Transfer of Power

THE WHITE HOUSE was silent as the clock approached midnight. Aziz left the Situation Room and walked down the hall to Horsepower. The door was open, and Aziz entered without knocking. Sitting in a swivel chair, Bengazi was keeping an eye on a bank of black-and-white security monitors. The monitors showed different areas of the grounds around the White House and shots of all the main entrances. Normally the system also kept an eye on areas within the White House, but Bengazi had disabled the cameras for fear that the FBI might find some way to pirate the images and spy on them.

Aziz placed his hand on the back of the chair and asked, “How does everything look?”

“Nice and quiet.”

“Good. Have you been getting sleep?”

“Yes”

“How about the men?”

“They are doing fine.”

“And the hostages?”

“Asleep.”

As Aziz looked at the monitors, the walkie-talkie on his hip squawked and his name barked forth.

Bringing it to his mouth, he said, “Yes.”

“Rafique, I have made progress. I think you should come see.”

“I’ll be right down.” Aziz had been not-so-padendy waiting for this update. Having succeeded beyond all of his people’s wildest dreams, he was still not content, and would not be until he wrestled the cowardly president from his bunker. He held the White House hostage and the entire government of the United States had come to a grinding halt, but that wasn’t enough.

Aziz reached the third basement and headed for the bunker. When he rounded the corner, he found his man sitting on a toolbox, drenched in sweat, and smoking a cigarette.

The short, fat man looked up with a large grin, his nicotine stained teeth topped by a pointy nose and a graying mustache.

Goggles hung from his neck and a pair of orange ear protectors were perched atop his head, giving him the appearance of a plump rodent.

The man placed his large and thick horn-rimmed glasses back on his face and waved toward the outer door to the bunker with a smile.

“Open sesame.”

Aziz stepped forward and pushed on the steel door. It swung inward, revealing a room and a shiny vaultlike door at the other end. A rush of emotion swept over him as he thought of the president and his bodyguards sitting on the other side of the door, thinking they were safe. Aziz walked slowly across the concrete floor and stopped just in front of the vault door. Extending his hand, he placed his palm flat on the smooth surface. Clenching his fist, Aziz hammered on the door twice. No sound reverberated. Spinning away from the door, Aziz looked at the last minute addition to his cause.

The frumpy man before him was a gift from Aziz’s newest benefactor. A man who had a very personal stake in how Aziz’s mission turned out. The slovenly safecracker standing in the doorway had come complete with his own look and unique talent. As it was explained to Aziz, the door that was installed on the president’s bunker was of the same type that the U.S. military used for all of their command-and-control bunkers, and was designed to withstand large blasts, not drills and acetylene blowtorches.

Aziz looked at the man and asked, “How long will this door take?”

The safecracker exhaled a cloud of smoke and said, “If I push it and risk burning out one of the drills, I could probably have it open in thirty hours.”

“What happens if you lose one of the drills?”

“Then we are in trouble.” The little thief shrugged.

“It could end up taking three to four days.”

“And if you play it safe?”

“I can have it open in forty-eight hours.”

Aziz put his hands in a prayerful grip and bounced them off his chin twice.

“Forty-eight hours will suffice.” And with a wave of his finger, he cautioned, “But no longer than that.”

Aziz walked past him and slapped him on the shoulder.

“Good work, Mustafa.” Aziz left the room, leaving his little thief to retrieve the crown jewel. As he walked down the hallway, he thought. All I have to do is keep them at bay for two more days.