Transfer of Power

THE BLUEPRINTS were spread out on the large table in General Flood’s office. Mitch Rapp was nodding his head in understanding as Milt Adams showed him the whereabouts of a secret passageway not noted on the drawing. Adams had changed into more appropriate attire and was wearing a blue suit, with a white shirt and solid maroon tie. The tie was held in place by a shiny brass USMC tie bar.

Rapp looked down at a marking on the blueprint and asked, “That door is fake?”

“Well, it’s not fake exactly. It works, but it’s always locked.”

“How are we going to get through it?… Do we have to pick it?”

“No.” Adams grinned dubiously, and then reaching into his pocket, he extracted a large key ring.

“This right here”-Adams found the right key-“this is an S-key.” He held up the key proudly for Rapp to see.

“What in the hell is an S-key?” Rapp asked.

“An S-key,” Adams said in a dramatic tone, “gets you into all of the sensitive areas. All of the agents on the presidential detail have one and only a select few others. This little key opens stuff like the weapons lockers and”-Adams tapped the blueprint-“doors that lead to places that don’t exist.”

Rapp took the key from Adams and studied it. He had taken a liking to the old man. He knew his stuff, and if Rapp’s gut was right, he could trust him in a pinch.

“If this thing is so important, how did you just walk off the job with one?”

Adams snatched the key back, acting more offended than he really was.

“How many times do I have to tell you? I ran the place. Those goofy White House ushers like to think they run things… the way they always strut around; well, let me tell you, it was my place. When something needed to get done, I was the one they called.”

“Take it easy. Milt. I believe you. I’m just ribbing you a little bit.”

“You’re a funny guy, Mr. Secret Agent Man.” Adams reached out with surprising quickness and poked Rapp in the stomach, At that exact moment, the door to General Flood’s office opened and in walked Director Stansfield and the chairman of the Joint Chiefs himself. Flood wasn’t more than a step into the room before he was tugging at the buttons of his uniform blouse; he always seemed to be in a hurry to get out of the constricting tunic. By the time he reached the conference table, the jacket was off.

“This must be Milt Adams,” he said.

The capacious general walked over to the considerably smaller Adams and extended his hand.

“It’s nice to meet you. Milt.”

Flood then gestured to Stansfield.

“Have you met Thomas Stansfield?”

Adams shook his head and extended his hand.

“Nope.”

Stansfield smiled ever so slightly.

“It’s nice to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you.” Stansfield pumped his hand.

“General Flood tells me you fought with the Marines on Iwojima.”

“Yep. The Sixth Ammunition Company.”

There was an awkward moment of silence, and then the general said, “Mitch here tells us you think you may have found a way into the White House.” Flood glanced down at his conference table.

“Yep.” Adams waved them over to his blueprints and proceeded to show Stansfield and Flood the way in.

Adams was about sixty seconds into his song and dance, and everything seemed to be going pretty well with one exception. He kept using the plural we instead of the singular I. Stansfield picked up on this and began glancing at Rapp for clarification. Milt Adams had offered his guide services to Rapp, and Rapp had Instantly seen the value in bringing Adams along. What he hadn’t yet figured out was how to pitch the idea to his boss.

General Flood made the question moot when he interrupted Adams by asking, “What’s this ‘we’ stuff?”

Looking up from the blueprints, Adams waggled his thumb back and forth between himself and Rapp.

“Mitch and me… that’s who the ‘we’ is.”

“Hnun,” snorted Flood with a frown thrown in for good measure.

“Aren’t you a little old for this kind of stuff. Milt?”

“I might be old, but I’m fit as a fiddle.” Adams turned to Rapp.

“Should I show ‘em?”

Slightly embarrassed, Rapp nodded and said, “Sure.” Milt had already given Rapp proof of his fitness.

Adams hit the deck and ripped off twenty push-ups in quick order; then he sprang back to his feet, barely out of breath.

“I do a hundred push-ups and two hundred sit-ups every morning, and I walk five miles a day.” Adams licked his lips.

“Except Sundays… Sundays are my day off.”

General Flood eyeballed the little spark plug before him, unsure of what to make of the unorthodox display and slightly envious, since he had let his own fitness slide so far.

“I don’t think his fitness will be an issue,” Rapp added hastily.

“If there’s any heavy work to be done, I can handle it.

The key is his knowledge of the interior. It’ll be invaluable to me.”

Stansfield was skeptical.

“Why not grab someone from the Secret Service?”

“They don’t know where everything is.” Adams shook his head.

“They know where some of the stuff is, but not all of it.

I know every inch of that building.”

Flood studied Adams for a moment and said, “You know things could get hairy in there.”

Milt Adams looked up at the general with a no-nonsense grin on his face.

“You know. General, I spent almost two months on Iwo. We lost over six thousand marines, and the Japs lost over twenty thousand soldiers. I saw buddies get their heads literally blown clear off; I saw men burned to death; I saw people die in the worst ways you could imagine

“Adams shook his head.

“No offense, gentlemen, but it’s all child’s play compared to the hell I went through on that island.”

Flood had been in battle himself, but nothing that even came close to the hell that had occurred in the battle for Iwo Jima. “I would imagine you’re right.” The general was beginning to admire the old man’s spunk.

After another moment of consideration, Flood said

“Mitch if you think it’s a good idea, I’m behind you. “Then turning to the director of the CIA, he asked, “Thomas?”

Stansfield, with his typical calm demeanor, answered, “If Mitch thinks it wise… I’m behind him as well.”

Just then there was a knock on the door, and everyone turned. General Flood bellowed across the room, “Enter.”

Lt. Commander Harris and Admiral Devoe stepped into the room and saluted. The admiral said, “You wanted to see us, General.” Flood returned the salute and said, “Yes. Come over here, gentlemen. I don’t want you to think your talents are being squandered while Delta Force and the FBI get all of the action.

I have plans for you, but I didn’t want to discuss them in front of the group.”

The two naval officers approached the group. Admiral Devoe was the commander of the Naval Special Warfare Group and in charge of all SEAL teams. Harris, looking quite a bit more like an officer than the last time he and Rapp had met, walked at his boss’s side. His ponytail and beard had been removed at the direction of Admiral Devoe. The unruly hygiene of a terrorist was fine when Harris was holed up down at HQ in Little Creek or out in the field, but a meeting with the Joint Chiefs was cause for a more by-the-book appearance.

“I think you know these two gentlemen.” Flood pointed to Rapp and Stansfield.

Harris nodded professionally.

“Director Stansfield, Mr. Kruse.” The admiral did the same.

Rapp stuck out his hand.

“It’s good to see you again, Harry.” Harris locked on to Rapp’s hand and shook it firmly.

“Good to see you, Mitch.”

Flood grabbed the two naval officers by the shoulders and showed them the blueprints strewn out across the conference table.

“Gentlemen, I’ve asked you to join us because I’d like your opinion on something.”