Gunn glanced over in the darkness. “You never met Dean Cooper Wallace when he was vice president?”
Sandecker shook his head. “From what I'm told, he has no use for NUMA.”
The limousine driver turned off Pennsylvania Avenue and circled into the barricaded drive to the White House, stopping at the northwest gate. “Here we are, Admiral,” he announced as he came around and opened the rear door.
A uniformed member of the Secret Service checked San-decker's and Gunn's IDs and crossed off their names on a visitors' list. Then they were escorted through the building's entrance and led to the West Wing reception room. The receptionist, an attractive lady in her late thirties with auburn hair tied in an old-fashioned bow, rose and smiled warmly. The sign on her desk read
ROBIN CARR.
“Admiral Sandecker, Commander Gunn, a great pleasure to meet you.”
“You work long hours,” said Sandecker.
“Fortunately, my time clock ticks in unison with the President's.”
“Any chance for a cup of coffee?” asked Gunn.
The smile faded. “I'm sorry, but I'm afraid there isn't time.” She quickly sat down, picked up a phone and simply said, “The Admiral is here.”
Within ten seconds, the new President's chief of staff, Morton Laird, who had replaced the hospitalized former president's right-hand man, Wilbur Hutton, appeared and shook hands. “Thank you for coming, gentlemen. The President will be pleased to see you.”
Laird came from the old school. He was the only chief of staff in recent history who wore three-piece suits with vests that sported a large gold chain attached to a pocket watch. And unlike most of his predecessors, who came out of Ivy League schools, Laird was a former professor of communications from Stanford University* A tall, balding man with rimless spectaclesr he peered through glistening fox-brown eyes beneath heavily thicketed eyebrows. He oozed charm and was one of the few men in the executive office whom everyone genuinely liked. He turned and motioned for Sandecker and Gunn to follow him into the Oval Office.
The famous room, whose walls had witnessed a thousand crises, the lonely burdens of power and agonized decisions that affected the lives of billions of people, was empty.
Before either Sandecker or Gunn could comment, Laird turned and said, “Gentlemen, what you will observe in the next twenty minutes is vital to our nation's security. You must swear never to breathe a word to anyone. Do I have your oath of honor?”
“I venture to say that in all my years of service to my government, I've learned and kept more secrets than you have, Mr. Laird,” said Sandecker with total conviction. “I will vouch for Commander Gunn's integrity.”
“Forgive me, Admiral,” said Laird. “It comes with the territory.” Laird walked over to one wall and tapped a concealed switch on the baseboard. A section of the wall slid aside, revealing the interior of an elevator. He bowed and extended his hand. “After you.”
The elevator was small and could hold no more than four people. The walls were finished in a polished cedar. There were only two buttons on the control panel, one up, one down. Laird pressed DOWN. The false wall inside the Oval Office silently returned to its place as the elevator doors met and sealed. There was no sensation of speed, but Sandecker knew they were dropping at a rapid pace from the falling sensation in his stomach. In less than a minute the elevator slowed and came to a soft stop.
“We're not meeting the President in the situation room,” said Sandecker, more as a statement than a question.
Laird looked at nun questioningly. “You guessed?”
“No guess. I've been there on several occasions. The situation room sits much deeper than we've traveled.”
“You're very astute, Admiral,” replied Laird. “This elevator goes less than half the distance.”
The doors smoothly parted, and Laird stepped out into a brightly lit, immaculately maintained tunnel. A Secret Service agent stood beside the open doors of a small, customized bus. The ulterior was fitted out like a small office, with plush leather chairs, a horseshoe-shaped desk, a well-stocked minibar and compact bathroom. Once everyone was comfortably seated, the Secret Service agent eased behind the wheel and spoke into a microphone with an earpiece placed on his head. “Swordfish is leaving the premises.” Then he engaged the transmission, and the bus moved off soundlessly into a large tunnel.
“Swordfish is my code name with the Secret Service,” Laird explained almost sheepishly.
“Electric motor,” commented Sandecker on the silent running of the bus.
“More efficient than building a complicated ventilation system to draw off the exhaust fumes of gas engines,” explained Laird.
Sandecker stared at the side entrances leading off from the main tunnel in which they were traveling. “There's more to underground Washington than most people imagine.”
“The system of passages and thoroughfares beneath the city form an intricate maze well over a thousand miles in length. Not exactly public knowledge, of course, except for tunnels built for sewage, drainage, steam and electrical wiring, but there is an extensive network in daily use for vehicular transportation. It spreads from the White House to the Supreme Court, Capitol building, State Department, under the Potomac to the Pentagon, the Central Intelligence Agency headquarters in Langley, and about a dozen other strategic government buildings and military bases in and around the city.”
