Palmer nodded. “Sorry for my impatience, Corporal. I wasn’t aware of the facts.”
Then the Senator faced Megan Reed. “Well Doctor, in the mean time, perhaps you can introduce me to the rest of your team…”
5:24:02 P.M. PDT Mirabelle’s French Dry Cleaners Monitor Street, Las Vegas
Ignoring signs that promised “guaranteed two-hour ser vice,” and proclaimed that all cleaning was “done on the premises,” Yizi checked the address on the store front against the card she clutched between manicured fingers. Satisfied she’d arrived at the correct address, Yizi pushed through the glass door.
The tiny shop seemed empty, but an electronic buzzer sounded somewhere out of sight. The atmosphere inside the dry cleaners smelled of bleach. Behind the counter, hundreds of shrink-wrapped garments hung on a large circular rack.
A young Chinese man appeared at once, stepping through a curtained door in the wall. He wore nondescript pants and a crisp white shirt with a plastic nametag that identified him as Mr. Hsu. He smiled politely, though he’d never seen the woman before.
“May I help you,” Mr. Hsu asked in perfect English.
“This is an urgent job. My boss wants this cleaned at once,” Yizi replied, also in English. She slid the garment across the Formica table top. Then her dark eyes met his. “Jong Lee wants you to know there is a stain in the right sleeve, Mr. Hsu.”
Still smiling, Hsu nodded. “I understand completely. Tell Mr. Lee that the jacket will be ready in two hours.”
“Good afternoon, then,” Yizi replied. Without another word, she spun on her heels and left the shop immediately.
Mr. Hsu, jacket in hand, once again stepped through the curtain. He set the garment down on a stainless steel table and began his search. It didn’t take long for Hsu to locate the instructions tucked into the sleeve, exactly as the woman promised.
It took the man a few minutes to read and memorize the handwritten instructions. Then he dropped the message into a document shredder, along with his Green Card and plastic nametag.
“Yee! Uhr!” Hsu cried. Two young Chinese men with thick necks and close-cropped stubble on their heads hurried from the depths of the roaring, windy cleaning plant.
“Yes, Captain?”
“Alert the team. Make final preparations. The mission is on for tonight.”
A flicker of emotion crossed their faces. “At once,” they replied smartly. Uhr and Yee returned to the bowels of the cleaning plant, while Hsu hurried to the front of the shop and locked the door. He turned out the lights and hung the closed sign in the window. Behind him, he heard the dry cleaning machines power down and the steady whine of the dryers fall suddenly silent. For good measure, Hsu placed a fitting screen in front of the glass door, so that no curious eyes could see the activity within.
Though his US government-issue Green Card identified him as Anh Hsu, an immigrant from Hong Kong, only the name on the card was accurate, the personal history a careful fabrication devised by China’s military intelligence bureau, the Second Department. In truth, Hsu had never even seen Hong Kong, even after he fled the tiny rural village in the Jiangxi Province of South-Central China where he was born. Hsu’s village did not even have electricity until the mid–1980s, and Mao’s modernization programs passed them by. Consequently, Hsu was raised without the education or benefits of the city-bred youth of Beijing, or even China’s newest acquisition, Hong Kong. The people of Hsu’s village were perpetually poor due to abysmally low agricultural prices, so poor that no one in his town — not even the town doctor — owned a bicycle or a clock, let alone a radio or television.
Because of the Communist’s government’s Draconian birth control laws which limited Chinese couples to two children, most female babies born in Hsu’s village were placed outside to die of exposure. Girls were considered useless mouths to feed, while boys would at least grow up to work the fields. Considered too uneducated and unskilled for factory work, compared to those citizens born in the cities, Hsu faced a dull future as a subsistence farmer.
So, to escape that fate, he became a member of the two and a half million strong People’s Liberation Army, the largest military on Earth, enlisting just days after his seventeenth birthday.
