Jack rested his arm on Hensley’s shoulder. “Why don’t we go in right now and interview Dante Arete together. He’s been sitting in that cell for hours. I’ll soften him up, you make the deal you need to make with him. I’ll even stay out of it. When I have enough information to write up my report, you can take the prisoner back to New York City and we’ve both covered our asses.”
Hensley shook his head, just as Jack knew he would.
“No can do, Bauer. What Arete may or may not say impacts at least half a dozen separate investigations— FBI investigations.”
“Let’s talk to your superiors, then,” said Jack. “Maybe we can work something out.”
Again Hensley shook his head. This time he barely bothered to hide his smirk. “They’re going to want to sit in on the interrogation too. Arete’s a big catch. A lot of folks are going to want to hold the net. But he’s not big enough to have half the New York bureau fly out here to CTU just to chat with him—”
“I’ll fly to New York,” said Jack.
Hensley blinked. Jack pressed: “You came in an FBI jet, right? I’ll just hitch a ride with you to the East Coast, fly back on a commercial flight.”
Jack glanced at Chappelle for support. Ryan shot warning daggers, but didn’t overturn him.
“Jack’s proposal has merit,” Ryan said. “I think even Senator Cheever will be comfortable with the arrangement. If you have doubts, I’ll speak to Mr. Spain about it right now.” Chappelle then gave an admirable impression of reaching for the phone.
Jack forced himself to mask a smile. When Chappelle got his priorities right, it was a thing of beauty.
Hensley threw up his hands. “All right, you win. But if this is some ploy to stall for time and talk to Arete by yourself, forget it. He’s not cutting any deals with CTU. To make sure of that, I have two Federal marshals outside who are going to be with Dante from now until we arrive in New York City.”
Jack folded his arms, met Hensley’s gaze. “He’s my prisoner, and CTU protocol requires that Dante Arete be in my custody until we reach your jurisdiction. That means he’s to be handcuffed to my wrist — just to make sure nobody tries to talk to him when I’m not around.”
Hensley nodded. “Fine, Agent Bauer. Play your games. But as soon as we’re wheels down in New York, Dante Arete is mine.”
1. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 9 P.M. AND 10 P.M. EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME
9:04:52 P.M. EDT The sky over Queens, New York
The steady drone of the jet engines suddenly changed pitch. Jack opened his eyes, instantly alert, surprised he’d slept at all. He sat in an airline seat next to Dante Arete, the fugitive still chained to his arm by a pair of nickel-plated steel bracelets. Two federal marshals sat across the aisle, in another cluster of chairs. The younger marshal’s seat was back, he slept mouth open and gently snored. The older man — perhaps forty— was awake, though hardly alert as he sipped bottled water and leafed through a dog-eared copy of Sports Illustrated.
As for Special Agent Frank Hensley, there was no sign. He’d entered a separate compartment shortly after they’d lifted off from LAX and hadn’t reappeared since. Jack suspected there was a bunk in the forward compartment, and Hensley had taken advantage of the hours to get some sleep.
Hensley reminded Bauer of an army, safely ensconced in a fortified town surrounded by the enemy. Instead of waiting for the inevitable attack, an aggressive commander would dispatch pickets to prick his foe into premature action. Hensley’s barbs — fired at Jack, at CTU, even at Ryan Chappelle — seemed to be timed to divert attention from the psychological defenses Frank Hensley had erected to keep the world at bay.
Jack sat up and stretched as much as the handcuff on his wrist would allow. Then he looked around. The FBI aircraft was not laid out like a commercial airliner. There were no rows of airline seats, only clusters — about a dozen in all. Some chairs were set around affixed tables, others were placed along the fuselage, near the windows. There were no air stewards, either. They’d been replaced by a stocked refrigerator, a coffeemaker, and a microwave oven.
Jack glanced at his watch, already set to Eastern Daylight Time. He discovered he’d slept for nearly thirty-five minutes — the longest interval of rest he’d had in the last fifteen hours. Bauer leaned forward, rubbed his face. Then he checked on his prisoner. Dante Arete had curled up into a ball and had fallen fast asleep as soon as the FBI aircraft was off the ground and the “fasten seatbelt” lights went dark. Jack shook him awake, and Arete immediately demanded to go to the bathroom. Still cuffed together, Jack escorted the prisoner to the head, then used it himself. Even in the tight confines of the restroom, the two men did not exchange a word.
