Vanishing Point Part 2

THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 12 P.M. AND 1 P.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME.

12:00:04 p.m. PDT.

The Cha-Cha Lounge, Las Vegas.

The holding room was located three levels below the gaming floor, in the casino's deepest subbas.e.m.e.nt. Yet even here the clatter of coin and the jangle of five hundred clicking, ringing slot machines penetrated the insulated brick walls and seeped through the cheap soundproof ceiling panels - an incessant carnival buzz that rose and fell like a demented organ grinder's squeeze box.

Jack Bauer closed his ears to the noise and barely registered his dismal surroundings; gray, unpainted walls, avocado-green phone without a press pad or dial, a steel fire gate that led to a concrete corridor, and a windowless steel door that led to the tiny holding cell behind the one-way mirror.

Jack approached the gla.s.s. He studied the man on the other side, absorbing every detail of the stranger's clothing, physical characteristics, and mannerisms.

Though the man wore a bland, relaxed expression, he'd been alone in that locked room for fifteen minutes and he was still perched on the edge of a Cha-Cha Lounge-orange fibergla.s.s chair, as if he were going to bolt the moment the door opened. Occasionally he'd gingerly touch his face, and Jack noticed a fresh bruise under his left eye.

Jack pegged the man's age as well into his fourth decade, though he tried to appear younger. His sandy brown hair - disheveled from the rough treatment he'd received at the hands of "casino security" - was white-gray under a clumsy dye job. His addict-thin body was clad head-to-toe in denim, the faded blue jacket torn at the sleeve, b.u.t.tons missing from his shirt. A crumpled cowboy hat lay on the concrete floor next to the man's scuffed leather boots.

"What's his name, Driscoll?" Jack asked the casino's pit boss. "Where'd he come from?"

Don Driscoll had the strength of a bull and the face of a bull dog, but the manner of a fastidious cat. With meaty hands, he adjusted the lapels of his bright orange sports jacket.

"Midnight Cowboy calls himself Chester Thompkins. Says he's a truck driver. He's got a North Carolina commercial license to prove it. Of course, that don't mean squat - 'specially not with that South Jersey lilt tucked in the back of his throat."

Driscoll was born and raised in Atlantic City, so he would know.

"Did he have anything else on him?" Jack asked. "Drugs? A weapon?"

Driscoll shook his dark head, his perfectly pomaded hair didn't move. "Just the gimmick, Jaycee."

The pit boss used Jack's alias because that was the only name he knew. Driscoll also believed J. C. "Jaycee" Jager was using this low-rent, off-the-beaten track casino as a front to launder mob money and pull a little loan sharking scam on the side.

"Where's the device?" Jack asked.

"Morris is examining it now."

"What about his wallet?"

"Curtis took it. He's running a make on the guy." Driscoll chuckled. "My bet, it'll come back light, if you know what I mean. The Lone Ranger had over forty Gs in his wallet. Ill-gotten gains, says me."

"Who spotted the scam?"

"Chick Hoffman, the croupier at table five." Driscoll displayed pride. "The roulette table was reset yesterday and the balance was good. Then along comes Jon Voight here, who's betting careful and winning big. Been here since nine-thirty in the AM. Hoffman got suspicious - naturally, 'cause I trained Chick myself."

"Did Hoffman find the device?"

Driscoll frowned. "Nah. It was Morris, up in the catwalk. Chick couldn't scope the scam, but he tripped the silent alarm anyway. O'Brian used X-rays or heat vision or some magic c.r.a.p to sniff it out. The gizmo was in the guy's jacket. There were wires in his sleeve, a laser lens hidden behind the cuff b.u.t.ton."

Driscoll rubbed his clean shaven jaw. "When we established for certain that he was cheating, I had security s.n.a.t.c.h him up and bring him down here. I saved him for you."

Jack dragged his eyes away from the man behind the mirror, faced Driscoll. "Tell Hoffman there'll be an extra grand in his envelope at the end of the day. There'll be a couple of Gs in your envelope, too." Bauer forced a half-smile. "Good work, Driscoll."

