King stopped and looked out the window. A thought had just occurred to him. Maybe he was cheering for the wrong results. If the terrorists were killed, most of his problem would be solved.

"Dallas, what are you thinking?" Baxter asked. King shook his head and turned his attention back to his boss.

"Nothing. I was just trying to figure something out."

JACK WARCH WAS on his fourth set of crunches, the modern-day version of the much-hated sit-up. He had considered skipping his daily regimen, but decided he had nothing better to do. Warch did four hundred crunches every day of the week except Sunday, and on alternate days he threw in two hundred push-ups, a three-to-five-mile jog, and some stretching. He had it down to a science, which allowed him to stay in shape without spending hours at the gym.

As Warch finished his crunches, he eyed the pile of weapons sitting on the table across the room. The sight was irritating. All of that hardware and a room full of the best trained bodyguards in the world and the president wanted them to surrender. It was ingrained in Warch's psyche to win, not to lose. Coming from the old vince Lombardi school of "Show me a good loser, and I'll show you a loser," Warch couldn't stand the thought of them raising their hands in surrender.

He had risen to the most coveted post in the Secret Service by sheer dogged determination, and he was sure now there had to be a better alternative than surrendering.

That's when it hit him, with three more crunches to go.

Warch stopped, hands firmly clasped behind his neck, staring at the mound of black steel on the table. Some of the most accurate and lethal firepower made and nine highly trained individuals.

Warch's mind started to scramble. He saw a crack, a slight opening, a way to pull off a Hail Mary. Jumping to his feet, he almost blurted out his idea, but forced himself to sit down on his bunk and think things through thoroughly. He had to have this planned. He had to be able to head off all objections and sell it to the president.

STANSFIELD ALLOWED GENERAL Flood to blow off some steam. As Flood paced back and forth in front of his desk, Stansfield nodded from time to time in an effort to let Flood know he agreed with him. The elderly director of central intelligence had expected Baxter's unwillingness to give them the green light, and in his usual analytical way, Stansfield was already looking three moves ahead. He could have forewarned the general how Baxter would respond but felt an angry General Flood would be better than a calm one.

Things were coming to a head, and some decisions needed to be made.

Now would come the hard part. Stansfield knew Vice President Baxter would never pull the trigger. In his opinion, they should never have started down this road to begin with, but now they had to do something before it got worse. Baxter was maneuvering, trying to buy as much time as possible. The fact that he was doing it during a crisis with such far-reaching implications was almost unimaginable to Stansfield, and that was making his difficult decision much easier.

Thomas Stansfield was contemplating doing something that he had done only one other time in the fifty-plus years he had served his country.

It was something that could end his career in public disgrace, but he was willing to take that chance. He still had his ace in the hole, and now was the time to use it.

General Flood looked like a football coach chewing out his team at halftime. Stansfield watched him walk back and forth, shaking his fist and letting a stream of expletives flow from his mouth. Stansfield stayed quiet, letting him take as much time as needed. Gradually the expletives became fewer and the pacing slowed.

The general approached, looking miffed.

"You sure as hell are taking this well. It's not as if things weren't bad enough, and now we find out the president isn't safe. I mean, for Christ's sake, it doesn't take a genius to figure out that Aziz brought along this guy for this exact purpose. Now we know why he spaced the demands out the way he did. He needed time."

Stansfield nodded and moved in to test the water.

"Yes, but what can we do about it? If Baxter doesn't give us the approval, we are left without recourse."

"There's nothing we can do about it. That idiot's calling the shots, and unless we can find a way to convince him to attack, this will only get worse."

Stansfield thought Flood to be a good soldier. The thought of ordering an attack without the approval of Baxter would not even enter his mind With Stansfield, it was different. Spies were used to operating under a different set of rules; they were used to looking for creative ways to solve problems. Stansfield was not entirely free to do as he wished, but he had significantly more latitude than the general did. Although Stansfield's idea was clearly in violation of the orders Baxter had given him, he had already made up his mind, and he would go it alone.

The others had too much to lose. Nearing eighty, Stansfield knew the end was not far off. If ever there was a time to stick his neck out, this was it.

Looking up at the general with an almost mystical expression, Stansfield said, "There is one other option."

Flood eyed him with skepticism. He had looked feverishly for a way out and had found none.

"I don't see any way out of this other than hoping Baxter comes to his senses."

"There is one way, and it's right in front of us."

Flood was intrigued.

"Enlighten me."

Stansfield shook his head ever so slightly and said, "I think it best if you remain in the dark on this one."

Flood's hands moved to his hips, and a strange look washed over his face. He paused, wondering for a moment if he was reading Stansfield correctly.

"What do you have up your sleeve, Thomas?"

Stansfield looked out the large window behind his desk.

Without turning back to Hood, the director of the CIA said, "We both know what needs to be done. General, and there's no sense in risking two when one will suffice." Slowly looking back over his shoulder, he said,

"I think now would be a good time for you and General Campbell to go visit the front lines.

Maybe have a talk with HRT and Delta. See how they're doing. Make sure they're ready to move when the authority is given."

Flood squinted, part of him wanting to know what Thomas Stansfield was up to, but another part of him wanting nothing to do with whatever the director was planning.

"Thomas, what are you up to?"

Stansfield gingerly walked around the desk and placed his thin hand on Hoods substantial biceps. Turning him toward the door, Stansfield started to walk with him.

"I have the best of intentions. Do not worry." Several steps closer to the door and he added, "Just make sure the boys are ready to go when the time comes."

LESS THAN a minute later they were standing in the control room. Flood had informed Campbell that they were going to visit the troops. HRT would be first and then Delta. The ranger assumed it had something to do with the call to Vice President Baxter and hoped they were about to get the green light. He quickly gathered his things and on the way out the door held his encrypted cell phone up to Kennedy and reminded her to keep him informed of any changes.

After the two generals and several of their aides were gone, Kennedy looked at her boss, who was standing one step above her. Stansfield looked back at her with his tired old eyes.

"Did Baxter give you the assault authority?"

"No, I'm afraid not."

Kennedy's lips pursed.

"Why was General Flood in such a hurry to get out of here?"

"He had some things to take care of." Stansfield looked at his watch and then asked, "Is Mitch on the line?"

"Yes."

Stansfield thought it through one last time, making sure he had all of his bases covered. Then looking around the dark room, he said, "Irene, tell everyone to take a fifteen-minute break."