Through drive, diligence and hard work — and by exhibiting a cold ruthlessness that impressed his superiors — Anh Hsu moved up the ranks, until he was promoted to a level seemingly unattainable for one of such lowly birth and questionable heritage — a Captain in the Second Department’s Human Intelligence Bureau. Among his newfound skills, he learned to speak English like an American. But Hsu was not content with a behind-the-scenes position analyzing data on some desk-bound general’s staff. In an effort to boost his visibility, Hsu volunteered for ser vice in the 6th Special Warfare Group, a unit that performed a variety of operational missions including counterterrorism, long-range reconnaissance, sabotage, hostage rescue, hit-and-run strikes, and deep penetration warfare.
Captain Hsu’s military achievements and fanatical drive eventually attracted the attention of Communist Chinese espionage agent Jong Lee, also a member of the Second Department. Lee, an active espionage agent who passed himself off as a Taiwanese lobbyist when spying on the West, was one of China’s greatest operatives. Because of his formidable reputation, Jong Lee was permitted to recruit Captain Hsu.
For his part, Hsu admired Jong Lee because he never displayed a dearth of imagination, nor the slavish lack initiative of his peers in the PLA. Lee was not afraid to act, and act boldly.
It was Jong Lee who devised their current mission to seize America’s most advanced technology from under the long noses of the United States Air Force, and it was Lee who convinced his masters in Beijing to go along with his perilous plan. Along the way, he also convinced Captain Hsu to join him, though in the end it did not take much convincing. Like Jong Lee, Captain Hsu despised the decadent Western democracies, and resented their phenomenal wealth and economic might.
And so tonight, after months of planning and preparation, I will lead a commando raid so audacious it will shift the balance of power between the United States and China forever. Perhaps our daring strike here, in the enemy’s heartland, will convince those old fools in Beijing that the time for war against America is now.
5:48:02 P.M. PDT Hangar Six, Experimental Weapons Testing Range Groom Lake Air Force Base
Dr. Reed made the introductions, starting at the top of the food chain with Dr. Phillip Bascomb, then working her way down the pecking order.
When she returned to Hangar Six with the Senator in tow, the woman rudely corralled the staff, then lined them all up in the hot afternoon sun for a military-style review. Her managerial skills had never been so clumsy, and pretty much everyone was mortified by the woman’s behavior — except for the oblivious Dr. Reed, of course.
What could have been a very uncomfortable few minutes was lightened considerably by Senator David Palmer’s charisma and easy charm. Unlike most VIP visitors to Area 51, the Senator from Maryland seemed to take a genuine interest in the people involved in the project, not only the project itself. He spent a few minutes with each member of the Malignant Wave team, quizzing them on their tasks, their credentials — though the conversation was not always on topic. When Palmer tried to grill Bascomb about his previous experience as a microwave specialist for NASA, the scientist found a way to switch topics. While most professionals loved to talk about their work, to Palmer’s surprise, Dr. Bascomb preferred to talk about his pro-basketball days.
So did Dr. Alvin Toth, who grinned up at the Senator while pumping Palmer’s hand. “You and Larry Bell were a hell of a team,” the paunchy pathologist said.
“We still are, Dr. Toth,” Palmer replied. “I’m having dinner with Larry tonight.”
Beverly Chang smiled nervously when the Senator complimented her on the efficiency of her security system. The thirty-something cyber specialist shook his hand, but seemed too shy to meet his stare.
Senator Palmer and Steve Sable
spoke only briefly. Dr. Sable received a shock when the Senator cited his work on the F–22 Raptor’s highly-advanced computer control system.
“I read your report last year, Dr. Sable. Seems to me the Air Force owes you a debt of gratitude for ironing out a litany of technical glitches.”
“I’ll be sure to remind them, Senator,” the software engineer replied with a smirk.
“This is Dani Welles, the youngest member of our team,” Dr. Reed said, moving quickly past the acerbic Dr. Sable.
The Senator smiled at the young woman, and offered his hand. “Delighted to meet you, Ms. Welles.” When their hands met the woman nearly gushed. “Please call me Dani, Senator.”
“A pleasure… Dani.”
“This is Antonio Alvarez,” Dr. Reed said. “He’s our energy specialist.”