The pit boss brightened considerably. "Thanks Jaycee."

"Do you want me to stick around and help break this bunco rat?"

Jack shook his head. "I'm going to handle it myself. Do me a favor and find Curtis. I need to know what he dug up on this guy."

"Sure thing, boss. Right away."

Driscoll paused when he reached the fire door, one hand poised on the push bar, he seemed to be gathering his thoughts. "It's good what you're doing, Jaycee. It's the right thing."

"What are you talking about?" Jack's tone was p.r.i.c.kly.

Sensing his annoyance, Driscoll talked faster. "It's good to finally make an example, Jaycee. That's all I meant. Things were getting sloppy around here, across the board. The croupiers, the dealers, the Eyes in the Sky, even the G.o.dd.a.m.n c.o.c.ktail waitresses. And the word's out, you know? Sorry, but for nearly three months now, ever since you came on board, this casino's been drawing grifters like a cesspit draws flies."

Driscoll's watery gray eyes drifted to the man behind the mirror. "Nailing that b.a.s.t.a.r.d, dealing with him without the law... It'll send the right message to the right people. After this, n.o.body's gonna think Jaycee Jager is an easy mark. n.o.body."

Jack fixed a cold stare on Don Driscoll. "I came here from Kansas City to make my mark. And that includes making this dive profitable. That's what I'm going to do, no matter what it takes, no matter who I have to take down in the process." Jack shifted his gaze back to their cheater. "Now go find Curtis and send him down here. I'm going to need some muscle to take care of this son of a b.i.t.c.h."

The pit boss practically stood at attention. "Right, Jaycee. I gotta get back to the floor anyway."

The steel door clanged behind the pit boss and Jack was alone. Staring at the man behind the gla.s.s, he steeled himself for what might happen next, what he might be compelled to do.

The phone rang. Jack s.n.a.t.c.hed the receiver off its cradle.

"Jager," he answered, p.r.o.nouncing the name Yah-ger. Yah-ger.

"It's Morris, Jack," the man said, but O'Brian's c.o.c.kney accent would have been recognizable without the I.D. "I've had a look-see at that little gizmo your drugstore cowboy had in his tuck. It's the real deal. Just what we were lookin' for. That guy in the cell's our first lead..."

Jack's focus suddenly sharpened. The investigation into technology leaks at Groom Lake had been stalled for weeks, despite the resources expended - not to mention the difficulty of placing an inside man at the base without the United States Air Force knowing about him.

"What does he have, Morris?"

"A little black box, with a predictive roulette computer inside."

Jack frowned. "That's no big deal. They've been around since the early 1980s. Computers have been used to rip off casinos from the Riviera to Atlantic City."

"Ah, but this particular beast is smarter than the average bear. It's the Einstein of predictive computers."

Jack could envision the smug grin on Morris...o...b..ian's face.

"Get to the point, Morris."

"As you know, predictive computers use lasers to scan where the ball is in relation to the wheel, and then asks the computer to predict the section of the wheel where the ball will most likely land. Most predictive computers increase the probability of winning to say... one in three, or thirty-three percent. Good but not great. You can still lose your shirt with those odds. But the little b.u.g.g.e.r I'm holding in my hand is much better than that. Maybe as good as ninety percent, or better."

"That's impossible."

"I watched the security tapes, Jack, and I've tested it myself," Morris replied. "It's that good. And that's not all. The software... it's cribbed from the new, improved Patriot Missile system."

"How did that help him cheat?"

"The point of the Patriot system is to hit an incoming missile with a missile you fired. That's like hitting a flying bullet with another flying bullet. Measuring the speed of a steel ball on a roulette table is child's play to this software."

Jack stared at the man inside the cell. "Do you think this guy built it?"

Morris chuckled. "Our boy Thompkins? Hardly. Frankly, I'm surprised he learned how to use it."

"So where did he get it?"

