Executive Power (19 page)

F
lood and Kennedy took the elevator down to the first floor. For reasons of decorum and tone, more than for national security, a little subtlety was now called for. It was only one flight, but the stairs opened out onto the wide Cross Hall, where visitors were gathered waiting for the band to play “Hail to the Chief” and watch the president, the first lady and the Canadian prime minister and his wife descend the long staircase. The crowd that was assembled in the Cross Hall consisted of foreign ambassadors, press, dignitaries, senators, congressmen, two Supreme Court justices and a bevy of celebrities and wealthy contributors.

The sight of the director of the CIA and the chairman of the Joint Chiefs descending the stairs together would lead to endless speculation that a crisis was brewing.

Kennedy and General Flood stepped from the elevator and were guided through the velvet ropes that cordoned off one end of the hallway. They'd gone no more than fifteen feet through the well-dressed crowd when the general was snatched from Kennedy's side by the majority leader of the Senate. Kennedy didn't slow for a second, lest the senator pull her into the group and begin pumping her for information. In her mind a state dinner was not the place to discuss national security. She continued into the East Room in search of a drink. Now that she was at the party itself, she felt an urge to take the edge off.

She'd almost made it to the bar when a hand gripped her arm. Kennedy turned to see a familiar and often unfriendly face.

“Hello, Director Kennedy.”

Kennedy looked at the dazzling green eyes of the young reporter and smiled. “Anna, for the last time, please call me Irene.”

“I'm just trying to be respectful,” replied a less than sincere Anna Rapp. She instinctively disliked her husband's boss. When pressed on the point by Mitch she had to admit that much of it had to do with the fact that Kennedy knew him better than she did.

“Hmm.” Kennedy frowned, not buying a word of it.

Cutting straight to the chase, Anna asked, “Would you please tell me where my husband is?”

Looking at the pretty young reporter and thinking of her conversation with Jack Warch, Kennedy decided that now might be just the right time for the two of them to have a good talk. “Anna, you look like you could use a drink.” Grabbing her by the arm, Kennedy led her to the bar. “Two cosmopolitans, please.” The bartender nodded and went to work.

“Irene, officially, I'm on duty. I don't think I should be drinking a cosmopolitan.”

Kennedy glanced sideways at her. “Anna, I'm always on duty, and no offense, but my job's a little more important than yours. Besides”—she looked at Anna's strapless evening gown—“I don't think you're going to be standing outside in that little outfit giving any live updates.”

Anna was slightly caught off guard by both the tone and the message. This was the most she'd ever heard from the always polite, but tight-lipped Kennedy. “No, its not that, it's just that whenever I'm at the White House, officially I'm working.”

Kennedy ignored her, grabbed the two martini glasses from the bartender and handed one to Anna. “Follow me.”

Through the thickening crowd they went in search of a quiet place to talk. They garnered more than a few glances; both attractive women in their own right, Anna Rapp stunning and recognized by almost all, Irene Kennedy classy and reserved and also recognized by all, though for vastly different reasons.

As they continued through the East Room several people tried to stop Kennedy. Each time she smiled, apologized and kept moving. At the southern end of the opulent room they found a quiet spot and turned to face each other.

Kennedy held up her glass and in a conciliatory tone she said, “To your husband. One of the finest men I've ever known.”

Anna wasn't sure how much she was supposed to read into the comment, but before she had time to really think about it Kennedy touched her glass and it was time to drink. The cold, fruit-tinged vodka went down smoothly. In a less confrontational voice the reporter asked, “So, tell me, where have you sent my husband off to this time?”

Kennedy took another sip while she thought of how best to handle this. Deciding on a bit of an unusual course, she asked, “Didn't he tell you?”

This threw Anna for a bit of a loop and then she caught the sarcasm. “No, he didn't tell me, and you know he didn't. So why don't you?”

Kennedy literally never lost her temper, but this pushy reporter was begging to be put in her place. Where this lack of emotional control originated from she wasn't exactly sure, but she could hazard a guess. It lay somewhere in the belief that Mitch deserved better. In a chilly tone she asked, “Do you have any respect whatsoever for your husband?”

“Of course I respect him,” snapped Anna.

“Then why do you put him at risk by walking around like a put-off high school homecoming queen?”

Anna bristled at the comment. “Don't condescend to me, Irene. This is my husband we're talking about.”

“Exactly”—Kennedy moved in closer—“and if you really cared about him you'd stop asking people where he is. You'd remember that he's very good at what he does, and you'd honor him by keeping your mouth shut.” Kennedy leaned in so her face was just inches from Anna's and in a low angry voice said, “His job is infinitely more important than both yours and mine. Do you have any idea how many lives he's saved over the years?”