When they returned to the cabin, Jack was surprised to find Hensley had reemerged. The FBI agent sat at one of the tables with the two Federal marshals, who had roused themselves into a semblance of vigilance. Hensley looked up when Bauer and his prisoner entered, then went back to punching data into his PDA. The wall, Jack noted, was still in place. Either Hensley was the most professional law enforcement agent he’d ever met — or something else was going on behind his half-lidded eyes.
“Strap in. We’re landing in five minutes.” Hensley commanded, wand poised over the tiny PDA screen.
Jack pushed Arete into a seat near a window, then strapped his prisoner down. After his own belt was fastened, he gazed out the window. Far below, Jack could see the winking lights of the Borough of Queens spread out before him, a muted golden glow against a purple-black evening sky. Jack’s stomach lurched as the aircraft dipped sharply, then leveled off as it began its final approach. A high-pitched whine, then a thump, signaled the deployment of the landing gear. The flaps dropped and the aircraft slowed drastically.
Jack watched out of the corner of his eye as Hensley unsnapped his seatbelt and stood up to stretch. The marshals ignored him, gazing out the window or straight ahead. Hensley turned his back to the others, reached into his jacket to carefully tuck the PDA into his suit pocket. When his hand came out again, it was clutching a Glock 19, the semi-compact version of the standard 9mm recoil-operated composite handgun, undetectable to weapons scanners. In one smooth motion Hensley disengaged the safety, cocked the striker.
Then he turned and pointed the weapon at the larger of the two marshals.
The man saw the Glock, and his mouth opened in surprise. Then the noise of a gunshot reverberated throughout the cabin. The dead marshal jerked spasmodically as the back of his head blew out, but the safety belt kept him erect in the chair. Gore splattered the beige plastic panel behind the corpse, splashed to the floor in thick black drops.
Shocked, the other marshal stared up at Hensley while Jack reached for his P228. Bauer had just slipped his own gun free of its holster when Dante Arete punched him full in the face with his free hand. Jack reeled when he felt the hot sting on his jaw. The SigSauer flew from his hand and bounced across the floor. Bauer felt Arete’s hands groping for his throat — ineffectively because of the handcuffs that hobbled his movement. As Arete continued trying to strangle Jack, Bauer released his safety belt, pushed himself out of the seat, and slammed the heel of his hand under Arete’s jaw. The man’s head snapped backward.
Meanwhile, with a bored expression on his face, Hensley shot the second marshal in the forehead before the young man could even draw his service revolver. Then he swung around to train his weapon on Jack Bauer — only to find the CTU agent hiding behind Dante Arete’s body, his arm locked around the helpless prisoner’s throat. With a muttered curse, Hensley dropped the Glock on his empty chair, drew his own FBI service revolver, and aimed it at the two men.
“Don’t shoot, man,” Dante Arete whined, free arm extended to ward off destruction. “Don’t fucking shoot me.”
“Listen to your prisoner,” hissed Jack. “You’ll have to put a slug right through Dante to get to me.” As he spoke, Jack eyed his gun on the floor, too far away to do him any good.
Hensley’s neutral
gaze turned poisonous. “You crack me up, Bauer. What makes you think I care about the life of the punk son of a bitch who murdered my partner?”
Jack watched apprehensively as Hensley tightened his grip on the trigger…
9:16:07 P.M. EDT CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles
“I can carry my own luggage, thank you very much!” The young woman charged past the security escort who’d met her at the airport and chauffeured her to CTU headquarters. She also ignored his call as she pushed through the double glass doors.
The young woman was gangly and too thin, her legs lean and muscular under a purple micro-mini and black tights. Her oversized Doc Martens clip-clopped on the unpainted concrete floor as her long, skinny arm hauled a bulky Pullman behind her. Strapped to the back of her “Nasicaä—Valley of the Wind” T-shirt was a pink Hello Kitty pack containing a personal computer, a cell phone, an MP3 player, and a PDA. A large black messenger bag dangled from her small shoulder, swaying with every bold step she took.
