The gray man faced his security contingent. “Do what you can. Clear the casino, the restaurants, right away—”
“Sir, there’s a VIP event in the ballroom.”
The gray man’s hand fluttered. “Send a uniformed officer up to warn them. He’ll have to climb the stairs. In the meantime I want one of you to take the radio car, get out on the highway until you’re out of range of this, this jamming device. Then call for help.”
“You don’t have time,” Curtis warned. “You have to evacuate the tower.”
The gray man shook his head, sighed again. “That will be very difficult, Mr. Manning of CTU. Even if we get word to the people upstairs, the elevators are not working, and it would take an hour to get everyone out on the stairs…”
11:04:07 P.M. PDT Bix Automotive Center Browne End Road, Las Vegas
Bix looked up from the new issue of Barely Legal when Roman Vine burst into his office. Eli Blumenthal, the syndicate’s plump, middle-aged accountant at his side. Vine tossed an attaché case onto the desk, scattering thousand dollar bills.
Bix sat up. “What the hell has gotten into you, partner?”
“The cash the Colombians paid us — the five million dollars. Eli says it’s funny money. Counterfeit!”
“Son of a bitch,” Bix roared. “All of it?”
“Most of it is phony, Mr. Bix,” Blumenthal explained, sweat beading his lip. “The Colombians put real bills on top of each stack. You’ve got maybe a hundred grand, kosher. The rest is bupkis. Toilet paper.”
Bix reached for the phone. “Amigo, huh? Loyal forever? That greasy south-of-the-border piece of shit. I’m gonna call that bastard Rojas right now—”
Down in the garage, the first of two bombs Balboa had planted detonated. This one was close to Hugo Bix’s Jaguar. When he was holed up in the garage before the attack, Balboa pretended to admire the vehicle while he placed the explosive charge — not a large one, just big enough to blow the pipe on the garage’s massive oil tank. Stored under pressure, the oil gushed into the garage in a black tide.
Bix heard the blast, stood up. “What the f—”
At that moment the second bomb went off. This explosive — planted under the Jaguar itself — was an incendiary device. When the hot jet of burning plasma met the flowing oil, a roiling ball of fire instantly engulfed the interior of the garage, incinerating everything in its path. The fireball was quickly followed by an explosion so large it not only leveled Bix Automotive, it also destroyed the abandoned tool and die factory across the street.
11:08:20 P.M. PDT Babylon Hotel and Casino, Las Vegas
Balboa burst into the uniform storage room, stripped off his waiter’s apron and jacket while he spoke in hushed tones with his brother. Stella sat at the table, buffing her polished fingernails. The little girl Pamela cowered on the floor, hugging the coloring book to her chest.
“What happened?” Pizarro demanded.
“I gave the woman the cart. She followed my command.” Balboa bunched up the uniform and tossed it into a corner. “The alarms went off and I returned here.”
“Why triggered the bells?”
“I don’t know,” Balboa replied. “Perhaps someone found one of the truck bombs. It doesn’t matter. They could not have found them all. It’s too late to stop us now.”
Pizarro glanced nervously at his watch. “We must go, move on to the rendezvous.”
Stella rose, straightened her dress. “What about the kid?”
“Take her,” Pizarro commanded. “We’ll use her as a hostage if we need to. Once we’re clear of the hotel, we can release her—”
“Then I’m coming with you, back to the old country, or wherever the hell you’re from,” Stella insisted. “No way I’m staying in the USA. Not with a kidnapping rap hanging over my head.”
Pizarro thin lips parted in a toothy grin. “Very well,” he said.
His brother Balboa frowned, turned his back on the pair. “I will fetch the elevator,” he said, stepping through the door.
“We’re leaving, kid,” Stella said, yanking Pamela’s arm.
“I don’t want to go,” the girl sobbed.
Stella smacked Pamela across the face. The unex
pected blow stunned the girl to silence.
“If you stay here, you’ll get blown up just like your mother,” Stella yelled. “Now come on, the elevator’s right outside.”
“Hurry,” Pizarro cried. “We’re running out of time.”
