Vanishing Point Part 21

"We'll split up here," Jack replied. "I'm going over to the main terminal, see if I can commandeer an airplane or helicopter. I'll fly in below the radar if I can."

Curtis frowned. "What about us?"

"The raiders are concentrated around the experimental hangars. I want you to join up with Morris and approach that section of Groom Lake Air Force Base by land."

Curtis shook his head. "There's only one road in or out of there. They bad guys are sure to be guarding it."

"Then it's simple," Jack replied. "Don't use the roads."

19

THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 6 A.M. AND 7 7 A.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME A.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME.

9:03:05 a.m. EDT Central Intelligence Agency Headquarters Langley, Virginia When Kenneth Wu, head of the CIA's Department of Foreign Intelligence, arrived in his office, he found a thick Fed Ex envelope on his desk. When he read the return address - DIAMID, LLC - Director Wu set his Starbucks coffee and breakfast pastry aside. The package had come from a mole inside the Los Angeles Consulate of the People's Republic of China.

It took Director Wu ten minutes to peruse the doc.u.ments, which outlined every detail of the attack on Groom Lake, including the names and dossiers of the leaders of the mission. When he was finished, the Director reached for his phone and called his boss, who promptly notified the President of the United States.

6:13:54 a.m. PDT Hangar Five, Experimental Weapons Testing Range Groom Lake Air Force Base Captain Hsu saluted.

"Everything we loaded onto the plane was lost with the airliner, Jong Lee. The blast also cost four men. Commandos Sahn, Suh, Bah, and Shi-uhr," he said, rattling off their code numbers. Their names were unimportant.

"Six men," Carlos said miserably. "Do not forgot Enrico, and my friend Roland Arrias." men," Carlos said miserably. "Do not forgot Enrico, and my friend Roland Arrias."

"An accident?" Jong Lee asked.

Hsu face remained impa.s.sive. "Possible, but unlikely."

"Then we have an enemy among us. One of the scientists, perhaps..."

"More likely a soldier," Hsu interrupted. "A member of the Air Force Special Operations Command. Or a particularly determined airman."

"In either case, we have a larger problem than our losses," Lee said with a frown. "I want your men to spread out across the base, find me this... soldier, soldier, and kill him. I also want Commando Chee to reactivate the base's defensive radar. He and Jyo will be in charge of base security. I expect we may have visitors shortly." and kill him. I also want Commando Chee to reactivate the base's defensive radar. He and Jyo will be in charge of base security. I expect we may have visitors shortly."

"But what about the hostages? We will be stretched so thin. Who will guard them?"

Jong glanced at the Americans lying about on the hangar floor. Most of them were sleeping. One young woman was sobbing quietly, a captured airman comforting her. "Three guards will be sufficient to keep them in check. Use the Cubans. They are less disciplined than our men, but this is one job they can handle."

Jong Lee glanced over his shoulder. "Yizi!" he cried.

The woman appeared at his side, AK-47 slung over her slim shoulder.

"Go to the flight tower and use the radio to send a coded message on the emergency frequency. Tell our reinforcements in Mexico that they will have to come get us," Lee commanded.

"That's absurd, the American military will shoot down any aircraft that invades its airs.p.a.ce," Pizarro Rojas cried. He was slumped on a stack of boxes near the doors. Stella Hawk, who had been sleeping with her head in his lap, awoke at the man's outburst.

Sneering, Carlos Boca spoke. "Even if your rescuers manage to reach this place, how can we fly out again without being detected? We've lost the stealth system in the explosion, and the Yankees will never let us get out of here alive."

Jong Lee smiled. "You forget our guests, Cuban."

Lee dipped his head in the direction of the hostages. "We will exploit our prisoners as human shields. When they try to stop us, we will tell the Americans we will free our prisoners once we cross the border, otherwise they will die. The United States government will agree to our demands. They must."

6:54:33 a.m. PDT CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles The hastily a.s.sembled teleconference with the President of the United States had just begun. Sitting around the table in CTU's briefing room were Ryan Chappelle, Alberta Green, Richard Walsh, and Christopher Henderson. In Washington, the President was joined by the Secretary of State and his own Chief of Staff.

The President was already in a foul mood when he appeared on CTU's digital monitor. This was his third conference of the morning and none of them had gone well. The first had been with his CIA director, the second with the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

He'd been scheduled to sign a new funding bill in the Rose Garden today, the crowning achievement of the President's second term. But between the terrorist attack in Las Vegas and the raid on Groom Lake, his public relations event had been shot to h.e.l.l.

"You tell me you have a.s.sets in the vicinity of this raid," the President said without preamble.

"That's correct, Mr. President," Henderson replied before Chappelle had a chance to speak. "I have an agent working undercover at Groom Lake. He's the one who destroyed the aircraft the strike team planned to use in their escape. My man is still active, though there's only so much a single agent can do against a small army."

"What other actions has your agency initiated?" asked the Secretary of State.

"We've mobilized our strike team, Madam Secretary," Ryan Chappelle replied. "They'll reach Las Vegas within the hour."