"Actually, predictive computers are readily available from certain unscrupulous types, for a rather punishing outlay - say fifty or sixty grand. I haven't seen one this good, however, so I'd bet it's worth a couple of hundred thousand on the open market. When I'm through testing it, I'm going to take it apart and we'll know more."

"Do it quick," demanded Jack.

"Yes, yes, but it's a shame though." Suddenly Morris' tone brightened. "The good news is that once I dissect this, I can reverse engineer it. Build us both a pair and we could clean up, make us a fortune."

"I don't gamble."

Morris chuckled again. "Au contraire, Jack. You gamble every minute of the day."

Jack ignored O'Brian's talk show psychology. "Right now, as a matter of national security, we need to know where Thompkins bought this device and who made it."

"That's the long and short of it. I leave that job to you, my friend..."

Jack hung up just as the fire door opened. Curtis Manning entered, drew a sheaf of papers from the pocket of his bright orange Cha-Cha Lounge sports jacket.

"I gave him a drink of water, took the fingerprints off the plastic gla.s.s and sent it back to CTU," Curtis said, handing Jack the top page. "He's not who he says he is."

While Jack scanned the pages, Curtis spoke. "His real name's Max Farrow. Currently he's wanted for the a.s.sault of his ex-wife and his stepdaughter in New Jersey, where he's a convicted rapist. He also has one felony and a variety of misdemeanor convictions that are gambling-related. Got himself banned from the Atlantic City casinos for pa.s.sing bad dice, counting cards, fishing in the dealer box - you name it."

"And the rape conviction?"

"Sentenced to five years, paroled in two," Curtis said. "Farrow bailed out of a halfway house in Pa.s.saic last year, probably to avoid that state's s.e.x offender registry, which is public record. At least one member of the victim's family has vowed revenge..."

Jack stuffed the rap sheet into his black leather jacket. "Unlock the holding cell and wait here."

The man didn't look up when Jack Bauer entered. Instead he shifted in his seat and appraised the newcomer with a sidelong glance. As Jack circled the chair, Farrow thrust out his long legs to block his path. Bauer's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. Instead he stepped around the man, turning his back on his prisoner for just a moment.

Max Farrow leaped out of the chair and lunged at Jack, hands outstretched and reaching for Bauer's throat.

Jack was ready. He effortlessly sidestepped the clumsy charge, then grabbed the man's wrist with his left hand. He stepped around Farrow, twisting the man's arm behind him. Farrow was thin, but he was sinewy, and his resistance was substantial. Using leverage, Jack applied even more pressure, until the pain was enough to drop Farrow to one knee.

Bauer attempted to rattle the man further by raising his voice. "You want to hurt me?" he shouted. "Is that what you want? You want to hurt me?"

With his right hand, Jack reached into his leather jacket. When it came out again, the hand was circled by a carbon steel knuckle duster. With soft rubber surfaces to grip the hand and protect the wearer, the high-tech version of the old bra.s.s knuckles hugged Bauer's right fist like a glove.

Farrow saw metal and his eyes went wide. "What are you gonna do to me? I have rights! You can't hold me prisoner! You have to turn me over to the cops, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d!"

He'd made demands, but Farrow's panicked voice was anything but commanding.

"You're going to tell me a story, Max." Jack voice was a hoa.r.s.e whisper. "You're going to tell me where you got that computer in your pocket."

"No way, a.s.shole. I'm not a rat..."

Jack brought his bra.s.s fist down on the man's chin, cutting the sentence short.

"You're going to tell me where you got that computer, Farrow. Do you hear me?"

Farrow spit blood and stared at the floor. Jack yanked the man to his feet, and shoved him into the chair so hard the cheap orange fibergla.s.s cracked.

Grunting, Farrow kicked out. His boot heel barely missed Bauer's knee.

"Where did you get it?" Jack demanded again.

Farrow tried to rise. Jack backhanded him, then shoved his own boot into the other's chest. With a sharp snap, the chair broke in half, spilling Max Farrow along with dozens of fibergla.s.s shards onto the concrete floor. Jack avoided another kick, hauled the man to his feet again and shook him by his lapels.