11:12:03 P.M. PDT Babylon Hotel and Casino, Las Vegas
Two uniformed officers of the Babylon’s security staff took it upon themselves to break into the white Sprinter and defuse the bomb they’d discovered inside. Neither had knowledge or experience with explosives, let alone deactivating bombs, but they figured if they yanked out the detonation cords it might be enough to save hundreds of lives.
The doors were locked, the keys snapped off, so Gus Fellows used a fire extinguisher to smash the windshield. “Cub” Tanner, the smaller partner in the team, climbed through the shattered window to the front seat, then clambered into the back of the panel truck.
It was quieter inside, shielded from the shrill fire alarms booming through the garage. But peace of mind was short lived. Behind rows of potted flowers, Tanner spied the detonation cords, the barrels of C4, the timer clock ticking down. He wanted to run, right then and there. Instead, Cub grabbed detonation cords with both hands and yanked them loose.
“Am I still alive?” he asked, wires dangling from his hands.
His partner’s head was thrust through the broken windshield. The man was all smiles.
“You did it,” Fellows hooted. “You’re a goddamn real life super hero.“
11:15:00 P.M. PDT Babylon Hotel and Casino, Las Vegas
At that moment, the other four trucks exploded — four bombs detonating at precisely the same moment, each with the force of tons of TNT.
Contained inside the parking garage, the explosive power of the multiple blasts was magnified many times. Cars were tossed like leaves in a windstorm. Mimicking water seeking its own level, the force of the blast flowed up elevator shafts, through air conditioning ducts and exhaust vents, along corridors and hallways. The main tower of the Babylon Hotel and Casino trembled as if subjected to an earthquake.
The parking garage collapsed instantly, the top floors crashing down onto the lower levels, the concrete slabs stacking up like pancakes, obliterating those unfortunates who were in their cars, or moving through the parking garage when the blast occurred.
In the ballroom, Senator David Palmer felt the floor tremble, then the entire building seemed to lurch. Screaming, people were thrown to the ground. Tall windows shattered, raining cutting death down onto partygoers buried by the torrent of crystal shards.
Amid the chaos, Senator Palmer searched for his wife. She’d excused herself to go to the powder room, promising to return before he began his speech. But Sherry had been gone a long time. Now he had to find her.
Before he took a step, David felt a tug on his arm. He looked down to see a young waitress, face pale, eyes wide with fright. She pointed to a cart covered with flowers.
“It’s a bomb,” she cried. “A man brought it in here.”
David pushed her aside, reached the cart in two steps. He scattered the flowers, saw only a smooth, white tablecloth.
“Underneath,” Lilly Sheridan said with a frightened sob.
Palmer ripped the cloth away, saw the blocks of C4 tapped to the underside of the cart. He lifted the wheeled carrier with both hands, held it over his head.
“Out of the way!” he shouted. Stumbling to the broken window, then outside to the glass-strewn balcony, Palmer ran to the edge of the building and tossed the cart over the side.
The bomb went off, knocking him backwards. Blinking away the flash motes in his eye, he crawled to his feet and went back inside the ballroom. The woman who’d warned him about the bomb was gone, and Palmer didn’t really care. What happened was a my
stery to sort out later. Right now, he had to find his wife.
Sherry Palmer was six floors below the ballroom when the bombs detonated. She’d gone searching for Lev Cohen, who was missing with her five million dollars. As soon as she got out of the elevator, Sherry heard the first alarms going off. She didn’t panic, figuring if there was a real emergency, fire marshals would show up and order everyone out of the building. For all she knew, the alarm resulted from nothing more than an elevator that was stuck.
She went to Lev’s room first, pounded on the door, then finally used her own pass key to enter. Lev wasn’t there, and there was no sign he’d even returned from the meeting with Jong Lee.
Sherry decided to visit Jong Lee next. She waited five minutes for the elevator, then gave up and used the stairs to go down two floors, to Lee’s room. She’d just knocked on the man’s door when she felt the explosions under her feet. Then the entire building seemed to teeter on its foundations, tossing Sherry against the wall, then down to the carpeted floor. Behind closed doors, she heard screams, shattering glass, the sound of furniture breaking. The trembling subsided quickly, but the hall began to fill with a white haze.