"Too little, too late," scoffed the President.

"You're correct. It's not enough, Mr. President," Henderson said. "I also have three other agents in Las Vegas. Unfortunately, due to an ill-advised operational review..." Henderson glanced in Alberta Green's direction. "...those field a.s.sets have been deactivated pending a judicial review."

"That's ridiculous," roared the Chief of Staff. "Have them reinstated immediately."

Ryan Chappelle nodded to Alberta Green. "Could you take care of that?"

"Of course," the woman replied.

"He said immediately," Henderson said with undisguised contempt.

Eyes downcast, Alberta Green rose, gathered up her papers and left the conference room.

"The Chinese must be mad. This is an act of war," the President declared. "How can I end this crisis without bloodshed. My Joint Chiefs want to bomb Groom Lake, level the base. They claim that's a better option than the dissemination of top secret technology and I tend to agree."

"Give us a little time," Richard Walsh said. "With our a.s.sets in place, we can move against these commandos at once..."

"I have another suggestion," Christopher Henderson interrupted. "While we formulate a military solution, I think I know another way to influence the Chinese government. A little economic pressure may convince them to see the light."

Hope dawned in the President's eyes. "What do you suggest?"

Henderson rose and adjusted his tie. He leaned over the table to stare into the monitor.

"With your permission, Mr. President, I'm going to ask a close friend of mine to place an informal phone call to Zeng Ju, Premier of the State Council of the People's Republic of China..."

20

THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 7 7 A.M. AND 8 A.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME A.M. AND 8 A.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME.

7:06:09 a.m. PDT Orange Blossom Country Club La Quinta, California Samuel L. Wexler, President and CEO of Omnicron International, was ready to tee off when he got an unexpected cell phone call from his old college roommate, Christopher Henderson. Wexler was immediately suspicious. In his capacity as head of a major defense contractor, Wexler seldom received a social call before ten AM, and never one from a departmental director at the Counter Terrorist Unit.

Henderson explained the situation at Groom Lake to Wexler, who immediately knew what he had to do to protect his company's interests. After the call ended, Wexler excused himself, tipped his caddy and drove his golf cart back to the club house. The CEO retreated to one of the plush lounges and used the country club's land line to place an international call.

It was early evening in Beijing, the work day ending, but Zeng Ju, Premier of the State Council, accepted the powerful American business tyc.o.o.n's call. He was instantly sorry he did, because Samuel L. Wexler read the Chinese bureaucrat what the Yankees called "the riot act."

"Your man Jong Lee instigated an international incident that will have dire ramifications in the future relationship between our two nations," Wexler cautioned. "Beside the fact that you've committed an act of war, half the stuff your pirates are stealing is patented to my company. Now you don't think Omnicron International is going to sit idly by and let that happen, do you?"

"Why would the state of your patents matter to China, Mr. Wexler?" Zeng Ju asked, rather disingenuously, the CEO thought. It was time to slap the bureaucrat down.

"My company employs a hundred thousand workers in Hong Kong," Wexler replied. "Another quarter million factory workers on the mainland are employed by our subsidiary companies. Your nation relies on our contracts for work. That could all end today if you don't call off your raid."

"But..."

"I'm serious, Ju. I could idle half the factories in Shen Zhen with a memo."

"Mr. Wexler, please be reasonable. We have no control over the actions of the People's Liberation Army..."

"I don't want to hear excuses, Chairman. We will pull our contracts out of China if this invasion doesn't stop."

"But surely we can work out an agreeable solution to this crisis. You need us the same way we need..."

"Taiwan can do the work. Or maybe we'll just build a few factories in the USA. And it doesn't end there," Wexler warned. "I also have friends in Bentonville, Arkansas. If those folks decide to cancel their contracts, the Chinese economic boom will come to an abrupt and permanent end..."

7:44:09 a.m. PDT Over the high desert of Nevada It had taken Jack Bauer over an hour, but in the end he managed to cut through the red tape and commandeer an MH-6J "Little Bird" helicopter. This particular model was being used for desert reconnaissance by the Immigration and Naturalization Services, so it didn't have all the bells and whistles to which Jack had become accustomed.

The Little Birds he flew in his Delta Force days had a FLIR pa.s.sive imaging system, and two 7.62mm mini-guns mounted on the sides, along with a pair of 7-shot, 2.75-inch rocket pods - features he could have put to good use on his present mission. Fortunately the MH-6J was nimble and quick, and capable of flying nap of the earth over varying terrain and weather conditions. Best of all, because the Bird was so compact, the craft presented a low profile on radar - though not low enough to completely avoid detection.

As soon as he lifted off, Jack Bauer contacted Tony Almeida on the man's stolen cell phone. Tony was hiding somewhere inside of Groom Lake Air Force base, trying to figure out a way to rescue the hostages. Jack and Tony established a time and place for a rendezvous, well aware that the chances for either of them to make that connection was probably negligible.