Senator Palmer hardly glanced at Tony. His attention was drawn to a sudden burst of activity a few hundred yards away, at the test site. A tow tractor appeared on the scene, dragging two wheeled carts carrying aluminum cages. In one cage, a pair of Rhesus monkeys were strapped to metal gurneys. The primates — a male and a female — had gray-brown fur and hairless pink faces. Rendered immobile, the monkeys snarled fearfully, lips curled back to reveal sharp teeth. Their dark eyes blinked against the sun’s glare.
Palmer moved closer, and noticed the animals’ heads were shaved. Electrodes had been implanted deep into the apes’ skull, wires running to monitors attached to the bars.
In the other cage, two small pigs squealed with fright. Unfettered, they sniffed the bars of their prison with their flaring snouts.
Steve Sable turned his back on the scene, glanced at Tony. “If you’re a card-carrying member of PETA, you better leave now, amigo,” he muttered.
“Ah, the test animals have arrived,” Dr. Toth said. “I’d better go make sure the monitors are working.”
Dr. Bascomb nodded. “If you’ll excuse me, Senator. I also have work to do.”
Both he and Dr. Toth hurried back to their instrument panels inside the tent. Within seconds, the entire team had dispersed to complete final preparations.
“Just be patient a little longer, Senator,” Dr. Reed said with a hint of pride. “Show time is just minutes away.”
The Senator glanced at Megan Reed, who watched as the cages were carefully unloaded by a group of airmen. Under Beverly Chang’s supervision, the cages were placed inside an invisible box bordered by four yellow poles pounded into the ground, about seventyfive yards away from the microwave tower.
“I wasn’t aware lab animals would be used in this demonstration,” Palmer said, unable to mask his distaste.
“I believe it’s necessary, Senator Palmer,” Dr. Reed replied. “In order to truly understand the power of this weapon, you must witness the Malignant Wave’s effect on actual brains and central nervous systems. I don’t believe a print-out of a microwave graph would be sufficient.” Palmer frowned. “I defer to your expertise, Dr. Reed.”
5:56:40 P.M. PDT The Cha-Cha Lounge, Las Vegas
Morris O’Brian led Jack Bauer to the sub basement storage room. Hands quaking, the little man unlocked the steel door, pushed it open, switched on the overhead light.
“Over there, Jack,” Morris croaked, averting his eyes.
Jack stepped over two canvas bags filled with dusty Christmas decorations, moved around a row of unused roulette tables. The corpse was there, where Morris had pointed. Face down on the concrete floor, blood had oozed from the stab wound after death, staining the floor black.
“Who is it, Jack?”
Bauer crouched over the dead man, carefully turned the corpse onto its side. The skin was already spotted with purple blotches, limbs stiffening but not yet frozen by rigor mortis, so the man had been dead for several hours.
Jack used his pen flashlight to probe the floor around the body. Not enough blood on the ground, so Jack knew he didn’t die here. He tossed the corpse, fishing through the man’s pockets, under his belt, under the shirt and inside his pants. He’d already made a positive identification, so Jack wasn’t trying to find out who the dead man was. He just wanted to see what he found — a wallet, keys, loose change, a pack of matches and a couple of chips from Circus, Circus.
“It’s Ray Perry,” Jack replied.
Morris swallowed loudly. “That explains why he’s been missing. I guess we know it wasn’t Ray who killed Max Farrow in his cell, then.”
Jack lowered the corpse to the ground. “He’s been stabbed a couple of times, but the neck wound finished him. I think Perry was killed in the security room, before or after Max Farrow was murdered. His blood mingled with Farrow’s. I should have figured out that there was too much blood.” Bauer’s expression darkened. “In a scene like that, there always seems to be too much blood…”
Bauer stood, tucked the dead man’s wallet into the back pocket of his black Levi’s. “Why were you down here, Morris?”
“Blew a bank of cameras on the northeast side of the gaming room. I wanted to check the circuit breakers…” Morris pointed to the opposite wall. “That’s the box, over there. I found the problem, corrected it. Then, as I was leaving, I saw… him.”
“Did you tell anyone?”
Morris stared at the dead man, shook his head. “I was looking for Curtis… Found you instead.”
“Who else has a key to this room?” Jack demanded.