"The computer, Farrow..."

"Go to h.e.l.l."

12:14:58 p.m. PDT Hangar Six, Experimental Weapons Testing Range Groom Lake Air Force Base The mast had been constructed overnight, a fifty-foot steel skeleton rising from the middle of a concrete square exactly five hundred feet away from the hangar itself. The tower's spidery struts were painted in a dun and rust-colored pattern, which blended perfectly with the desert terrain. This was part of strategy to render it nearly invisible to satellite surveillance, even in the brilliant glare of the scorching afternoon sun.

The ma.s.sive microwave emission array that would soon be mounted atop that tower was impossible to camouflage, however. Roughly the size and shape of Subzero refrigerator, with what appeared to be a thousand little radar dishes mounted on a side panel, the system weighed over a ton. It had to be towed to the site by tractor and lifted into place with a crane. The device's visibility had forced the two hour delay in its final placement - a wait that infuriated the Team Leader of the Malignant Wave project.

Regal in high heels and pearls, a spotless white lab coat draped on her ballerina physique, Dr. Megan Reed pushed a cascade of strawberry blond hair away from her freckled face. Frowning, she whirled to confront a young Air Force corporal from the Satellite Surveillance Unit at Groom Lake.

"How much longer before it's clear and we can proceed, Corporal Stratowski?" she barked in a voice that belied her feminine appearance. In fact, a few airmen remarked in private that her harsh, demanding tone sounded more like a drill sergeant's.

"Three minutes, sixteen seconds, Ma'am," the corporal replied. "I'm tracking the satellite now. It's nearly out of range."

Clad in crisp blue overalls, Corporal Stratowski hunkered down in front of an open laptop, eyes locked on the animated display. The computer rested on a stack of packing crates, on its screen a red blip marked the s.p.a.ce vehicle's path and trajectory on a digital grid map.

With an impatient glare, the woman turned away from the corporal and strode to the hangar door. With each step, her cornflower blue summer skirt billowed around her long legs. At six-foot-one, Megan Reed was taller than almost everyone else on the Malignant Wave team. But she didn't need her Amazonian presence to intimidate others. Her harsh managerial style, acerbic personality and drive for perfection in herself and others had been quite enough to alienate her from most of her staff.

Ignoring the thick framed gla.s.ses now tucked in her pocket, the team leader stooped low, to squint through a small porthole set in the wall-sized hangar door. Outside the sky was blue and cloudless. Beyond the boundaries of the Air Force facility, the desert horizon was a series of stacked layers of browns, mauves and rust reds fading into the firmament. The wind kicked up, and the camouflaged tower was momentarily obscured by a tornado of swirling sand.

I can't see the d.a.m.n thing with my naked eyes from five hundred feet away! How can any satellite- even the most advanced even the most advanced- spot it from Earth's...o...b..t? spot it from Earth's...o...b..t? Dr. Reed mused, convinced this was another futile exercise. Dr. Reed mused, convinced this was another futile exercise. Another way for Air Force Security personnel to justify their pointless existence! Another way for Air Force Security personnel to justify their pointless existence!

With an impatient gesture she turned her back on the desert, scanned the interior of Hangar Six. Her team of technicians, researchers, and support personnel - numbering seventeen in all - lolled casually on packing crates or in folding chairs. The air conditioning inside the hangar was inadequate and many had succ.u.mbed to the sleepy warmth.

For an instant, Dr. Reed locked eyes with Beverly Chang, who was fully alert and fidgeting with a plastic cup of tea. The thirty-something cyber specialist appeared as tense and nervous as Megan Reed felt.

At least one other person is taking this demonstration seriously.

"Ninety seconds and we're in the clear. The satellite will be out of range," the corporal announced - a statement that elicited a groan from Dr. Reed.

"Why did this have to happen today, of all days. Just hours before a critical test in front of a VIP from the Senate Defense Appropriations Committee?" she complained.

"Actually, you should be flattered, Dr. Reed. You got their attention," Stratowski replied.