In the middle of the conversation, Tony's call abruptly ceased. Jack tried and failed to reach him again, and deduced the base was being jammed, either by the Chinese or by the United States military. Jack could not raise Nina, Curtis, or Morris, either.

Thirty minutes into his gut-wrenching, low-level flight, Jack slowed his aircraft and tested the GPS system. Like the radios and cell phones, the satellite signal was being jammed. Cursing, he glanced over at the area map displayed on his monitor. Jack determined he was less than fifteen miles from the base, and approaching out of the sun. Bauer hoped the blazing orange ball rising on the eastern horizon would be enough to mask his arrival.

7:47:40 a.m. PDT Somewhere in the Nevada desert The vehicle slammed through another ragged ditch. Sand filled the open compartment and Morris pitched forward. Seat belts straining, he was yanked backwards again as the sandrail climbed out of the hole. The little man had been jolted so badly he nearly lost the electronic device he'd been fumbling with.

"Dear G.o.d, woman. Would you please slow down!"

Morris was yelling. Not because he was angry, but because it was the only way his voice could be heard over the ear-splitting roar of the rear mounted engine.

Nina Myers shifted into low gear. In a cloud of choking dust they climbed back to level ground. "I can't slow down," she cried. "I'm already going too slow. The ground is rougher than this map indicates."

"That what you get for listening to a pair of braindead hippies," Morris shot back.

Sixty-five minutes ago, Nina, Curtis, and Morris had "acquired a pair of sandrails - not "dune buggies," as the men who owned the machines were quick to point out. Dune buggies were converted vehicles, usually Volkswagen Beetles because of their rear-engine design. Sandrails, or simply "rails," were far superior. "The Cadillac of all terrain recreational vehicles" were built from scratch using steel pipes for frames. Rails were heavier and much more rugged than buggies. They were wider and had a lower center of gravity. And sandrails also had more powerful engines.

The CTU agents obtained this pair from Your Desert Experience, a establishment on the outskirts of town that catered to tourists. Brad Wheeler and his brother Damon, the "longhairs in charge" as Morris put it, were happy to provide maps and suggest routes. They were happy because Nina had used her CTU credit card to pay them more money than the vehicles were worth "to rent them for an unspecified length of time." The smiling twins had even loaded the rails onto trailers and drove everyone to a site in the desert where they could get a head start.

Nina glanced over her shoulder, saw a cloud of dust trailing her six. That was Curtis, at the wheel of his own machine. He had no trouble keeping up with her, despite the blasted landscape.

"Can you raise anyone?" she asked her pa.s.senger.

Morris shook the radio in his hand. "Someone is jamming us pretty thoroughly," he shouted. "Either the Chinese, or our own military."

Nina came over a rise too fast to see the boulder, so there was no avoiding it. Not even the independent suspension system could deal with a strike like that. The front tire bounced off the rock, the sandrail leaped into the air, only to crash to the ground again. Morris' head banged against the roll bar before he was slammed back down in his inadequately-cushioned seat.

Morris adjusted the helmet, too large for his bald head, and moaned. "Mummy, are we there yet?"

Nina glanced at the terrain map taped to the dashboard.

"Not even close," she replied.

7:56:29 a.m. PDT Over Emigrant Valley Jack had just maneuvered over the top of the low mountain range. Now he put the Little Bird into a sharp dive. Descending into the valley, he spotted a plume of smoke in the distance. Jack knew he was over the base now, and fast approaching the edge of the runway, though it was still a mile or more away.

Peering through his mini-binoculars, Jack realized the smoke rose from the smoldering wreckage of the Boeing 737 sprawled across the scorched and pitted runway. Beyond the hazy curtain he could see the hangars.

Jack lowered the binoculars in time to see movement out of the corner of his eye. He immediately dropped the chopper lower, so he was skimming the desert at less than fifty feet. He glanced over his shoulder, spied the object streaking toward his aircraft on a plume of white smoke.

He waited until the last possible moment before he twisted the controls and spun the helicopter out of the path of the Stinger hand-held ground-to-air missile. Jack had timed his dodge just right - the sudden turn came too late and too fast for the missile's homing system to compensate. The Stinger struck the desert in a yellow flash.

Then Jack saw another plume of smoke ahead of him, two more to either side. He found himself pinned in the middle of a three p.r.o.nged missile attack. No matter which way Jack turned, the Little Bird would be blown out of the sky.

The only way to go was down.

Jack cut power, pushed the chopper into a dive. At fifty feet, it took less than a second for the chopper to strike the sand. The impact bent the landing struts, and the helicopter teetered precariously on shattered legs. Jack spit blood, then released his safety belt.

Before the Little Bird tumbled onto its side, Jack dived out of the c.o.c.kpit. Landing feet first, he sprinted for any cover he could find. Legs pumping, he did not look over his shoulder, even when he heard the chopper's whirling rotor blades bite into the ground, then shatter.

Their homing devices attracted by the still-spinning rotor, all three Stinger missiles struck the helicopter. The explosion caught Jack Bauer in its fiery grip. Helpless, the CTU agent was swept up like a grain of sand in a sandstorm.