinated and monitored the two group’s activities. It was called the Joint Operations Center, or JOC, and was built in the wake of an unauthorized attempted landing on the South Lawn by a single-engine airplane in 1994. JOC monitored the movements of both the uniformed officers and the special agents.

The doors to the elevator opened, and President Hayes emerged wearing a dark suit, white shirt, and paisley tie. The president looked at the familiar face before him and said, “Good morning, Ellen.”

“Good morning, sir.” Morton moved out ahead of the president, walking down the long hall that led to the Palm Room. As shift leader, or whip, of the day detail, it was her responsibility to coordinate the movement of the president from the mansion to the West Wing. They entered the Palm Room, and Morton spoke into her hand mike.

“Horsepower, from Morton. Woody is approaching the Colonnade.” As Morton reached the double glass doors, she nodded to the agent on the other side and watched him move out ahead. Morton held the door for President Hayes, and then the two of them stepped out onto the field stone walkway of the Colonnade.

The president stopped and took in the bright spring morning.

Feeling the warm morning sun on his face for the first time in weeks, he closed his eyes and smiled. After a long moment, he drew in a deep breath. Then opening his eyes, he looked out at the mist-covered grass of the South Lawn. Ellen Morton stood silently behind him, her hands clasped in front of her. Without turning. President Hayes said, “Beautiful morning, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is, sir.” Morton grinned to herself. She was still not used to Hayes’s private persona. With all of the security and pomp and circumstance, it was easy to forget that he was a real person-a husband, a father, and a grandfather.