Sherry pounded the door again. “Mr. Lee? Are you all right?”
A figure emerged from the smoke, a member of the housekeeping staff who was racing for the stairs. Sherry snagged her arm.
“My friend is in there. He’s hurt. Please open the door,” Sherry pleaded. The woman muttered something in Spanish while she fumbled in her pocket. Finally she produced a universal card key and slid it through the slot. The green light went on and Sherry pushed the door open.
“Thank you,” she said. But the housekeeper was already gone.
Lee’s suite had been battered by the blast, but there was no sign of occupation. The lamps were down, so Sherry tried the overhead light. The lights seemed dim, and Sherry deduced the power was low.
She searched the suite, found Lev Cohen in the bedroom. He’d been stabbed to death. The murderer had placed him on the bed, folded his arms across his chest, but had not bothered to close his dead staring eyes. Sherry stepped closer to examine the corpse, then stumbled backwards, choking back a sob. More smoke filled the hallway, and she coughed.
I have to get out of here.
Turning, Sherry fled the grisly scene, praying that the fire would engulf this suite, and obliterate any evidence of what really happened to David Palmer’s Chief of Staff.
* * *
Outside, panicked patrons fled the hotel, to spill out through the shattered portico, onto sidewalks littered with broken furniture and shards of glass. Those fleeing the rear doors had to climb over a huge section of the famous Hanging Garden balcony that came crashing to earth in the explosion. Debris continued to rain down, along with tons of soil, trees, flowers and shrubs, as the balcony continued to crumble.
Smoke filled the air around the hotel, most of it pouring out of the underground garage. More smoke, funneled through the tower as if it were a chimney, emerge through the shattered glass walls of the rooftop ballroom.
The area jamming ended with the destruction of the transmitter in the explosions. People on the grounds around the hotel, and passersby on Las Vegas Boulevard bombarded 911 operators. Soon sirens wailed in the distance.
Underneath the Babylon, secondary explosions rumbled as gas tanks from hundreds of cars began to cook off.
13. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 12 A.M. AND 1 A.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME
12:00:00 A.M. PDT Babylon Hotel and Casino, Las Vegas
The fire alarm wailed, a deafening sound. Jack Bauer and Nina Myers entered the Babylon’s chaotic security center, stepping over the shattered remains of the glass doors. A uniformed security officer moved to stop them. Nina flashed her CTU badge and the man backed off.
Unruffled amid the room’s frenzied activity, a lanky, gray-haired man in a charcoal suit approached them. “I suspect you’re looking for your agent,” the gray man said. “Mr. Manning is over there.”
Curtis stood at a work station, phone to his ear. He nodded to Jack, then returned to his conversation. Agent Manning was bruised and battered, but alive.
“What’s the situation?” Jack asked.
“The Babylon is still standing, but I don’t know for how long,” the man replied grimly. “The balcony has mostly collapsed. The underground garage has caved in. There’s a fire down there, too. More smoke than anything else, but the fire department reports that the chance of finding survivors is… minimal.”
The gray man adjusted his tie with a long-fingered hand.
“You have electricity,” Jack observed.
The gray man nodded. “Emergency generators are located in an outbuilding, so they were undamaged. We’ve even gotten some of the computers up and running and we’re hoping to restore one or more of the elevators soon. That is our top priority.”
“How many people have you evacuated?” Nina asked.
“Thanks to Mr. Manning’s early warning, we managed to clear the casino and all of the clubs and restaurants. Some of the lower guest floors were cleared as well. But people are still trapped in the upper suites and in the ballroom at the top of the building.”
Nina pushed her hair back. “What kind of numbers are we looking at?”
“Several hundred, at least,” the gray man replied. “There was an event upstairs. The guest list says three hundred, but there’s also the wait staff, bartenders, support — there may be as many as four hundred people trapped up there.”
Jack nodded, a tight grin on his face. “Then no one’s gotten out of the ballroom?”