Kennedy saw the defiance in Anna's eyes and said, “Sure, all your friends in the media like to call him an assassin, but have they ever stopped to count the lives he's saved?” Kennedy didn't pause long enough to give her a chance to answer. “Of course they haven't. He didn't just save your life that day upstairs, he saved dozens. Have you ever stopped to ask yourself that maybe right now he's doing exactly that? That he's saving lives?”

Kennedy eased back a bit and looked over her shoulder to see if anyone was trying to eavesdrop. Turning back to Anna, she added, “Right now there's a family of Americans whose lives depend on your husband. A mother and father and three little children. Think about that for a minute.” Kennedy looked at Anna with commanding eyes. “Would you deny them the same gift of life that Mitch gave you?”

Anna was completely caught off guard. She knew that Kennedy was scheduled to attend the dinner. She had rehearsed this confrontation several times and it never played out this way. At no time was she ever supposed to be on the defensive. Kennedy was supposed to be backpedaling. Kennedy was supposed to be listening. Anna was supposed to be in control.

Slowly, Anna began shaking her head. Her mind was flooded with memories of that night, not so long ago, when Mitch had saved her life. Her thoughts turned to the Anderson family that had gone missing in the Philippines. They had to be who Kennedy was talking about. She'd seen photos of them and their cute little redheaded children. Anna could not deny them their best hope. Standing up a bit straighter she struggled to find the right words. “Just knowing where he is and what he's doing, helps.”

Kennedy nodded, satisfied that she had got the young reporter to think of more than herself.

“But I worry about him.” Anna thought of her honeymoon and her husband's scarred body. Her eyes moistened. “I worry that one of these times he's not going to come home.”

Kennedy honestly felt for the young bride. Clasping Anna's shoulder, she smiled and said, “I used to worry about him too, until I realized that it's the other guys who are in trouble.”

Anna dabbed a tear from the corner of her eye and said sarcastically, “Great. That makes me feel much better.”

Kennedy smiled. “Don't worry about him. I can tell you that he's nowhere near the action. He's helping plan the rescue, but will not be participating in it.”

Distrustful but hopeful, Anna asked, “Really?”

“Yes,” nodded Kennedy.

Anna let out a heavy sigh of relief. “Good. I just don't know if I could bear losing him.”

Kennedy tried to see things through Anna's eyes. It had been so long since she'd been in love, and it was a very real possibility that she had never felt as deeply for her husband as Anna did for Mitch. Theirs was a passionate marriage born in the heat of battle. He had saved her life, and then she had given him the one thing he secretly yearned for: a real life.

There had been plenty of times when Kennedy had worried about Rapp when he was on operations. She loved him like a brother and stayed up late at night hoping he would return safely. Kennedy gave Anna an unusually warm smile and said, “I know how much he means to you, and if at any time I can help ease some of your worries, if I can answer some of your questions, then I will.”

Anna was shocked by the generous and uncharacteristic offer. All she could do was smile and say thank you.

“All off the record, and never to be discussed with anyone else, of course,” Kennedy said with a very serious expression.

“Of course.” Anna took a drink of her cosmopolitan and studied her husband's boss. Maybe she'd misjudged Irene Kennedy.

C
oleman and Wicker had descended the mountain without incident and then very slowly and deliberately worked their way through the thick jungle with the goal of linking back up with Hackett and Stroble. Using the various paths that snaked their way through the plush vegetation was unwise, so even though they were going mostly downhill, it took a full two hours before they reached their comrades.

The last hundred or so feet was navigated on their bellies. Thanks to their secure Motorola radios and GPS devices, they were able to locate the well-concealed Hackett and Stroble without needing them to reveal their position. The two former SEALs had picked a spot atop a small ridgeline among the roots of a large mangrove tree. Their vantage of the Abu Sayyaf camp was ideal.

When Coleman reached the hide, he was surprised to find how lax the enemy's security was. A cooking fire puffed smoke into the air and the men lounged about with no apparent concern that they might be attacked. At first glance there appeared to be no perimeter patrol. Coleman took this as further evidence that General Moro had been under their payroll.

Looking through binoculars he counted four dilapidated lean-tos and two green tents that appeared to be of the U.S. army surplus type. Two men were busy tying down a blue tarp over one of the lean-tos as they prepared for the storm that was coming. The color of the tarp was further evidence that contrary to the intelligence reports they'd seen, these guerrillas were not a crack outfit. Coleman guessed the site was an abandoned village of some sort. Methodically, he scanned every foot looking for the Andersons. He checked each dwelling and saw no sign of the family. This meant they'd already been moved to a different camp, or they were inside one of the army tents. Coleman prayed it was the latter.

Knowing they had a long day ahead of them, Coleman ordered Hackett and Stroble to get some shut-eye while he sent Wicker to reconnoiter their left flank, and see if he could confirm the location of the Andersons.