Morris shrugged. “Too many people, Jack. Curtis… Don Driscoll… Chick Hoffman. That guy Manny… what’s his name… The guy who works the night shift. I think the bartender has a copy, too.”
“How well was the body hidden?” Jack asked, his mind categorizing the likelihood of each man’s guilt.
“I wouldn’t have found Ray, except that I was taking a peek at those roulette tables over there.” Morris scratched his chin. “Saw his feet sticking out from behind the canvas bags.”
“Nobody comes down here much, anyway,” Jack said, thinking out loud. “Whoever stashed the corpse here knew it was only a matter of time before Perry was found. Which means the killer only needed to buy a few hours, maybe less…”
“What’s that mean, Jack?”
Bauer’s eyes narrowed as he stared down at the dead man. “It means our traitor is going to make his move very soon… and we have to be ready.”
7. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 6 P.M. AND 7 P.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME
6:01:34 P.M. PDT Hangar Six, Experimental Weapons Testing Range Groom Lake Air Force Base
Megan Reed led Palmer to the tent erected less than fifty feet from the microwave tower. As soon as he entered, he felt a cool blast of air, heard the whine of a cooling unit. While he watched, the tent flaps were lowered, completely blocking the sun’s rays. Palmer’s eyes were immediately drawn to a bank of six high definition screens. One screen focused on the microwave tower. Four other screens displayed close up, real time images of the animals inside their cages. The last screen projected four fluctuating lines resembling the scribbles made on paper by a seismograph.
“Those are the electroencephalograms of the male and female Rhesus Macaque,” Dr. Reed explained.
Dr. Toth jumped into the conversation, sounding like a college professor. “You see, Senator, the resulting EEG will allow us to gross correlate brain activity. Through the electrodes implanted in the monkeys skulls, we can detect changes in electrical activity in the brain very accurately — on a millisecond level, in fact.”
“Power levels?” Dr. Bascomb called from behind his control station.
“Stabilized on maximum output,” Tony replied.
“Then we’re ready,” Bascomb announced. “Prepare for two, one-second bursts at the count of ten.”
“Should I brace myself or something?” Senator Palmer asked, eyeing the canvas walls nervously. “This tent isn’t exactly a bomb shelter.”
Megan Reed chuckled. “The microwaves are invisible, so there’s nothing to feel or hear. And the beams are directed to strike the animal cages within th
e target perimeter.” She tapped the screen with a manicured fingernail. “Only the ground inside that staked out square will be affected. Within these yellow markers you see here…”
Palmer watched Bascomb grip a switch. “Burst one,” he cried, flipping the switch, then immediately turning it again.
“Second burst in ten seconds,” Bascomb warned. At the count of ten he flipped the switch again — on, then off.
“Power down,” Bascomb commanded. “Demonstration concluded at eighteen hundred hours, four minutes…”
Tony tapped the keys on his laptop and disengaged the power generator from the microwave emitter. Steve Sable pulled a tent flap aside and disconnected the power coupler — a move that was like throwing the safety on a handgun. There was no way the microwave emitter could discharge now — even accidentally.
The Senator only realized the demonstration was over when he found himself in the middle of a sudden crush, as everyone inside the cramped tent moved forward to peer at the images on the high definition screens. Palmer got a good look at one of the display screens — a close up shot of a Rhesus monkey. The creature’s eyes were wide, but seemed unfocused — almost cross-eyed. When the primate shook its head to clear its vision, violent tremors wracked its body. Breathing became rapid, then erratic. Foam flecked the ape’s pink lips and drool rolled down the side of its mouth.
Megan Reed stepped in front of the display. Blocking his view, she directed Palmer’s attention to the waves running horizontally across the EEG monitor.
“You can see that the Gamma rays are off the chart,” the woman said over the excited voices of her staff members. “We’re seeing sharp waves, spikes…. The female is especially affected. She’s exhibiting the same spike-and-wave complexes we observe in cases of human epilepsy. Both primates are completely immobilized. Released from their bonds, they would be unable to stand or even sit up without support.”
24 Declassified: Vanishing Point 2d-5 Page 11