“Something like the catacombs of Paris,” said Gunn.
“The Paris catacombs pale in comparison to Washington's underground web,” said Laird. “May I offer you gentlemen a drink?”
Sandecker shook his head. “I'll pass.”
“Not for me, thank you,” answered Gunn. He turned to the admiral. “Did you know about this, sir?”
“Mr. Laird forgets that I've been a Washington insider for many years. I've traveled a few of the tunnels from time to time. Because they run below the water tables, it takes a small army of maintenance people to fight the invading damp and slime to keep them dry. There are also the derelicts, drug dealers and criminals who use them for warehousing illegal goods, and the young people who get a high partying in dark and eerie chambers. And, of course, reckless daredevils driven by curiosity and a lack of claustrophobia who find sport in exploring the passageways. Many of them are experienced cavers who find unknown labyrinths a challenge.”
“With so many intruders wandering in and out, how can they be controlled?”
“The main arteries crucial for government operations are guarded by a special security force which monitors them by video and infrared sensors,” Laird said by way of explanation. “Penetration into critical areas is next to impossible.”
Gunn said slowly, “This is certainly news to me.”
Sandecker smiled enigmatically. “The President's chief of staff neglected to mention the escape tubes.”
Laird covered his surprise by pouring himself a small glass of vodka. “You're extraordinarily well informed, Admiral.”
“Escape tubes?” Gunn asked mechanically.
“Shall I?” Sandecker asked almost apologetically.
Laird nodded and sighed. “It seems government secrets have a short life.”
“A script straight out of science-fiction movies,” Sandecker continued. “Until now, saving the President, his Cabinet and the military Chiefs of Staff during a nuclear strike by whisking them away by helicopter to an airfield or an underground operations center was a fallacy almost from the beginning. Submarine missiles fired from a few hundred miles out at sea during a surprise attack could rain down on the city in less than ten minutes. Not nearly enough time to carry out an emergency evacuation.”
“There had to be another way,” added Laird. “And there is,” Sandecker went on. “Underground tubes leading out of the city were constructed using electromagnetic technology that can hurl a convoy of canisters containing high-ranking people from the White House and classified material from the Pentagon to Andrews Air Force Base and into the basement of a hangar where an air-command-transport version of the B-2 bomber is prepared to take off within seconds of their arrival.”
“I'm pleased to learn that I know something that you don't,” Laird said cryptically.
“If I took a wrong turn, please set me straight.”
“Andrews Air Force Base is too widely known for departure and arrival of aircraft carrying high-level personnel,” said Laird. “You were quite correct about a facility for housing a B-2 modified as an airborne command post. But the plane is based underground at a secret site southeast of the city in Maryland.”
“If you'll forgive me,” said Gunn, “I don't doubt what you're saying, but it does have a ring of fantasy about it.”
Laird cleared his throat and spoke directly to Gunn as if he was lecturing a schoolboy. “The American public would be knocked out of their socks if they had the slightest glimpse of the devious and circuitous maneuvers that take place around the nation's capital in the name of good government. I know I certainly was when I came here. I still am.”
The bus slowed and came to a stop beside the entrance of a short passageway that led toward a steel door standing beneath two video cameras. The forbidding starkness was heightened by recessed fluorescent lighting that illuminated the narrow chamber with an intense brilliance. To Gunn it appeared as “the last mile” walked by condemned murderers on their way to the gas chamber. He remained in his chair, his eyes straying into the passageway when the driver came around and opened the side panel on the bus.
“Begging your pardon, sir, but one more question.” Gunn shifted his gaze to Laird. “I'd be grateful to learn just where it is we're meeting with the President.”
Laird looked speculatively at Gunn for a moment. Then at Sandecker. “How say you, Admiral?”
Sandecker shrugged. “In this circumstance I can only rely on speculation and rumor. I'm curious myself.”
“Secrets are meant to be kept,” said Laird seriously, “but since you've come this far and your history of honor in the service of your country goes unquestioned, I believe I can take it upon myself to induct you into what is a very exclusive fraternity.” He paused and then continued tolerantly. “Our short journey has taken us to Fort McNair and directly beneath what was once the base hospital until it was abandoned after World War H.”
“Why Fort McNair?” Gunn persisted. “It seems more convenient for the President to have met us at the White House.”