As Wicker squirmed away, the former commander of SEAL Team 6 got Rapp on the secure net and began the process of meticulously relaying the location of each structure, the precise terrain of the camp and the exact strength of the enemy. Neither man communicated the obvious. Come nightfall they would be launching one of the most delicate and challenging of all military operations: a hostage rescue. Unlike almost every other military engagement, this one needed to be exercised with great restraint. It needed to be carried out with extreme skill and precision, or the hostages would get mowed down in the cross fire.

 

The expansive nonskid deck of the USS Belleau Wood pitched and rolled as the seas intensified with the oncoming storm. Standing on the aft section of the flattop, Rapp picked up a suppressed MP-5 submachine gun that was lying on a tarp with several others. He held the weapon in his hands for a second getting a feel for the balance, and then pulled back the slide. After checking the chamber he released the cocking lever and listened for the click of a 9mm round being chambered.

In front of him were eight cardboard silhouette body targets. Rapp thumbed the selector switch from safety to single shot. He paid no attention to the men who were standing behind him. Moving with the confidence of someone who had done this many times before, he brought the weapon up into the firing position. His right foot moved slightly in front of his left, his entire body crouched a bit and he leaned forward. With the butt of the weapon nestled firmly to his left shoulder he looked down the black steel and through the hoop sight.

The ship rolled under his feet and with his knees flexed, Rapp found the rhythm. He squeezed the trigger once and a bullet spat from the end of the thick black silencer. Thirty feet away the projectile tore a hole in the center of the head of the paper target. Rapp squeezed off two more rounds that enlarged the hole created by the first bullet. Then flipping the selector switch from single shot to fully automatic he began moving down the line, spraying the targets with lead. Each paper silhouette varied in distance from thirty to fifty feet but it didn't seem to affect Rapp's marksmanship. By the time he reached the end all eight heads were shredded.

Pausing for only a second, Rapp did a speed load on a fresh thirty-round magazine and started back down the line, this time shooting with one hand and moving at a much quicker pace. When he reached the end he stopped and analyzed the fresh set of holes he'd added to the chest of each target. Satisfied with the weapon he turned to the chief and said, “This one will do just fine.”

Lieutenant Jackson, who'd been watching with great interest, smiled and said, “Not bad.”

Rapp grinned. “It was easy. They weren't moving.”

As Rapp walked toward the superstructure Lieutenant Jackson fell in. “Do you want to tell me what you're up to?”

“What do you mean?”

“Somehow I get the feeling you're not going to sit this one out on the sidelines.”

Rapp kept walking toward the superstructure. He'd been on autopilot all morning, diligently putting the op together. It was now after noon and things were gelling nicely. Coleman had confirmed that the Andersons were in one of the army tents, both SEAL platoons were ready, the insertion had been planned, the backup was in place and the extraction was ready. Now all they had to do was wait for nightfall.

The only thing that was left for Rapp was to be honest with himself. He was drawn toward the action like a surgeon to the operating room. He didn't have to go; Coleman and his men were some of the best in the world, as were Jackson and his SEALs. But as good as they were Rapp knew he was better, and Coleman would be the first to admit it.

Rapp knew if he didn't do everything in his power to save that family he'd never forgive himself. Anna would never understand that, but she didn't have to know. That, combined with being on the other side of the planet, made it easier to make the decision.

“Yeah,” said Rapp, “I'm going.” One concern had consistently come up in the operational planning meeting. The Abu Sayyaf group that was holding the Andersons was not the only guerrilla element on the island. The way they were armed made it highly unlikely that they were the force that had ambushed the SEAL team several nights earlier. With that in mind Jackson was concerned about landing his platoon on the beach. Like any leader he had no desire to lead his team into an ambush.

The most readily available solution to the problem was to be inserted by helicopter farther inland as Coleman and his men had been the night before. Rapp, however, ruled this out immediately. Neither Jackson nor Captain Forester knew the real reason why Coleman and his team were on the island. They both thought it was to track down the Andersons.

If they knew the whole story, as Rapp did, they would probably come to the same conclusion. And that was that Coleman's helicopter insertion had more than likely spooked the Andersons' captors into moving them. If the guerrillas decided to move again, the rescue would have to be postponed until another plan could be drawn up.

Coleman offered to send one of his men on the three-mile hike back to the beach to check things out in advance of the landing, but Rapp also ruled this out without hesitation. He wanted Coleman and his men focused on the target. If the guerrillas decided to move again he would need all four of them on the hunt. There was also the remote possibility that they might be discovered by the guerrillas and if that happened Coleman minus even one man could mean the difference between survival and annihilation.

There was a readily available solution to the danger of the landing. Rapp had been tossing it around in his head for several hours and decided now was the time to make it known. Looking at Jackson he asked, “How tall are you?”

Jackson looked a little confused. “Five-eleven. Why?”

Rapp gave him the once-over from head to toe. “One hundred and seventy-five pounds?”

“One seventy-eight.”

“Good.” Rapp slapped Jackson on the back and said, “You wouldn't mind lending me some of your gear, would ya?”