Seeing her barreling forward, the guard quickly stepped around the security desk and blocked her path. “Stop right there, miss. You need a pass to go in there.”
“I’ve got time to get a security pass, but no time to find a place to sleep? Jeez, I mean, what’s the rush? At least let me check into a hotel!”
The young woman’s head seemed large for her wispy frame. Her pale features and wide mouth were hidden behind a silky curtain of long, straight black hair, parted only by dark-framed glasses too large for her tiny face. Behind the oversized lenses were wide, curious, almond-shaped eyes. Her only makeup was black eyeliner.
The young woman tapped her giant shoe impatiently while the guard verified her CTU identification and administrative transfer from the D.C. office. Finally he snapped her picture with a digital camera mounted on the desktop, then handed her a small plastic ID badge with a magnetic strip that allowed her access to some but not all areas of the CTU facility.
When she was officially checked in, the young woman kicked her American Tourister into a leaning position. Then she yanked it along, rolling it behind her as she marched into the center of CTU’s busy command center. Technicians and analysts scurried about, ignoring her as they raced from station to station.
“Hey! I need to speak with the person in charge, please.”
Nina Myers heard the cry and left her workstation.
“Can I help you?”
The girl released the Pullman and blew an errant lock of hair away from her face. She offered Nina a bony hand sheathed with smooth, ivory skin. “My name is Dae Soo Min. Someone around here is supposed to know I’m coming.”
“You’re the software expert?”
The young woman nodded. “If it’s made in Korea I can hack it.”
Nina could not hide her surprise. She had expected someone older, with more experience. Perhaps an ex-military type, a veteran of the North/South Korean demilitarized zone — or an adult, at the very least. Dae Soo Min looked to be about seventeen and was acting much younger.
Nina shook the woman’s hand. “Hi. I’m Nina Myers, Ms.—”
“My friends call me Doris.”
Nina picked up her bag. “Follow me and I’ll introduce you to the rest of the team.”
Jamey was at her workstation processing the hourly reports when Milo Pressman appeared at her shoulder. “Hey, check it out.”
She followed Milo’s gaze. “My God. Is CTU recruiting at elementary schools now?”
“Quick, pretend to be looking at the monitor,” whispered Milo. “I think they’re headed this way.”
By the time Nina and Doris arrived, Milo and Jamey were seemingly swamped in the sea of intelligence data. “Sorry to interrupt your work,” Nina said without a trace of irony. “I want you to meet—”
“I’m Doris. Hi.”
“Milo is our security systems specialist, Jamey is our head programmer. You’ll be working with them for the duration of this assignment.”
Milo and Jamey exchanged looks. Nina crossed to the auxiliary workstation and powered it up. “Jamey, could you send all of the encrypted data we’ve recovered from the memory stick to station six, so Doris can begin her preliminary evaluation?”
Jamey frowned. “Jack put everything that has to do with the Arete case on Level Four security clearance…”
“No problem. I’m assigning Doris a Level Three security code.”
Behind Nina’s back, Milo made a face at Jamey.
“You got to be kidding me,” Jamey protested. “I didn’t get a Level Three clearance code until I worked here for over six months.”
Nina rose to her full height, looming over the seated Jamey. “Do you feel threatened? I understand if you do. But not to worry, the situation is only temporary. Just until Doris cracks the code.”
Milo watched Doris sit down in front of the keyboard. Inside of a minute she began isolating data, separating the wheat from the chaff. He scratched his sparse goatee. “At the speed she’s working, that won’t be very long…”
9:21:51 P.M. EDT The sky over Queens, New York
Dante Arete stared down the muzzle of Special Agent Hensley’s weapon, eyes wide, lips beaded with sweat. Jack Bauer’s grip around his throat tightened.
“What the hell are you doin’, man?” Dante croaked, wide eyes staring at Hensley. “This ain’t what we talked about. This ain’t part of our deal.”
Jack dragged Arete against him in a bear hug, spoke in his ear. “What deal? Tell me what deal you made with Hensley.”