“Unlike former chief executives, President Wallace almost never goes near the place at night.” He said it as if it were a comment on the weather.
Gunn looked confused. “I don't understand.”
“It's painfully simple, Commander. We live in a Machiavellian world. Leaders of unfriendly countries—enemies of the United States, if you will—armies of highly trained and skilled terrorists or just plain crazies, they all dream of destroying the White House and its live-in residents. Many have tried. We all remember the car that crashed through the gate, the lunatic who fired an automatic weapon through the fence on Pennsylvania Avenue, and the suicidal maniac who flew his plane onto the South Lawn. Any athlete with a good throwing arm could heave a rock from the street against the Oval Office windows. The sad fact is the White House is a tough target to miss—”
“That goes without saying,” added Sandecker. “The number of attempts that were nipped in the bud by our intelligence services remains a deep secret.”
“Admiral Sandecker is correct. The professionals who planned to assault the Executive Mansion were apprehended before their operation could get off the ground.” Laird finished off his vodka and set the glass in a small sink before exiting the bus. “It is too dangerous for the First Family to eat and sleep in the White House. Except for public tours, occasional press conferences, social functions for visiting dignitaries and photo opportunities of the President meeting in the Rose Garden with the public, the First Family is seldom at home.”
Gunn found it difficult to accept the revelation. “You're saying the executive branch of the government conducts business someplace other than the White House?”
“Ninety-five feet above us, to be precise.”
“How long has this facade been going on?” asked Sandecker.
“Since the Clinton administration,” answered Laird.
Gunn stared thoughtfully at the steel door. “When you consider the current situation at home and abroad, I guess now you see him, now you don't, does seem a practical solution.”
“It seems a shame,” said Sandecker solemnly, “to learn that what was once the revered home of our presidents has now been reduced to little more than a reception facility.”
Sandecker and Gunn followed Laird out of the elevator across a circular reception room guarded by a Secret Service agent and into a library whose four walls were packed from floor to ceiling with over a thousand books. As the door was closed behind him, Sandecker saw the President standing in the center of the room, his eyes fixed on the admiral but showing no trace of recognition. There were three other men in the room. One Sandecker knew, the other two were unfamiliar. The President held a coffee cup in his left hand as Laird made the introductions.
“Mr. President, Admiral James Sandecker and Commander Rudi Gunn.”
The President gave the impression of being older than he was. He looked sixty-five but was still in his late fifties. The premature gray hair, red veins streaming through his facial skin, the beady eyes that always seemed reddened, inspired political cartoonists often to caricature him as a wino, when in fact he rarely drank anything more than an occasional glass of beer. He was an intense man with a round face and low forehead and thin eyebrows. He was the consummate politician. Within days of replacing his ailing boss, no decision regarding his lifestyle or the state of the union was made without considering the potential for gathering votes for his run for office in the next election.
Dean Cooper Wallace would not become one of Sandecker's favorite presidents. It was no secret that Wallace detested Washington and refused to play the required social games. He and the Congress pulled in harness together like a lion and a bear, both wanting to eat the other. He was not an intellectual, but was adept at cutting deals and acting on intuition. Since replacing the man who had been duly elected, he had quickly surrounded himself with aides and advisers who shared his distrust of the entrenched bureaucracy and were always looking for innovative ways to circumvent tradition.
The President extended his free hand while still holding the coffee cup. “Admiral Sandecker, a pleasure to finally meet you.”
Sandecker involuntarily blinked. The President's grip was anything but hardy, not what he expected from a politician who pressed flesh year in and year out. “Mr. President. I hope this will be only the first of many times we meet face-to-face.”
“I expect so, since the prognosis for my predecessor is not good for a full recovery.”
“I'm sorry to hear it. He is a good man.” Wallace did not reply. He merely nodded at Gunn, acknowledging his presence, as Laird continued playing host. The chief of staff took the admiral by the arm and led him over to the three men standing in front of a gas fire that burned in a stone fireplace.
“Duncan Monroe, commissioner of the Immigration and Naturalization Service, and his executive associate commissioner for field operations, Peter Harper.” Monroe had a tough, no-nonsense look about him. Harper seemed as if he melted into the bookcase behind him. Laird turned to the third man. “Admiral Dale Ferguson, commandant of the Coast Guard.” “Dale and I are old friends,” said Sandecker. A large ruddy man with a ready smile, Ferguson gripped Sandecker by the shoulder. “Good to see you, Jim.”
“How are Sally and the kids? I haven't seen them since we took that cruise together around Indonesia.”