The gray man shook his head. “Not since ten or fif-teen minutes before the blast. That’s when the elevators failed. The device that jammed our phones also interfered with the computers that ran the elevators.”
“How about the stairs?”
“Since the explosions, the lower portions of the stairwells — the areas closest to the blast — have been blocked. Two stairwells have collapsed entirely. A third may be intact, but it’s also filled with toxic smoke, deadly enough to suffocate anyone who inhales it.”
The gray man paused, his hands fluttering around his tie. “I’m told the fire department sent two men up that stairwell, but carrying oxygen and all the other bits of fireproof gear, it will take them a while to reach the ballroom.”
Nina faced Jack, comprehension dawning on her face. “You think the bombers are still up there, don’t you?”
Jack nodded. “Lilly Sheridan was on the phone with me, waiting for instructions from the man who held her daughter hostage, when the jamming device kicked in and ended our conversation.”
Bauer faced the gray man. “Curtis, Nina and I are going to be on the first elevator to go up,” Jack declared.
Grim faced, Curtis appeared at Jack’s shoulder. “I just spoke with Morris O’Brian,” he whispered. “There was an explosion at Bix Automotive. It looks like Hugo and his gang have been wiped out…”
12:39:15 A.M. PDT Hanging Garden Ballroom Babylon Hotel and Casino, Las Vegas
Banquet Manager Evelyn Ankers, with help from Congressman Larry Bell and Senator Palmer, had gathered everyone trapped on the upper floors inside the main ballroom. It was a wise strategy. With most windows broken the ballroom offered plenty of fresh air, a welcome reprieve from the smoke filled lower levels. Several people were injured, and Sherry Palmer had appeared to supervise their care. Seven victims had been killed. Their bodies were covered by bloodstained table cloths.
Lilly had scanned all the faces in the room, but did not see the man she was searching for. As soon as she had the chance, Lilly ducked out of the ballroom to search for her daughter. She was sure Pamela and her kidnappers were still on this floor, even though she hadn’t seen them.
Searching, she moved through the empty kitchen, to the corridor that led to the elevators. She was walking so fast she passed by the open door. It was the sound of voices that stopped her.
“Someone mus
t have defused one or two of the bombs,” a man’s voice said.
“Lucky thing, my brother. We would all be dead now if things had gone as planned,” said another voice, one Lilly recognized.
She peered through the open door, nearly gasped. Stella Hawk was there, hands clutching her daughter’s shoulders. Then Lilly saw the others. Two men, both armed. One was the man who’d given her the bomb.
Lilly began to tremble, uncertain what to do next. She ducked back into the kitchen, grabbed a carving knife from a steam table.
Then the cell phone vibrated in her pocket and she fumbled for the phone. “Hello.”
“It’s Jaycee.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m near the ser vice elevator. It will be working soon, in ten or fifteen minutes. Then I’m coming up.”
“Oh, god, Jaycee. They’re here. They have Pamela—”
“Who? Where?”
“Stella and two other guys. They’re real close, Jaycee, just down the hall.”
“Can you reach the ser vice elevator without being seen? If you lead me to these men, I’ll get your daughter back.”
“Yes,” Lilly cried. “I’ll go now.” As she raced for the elevator, Lilly heard two shots.
Balboa killed the firemen as they emerged from the smoky stairwell. He regretted not having a silencer on his Makarov, but reasoned there was no one around to hear the shots anyway.
He and Pizarro dragged the corpses to a maintenance room, then removed the dead men’s oxygen masks and tanks, along with their fire-resistant overalls.
Stella Hawk stood watch in the corridor, her fingers bruising Pamela Sheridan’s tender flesh. Silently, the girl sobbed.
“The stairs are filled with smoke, and there are only two protective suits,” Pizarro said.
Balboa glanced at the woman in the hall, then back at his brother. “Take them. You and the woman. And do it quick. I am sure the authorities will be here soon.”
“And the child?”
Balboa frowned. “I will keep her as a bargaining chip.”
To Pizarro’s surprise, his brother chuckled. “This is Las Vegas, no?”
24 Declassified: Vanishing Point 2d-5 Page 18