Twenty-Three

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Irene Kennedy stood at the back of the Global Ops Center on the seventh floor of the Old Headquarters Building at Langley. She slowly placed the handset of the secure phone back in its cradle. She didn't move or speak for close to a minute. Around her the room buzzed with every manner of modern communication available. All of it-every voice, beep, whir, churn, and tap of a keyboard-blended into a seamless thrum of background noise, and she blocked it out.

The national security of America was serious business, and Dr. Irene Kennedy had never thought otherwise. The specter of a nuclear attack, however, did strange things to people. She was not incapacitated by fear. On the contrary. She was merely trying to comprehend the full importance of what Rapp had just told her, for she knew there was no turning back once she took the next step. There would be no standing down, at least not for the next few hours. This would likely be her last chance to make a calm assessment of the situation before a myriad of people and agencies got involved: secretaries, undersecretaries, directors, deputy directors, generals, admirals, and of course the president himself and the grab bag of political advisors who came with him. Some of these people were good at keeping secrets, but most of them were not.

Kennedy looked up at the three massive TV screens that dominated the front wall of the room. They were all tuned to twenty-four-hour cable news networks. There was no big news at present, and she hoped that would remain the case for the next twenty-four hours until they could get a handle on this thing.

Somewhat reluctantly, Kennedy picked up the handset of the secure phone. She scanned the numerous buttons for the proper speed-dial label and found it. Several seconds later the duty officer for the Secret Service's Joint Operations Command answered.

"This is Director Kennedy. Patch me through to Agent Warch ASAP."

After several seconds and a few clicks a tired voice came on the line. "Warch here."

Kennedy knew the special agent in charge of the president's Secret Service detail well. "Jack, it's Irene. Sorry to bother you at such an awkward hour, but we have a situation."

Warch's voice was suddenly less tired. "What's up?"

"I'm about to implement Operation Ark, and it's not a drill." Kennedy imagined that the agent was now sliding out of bed. Operation Ark, the code name for the evacuation of key government officials from the city had only been set into motion one other time that the two of them could remember.

"Okay. What's the threat?"

"We have reason to believe a WMD might be in the city."

"What kind?" Warch's voice was suddenly a bit tighter.

"This goes no further, Jack. I haven't even told the Pentagon yet."

"I understand, but I need to know what I'm dealing with."

"The intel right now points to a nuclear weapon."

"Jesus Christ."

"Jack, this needs to be done very low key, but fast. No Marine One. Put him in the limo and take him up to Camp David as quickly as possible without making a scene. Bring the First Lady with, and don't take no for an answer from either of them."

"Roger."

"Call me with confirmation as soon as they're in the limo and on their way. I can be reached at the Global Ops Center for the next fifteen minutes."

"Understood."

Kennedy ended the call and turned to Carl Benson, the director of the Ops Center. He was fully briefed on the evening's developments and was waiting for further direction.

"Have my helicopter warmed up, and lock this place down. I don't want any personal calls in or out."

Benson nodded and went about carrying out Kennedy's orders.

The director of the CIA did not grab the phone immediately. The next call would unleash a torrent of warning bells, waking people from their sleep and beckoning them to secure federal facilities strategically placed around Washington, D.C. Many of them would leave disoriented spouses and children left to guess at what might be happening. By morning, thousands of people would know that something serious was going on and the press would begin to dig. The facts that Mitch Rapp had just unearthed would be exceedingly difficult to hide from the public, and once they knew them, pandemonium would follow.

This was the conundrum they were confronted with. If they wanted to stop these terrorists, they would have to use all of America's national security assets, but at the same time, hope that they didn't tip their hand to the terrorists themselves. It would be an impossible secret to keep, but there was no other choice but to try.

Twenty-Four

The Secret Service was exceedingly good at its job for a variety of reasons. The selection process by which agents were chosen was one of the most stringent in all of law enforcement, but it was the level of their training and its frequency that separated them from virtually every personal protection detail anywhere in the world. Scenarios were constantly scripted and run through with new agents assigned to the presidential detail, as well as veterans.

At their state-of-the-art training facility in Beltsville, Maryland, the agents were taught to shoot with pinpoint accuracy, and they rehearsed ad nauseam motorcade procedure and how to handle a crowd when their charge decided to get out of the car and walk the rope line. In addition they went through countless dry-run exercises at the White House, Camp David, and Andrews Air Force Base. All of this training took place for one specific reason. When a crisis hit, seconds mattered, and a single hesitation by just one agent could be the difference between the president living or dying.

To make matters even more difficult, the men and women they were asked to protect tended to be anything other than docile. Instead, they were almost always intelligent, independent minded people who were used to being in charge. They did not like being told what to do, and very often resisted the suggestions put forth by the Secret Service concerning the proper level of security.

All of this figured into how the Secret Service did their job. So while Director Kennedy would have preferred a quiet orderly evacuation of the first couple, with as few people knowing about it as possible, that just wasn't the way it was done. If there was even a whiff of a nuclear weapon in the nation's capital Warch wanted the president far away, locked up in a secure bunker.

Seconds mattered, and since it would take Warch twenty minutes to get to the White House, the detail's shift leader would have to be the one to execute the evacuation. Warch was left with two options, the first would be to call Beth Jorgenson and utter a single phrase that would in turn set into motion a well-rehearsed preplanned evacuation that would take no more than sixty seconds to complete. Or he could call Jorgenson and tell her that he would like her to calmly and quietly pack up the president and the First Lady and drive them up to Camp David without making any scene.

The problem with the latter option was that there was a fifty-fifty chance the president would choose not to comply in a timely manner, and a ninety-nine percent chance that the First Lady would outright refuse to go. The president would want specifics, and then he would want to talk to his advisors and try to reach a consensus. Warch decided his nerves couldn't take the latter. If there was any fallout he would just have to deal with it later.

WHEN THE CALLcame out over the detail's secure radio net, agents and officers alike sprang into action. In the basement of the West Wing, eight men who were part of the counterassault team or CAT, jumped to their feet. Dressed in black tactical jumpsuits and laden with ballistic body armor, the men quickly grabbed their helmets, automatic rifles, and machine guns. They poured out of the West Wing and onto the South Lawn setting up a perimeter around "Stage Coach," the presidential limousine.