Transfer of Power

THE LIGHTS WERE off in the bunker, and everyone was trying to get some sleep. Warch was lying on the bunk closest to the door. The Secret Service agent was wide-awake. He could hear President Hayes snoring at the far end of the room, and every minute or so squeaking springs could be heard as someone turned on the narrow beds.

Warch wondered how his wife and children were doing.

His family would be afraid, but that couldn’t be helped. Being married to someone who was trained to throw himself in front of an oncoming bullet was a little nerve-racking, but Sara was strong. She would have the kids to keep her busy, and her parents were in Baltimore. The Service would tell her and the kids that he was all right. Warch’s thoughts turned to the other wives and husbands that weren’t as fortunate. Over and over again, Wirch had replayed the frantic radio traffic that had barked out over his earpiece while they rushed the president to the bunker.

“Agents down! Agents down!

“And then there was the explosion and the machine gun fire. And now, over twelve hours later-nothing.

Everything added up to one conclusion: Aziz and his terrorists were in control of the White House. Warch ran down a list of the faces and names of his agents who were on the day shift. He couldn’t help but wonder which ones had made it out alive and which ones were dead.

Still, despite what was undoubtedly the worst day in the history of the Secret Service, they had at least saved the president from the talons of Aziz. Warch savored that one accomplishment as he felt sleep coming on.

He rolled toward the wall and let out a yawn When most of the air was expelled from his lungs, he froze.

Warch had not heard the noise before; he was sure of that.

Craning his neck toward the door, he tried to listen. It was a clanging noise, metal on metal. There were several more clanging noises and then a low whine, almost like an electric razor.

Warch listened for another moment and then sprang out of bed, throwing his blankets to the side. The concrete floor felt cold to his feet. In his white T-shirt and boxers he knelt on the floor and pressed his left ear to the door, and then it hit him. It was a drill. They were drilling through the vault door, which meant they had already broken through the outer door.

Warch’s palms became sweaty on the cool metallic surface, and he swore out loud. Standing, he turned on the light and said to the room at large, “Wake up, people. We have trouble.”