“Shut up, both of you,” said Hensley.
Arete ignored Jack, glared at Hensley. “You kill me and the whole deal’s flushed, man.”
Bauer moved backward, dragging Arete with him, until his spine touched the walls of the pressurized cabin. He risked a glance out the window. The ground was coming up fast, Jack could see cars on the highway, busy residential streets with people on them.
“Shoot now and you’ll puncture the fuselage, depressurize the cabin,” Jack warned.
Hensley shrugged. “We’re almost on the ground. I’ll risk it.”
The engine’s whine became more pronounced as the aircraft decreased its speed. Turbulence buffeted the airliner, and the motion rocked Hensley on his feet, foiling his aim. Fearfully, Arete struggled against Bauer’s tightening grip, but Jack held him firm. A moment later, Hensley steadied himself, his aim true. “Like I said, Bauer. When the wheels touch the pavement, Arete’s mine.”
From the corner of his eyes, Jack saw a flash outside the window. Hensley saw it, too. A bright orange object rose toward the airplane from a cluster of low, featureless concrete buildings.
Jack threw Arete to the cabin floor as a brilliant yellow ball of fire lit the windows on the starboard side of the airliner. Interior alarms sounded and emergency oxygen masks dropped from their ceiling compartments as the aircraft lurched and the interior lights winked.
Then came the noise of the blast, deafening as the shock wave shattered the windows. The interior of the cabin suddenly mimicked the inside of a dryer running full blast. Papers, cups, cushions, magazines, napkins — anything not nailed down flew about the cabin or was sucked outside.
Jack heard the engines straining to keep the aircraft aloft. Then they cut out and the wheels slammed onto the runway, too hard for the landing gear to support the impact. Tires blew, steel snapped, and the landing gear folded. The burning aircraft teetered to port, then the belly hit the concrete and skidded along, trailing a torrent of hot white sparks.
9:32:18 P.M. EDT CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles
Tony’s land line warbled. He reached across his desk and grabbed the receiver. “Almeida.”
“There’s a Marine Corps captain checking in at the security desk and asking to see Ms. Myers. But the Chief of Staff is not responding to my call.”
“Nina’s in the middle of a video conference with Bill Buchanan from the Seattle office,” Tony replied. “I’ll be right there.”
Tony locked down his compu
ter and headed off to the security desk. On the way, he stopped by Jamey’s area and picked up the latest printout on the mysterious memory stick, which he stuffed into the folder under his arm. He glanced at it first, disappointed to find they had discovered next to nothing in the past two hours of “expert analysis.”
At the security desk, Tony discovered that not all Marines are created equal. This particular captain had blond hair caught in a ponytail, a killer figure in a dress blue uniform, and clear blue eyes to go with her two silver bars.
“Captain,” said Tony, offering her a smile with his hand. “I’m Agent Almeida, head of intelligence here at CTU.”
Nearly as tall as Tony, the woman met his openly appraising gaze as she took his hand in a firm grip.
“I’m Captain Jessica Schneider. Commander of the Special Weapon Analysis Unit in South Korea.”
Her name jarred his memory cells, but the context eluded him. “Welcome to Los Angeles. Come with me and I’ll bring you up to speed.”
As they moved through the busy command center, Captain Schneider took in the setup while Tony deciphered the ribbons and service pins that adorned her uniform. “First Marine Division,” Tony observed. “Looks like you and I ate some of the same dirt.”
A half smile crossed her full lips. “You’re a jarhead?”
“Ex.”
“You’re missing all the fun, then.”
Tony discerned a slight Texas drawl, another clue he felt was important, but he had yet to make the connection. They arrived at the cyber-analysis section. Tony ran his key card through the lock, opened the door. “We actually have lots of fun here at CTU, too.”
Tony offered Captain Schneider a chair, then slid the latest report on the memory stick under her nose. “This is what we’ve got, so far.”
Captain Schneider opened the folder, leafed through it. She lifted two photographs of the object and studied them closely. After a moment, she reached into her pocket and donned delicately framed reading glasses. “And you found this memory stick where?”
24 Declassified: Operation Hell Gate 2d-1 Page 3