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.
21. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 8 A.M. AND 9 A.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME
8:00:09 A.M. PDT CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles
Ryan Chappelle received an urgent call, a tip from a former colleague now working in the Department of Defense. Face taut, Chappelle listened to the disturbing news with angry disbelief. More than anything, he was puzzled by the government willingness to flush four highly trained and immensely valuable assets down the toilet—five, if one were inclined to count the troublesome Morris O’Brian.
After ending the conversation with his colleague, the Regional Director of CTU, Los Angeles, attempted to speak directly with the President, only to be told the Commander in Chief was “in conference.” He tried the Vice-President and ran into another wall.
Frantic now, Chappelle tried calling the Secretary of Defense, and to his surprise the man accepted his call.
“How can I help you, Director Chappelle?” Secretary Thompson asked in his Tennessee drawl.
“I wanted to inform you that we have four CTU Agents inside of Groom Lake right now,” Chappelle replied.
A moment of silence followed the declaration. “There are a lot of people at Groom Lake, Mr. Chappelle. Good people.”
Chappelle knew that when the Secretary of Defense casually demoted him from “director” to “mister,” Ryan was in trouble. Still he persisted.
“I’m asking you to call off the B–52s, Mr. Secretary. Give my men a chance to deal with the situation before you resort to drastic action.”
Another moment of silence. “I would like to help, but—”
“Secretary Thompson, these are very capable agents. One of them is the very best field agent in our Unit. I believe that even though they may be outnumbered six to one, my agents can and will resolve this situation.”
“Excuse me for a moment, Director Chappelle.”
Promoted again, Ryan thought hopefully.
He held on the phone for almost five minutes. When Secretary Thompson returned, he seemed irritated.
“All right, Director. Noon is our new go time. That means CTU has a little less than four hours to show us your stuff. If those pilots don’t get the proper code phrase by noon sharp, I will give the order to bomber command to flatten that base. It will be Rolling Thunder all over again—”
“Code phrase, sir?”
“It’s a randomly generated phrase created by our computer and disseminated over a secure channel. We’ll send the phrase directly to you through a secure server.”
“One more thing, Mr. Secretary,” Chappelle said.
“Son, don’t you know when to quit.”
“No sir, I don’t. Not when the lives of my agents are involved.”
“What is it, Director?”
Ryan wasn’t completely sure, but he thought he sensed a new hint of respect in the Secretary’s tone. “I need to speak with my agents in the field,” Chappelle replied. “I want to alert them about the time frame they are facing. To do that, the Air Force needs to stop their jamming for a few minutes.”
“I’ll talk to General Boyd. The jamming will be lifted for five minutes, commencing at exactly 0900 hours — that’s nine o’clock, civilian time. Good enough?”
“Thank you, Mr. Secretary.”
8:30:49 A.M. PDT Hangar Five, Experimental Weapons Testing Range Groom Lake Air Force Base
After the loss of his escape plane, Jong Lee established a new command center in Hangar Five, where he could personally watch over the only functioning aircraft left on the entire base. The Blackfoot stealth helicopter figured prominently in Lee’s original plan. That piece of advanced hardware was even more important now that the situation was in flux.
“It was not an attack,” Lee declared. “One helicopter means a reconnaissance mission, not an all out assault.” Jong’s thin lips curled into a smile. “It gives me hope that the Americans have been shocked into paralysis.”
“It is mysterious,” Captain Hsu noted. “The Americans have positioned satellites over our heads. I have seen the contrails of high-altitude spy planes as well. They know much of what is going on here. Why send a reconnaissance helicopter?”
“Have you dispatched men to the crash site?” “Yes, sir. Woo and two men are on their way now.”
A runner arrived, dispatched from the flight tower across the tarmac. With the phones jammed along with everything else, Lee had to resort to nineteenth century-style communications between his units.
“Yizi reports that the jamming continues,” the man said after saluting. “She has not communicated with the base in Mexico since the initial message was sent.”
“Tell her to keep trying. If the curtain of jamming parts, I want her to be ready to send and receive messages at a moment’s notice.”
8:50:49 A.M. PDT Hangar Six, Experimental Weapons Testing Range Groom Lake Air Force Base
Tony Almeida spent a long, torturous hour crawling face down through a shallow ravine outside of Hangar Six. His filthy sweat pants clung to his legs and sand filled his sneakers. Though he was covered with grease and grit, the hot morning sun broiled the skin on his back and sent rivulets of sweat rolling down his flanks. He moved slowly to avoid discovery — Tony knew he was being hunted, he’d seen the men fan out across the base. They’d found other hostages, hiding in hangars or in bunkers, but so far he’d managed to elude them.
Finally, he was within sight of the side entrance. The door was locked, but Tony had rigged it so he could open it without a key, back when he was spying on Steve Sable. Risking detection, Tony rose and sprinted across the final stretch of sand. He made it to the door in seconds, yanked it open and ducked inside.
The dim interior of the hangar’s forgotten storage room was at least fifteen degrees cooler than the air outside, and Tony was out of the direct sunlight — a double blessing. He was exhausted and thirsty, and the burn marks on his chest and legs throbbed, an ever present reminder of the torture he’d endured at the hands of the late Dr. Sable.
Tony slumped to the cool floor between two stacks of crates and paused to catch his breath. Just fifty yards away, at the front of the hangar, the hostages were still being held at gunpoint by an unknown number of guards. Tony dared not doze off, his mind remained sharp and alert while he rested his tired muscles. Mouth parched, he longed for a cold beer.
He heard an animal snort. Quietly, Tony rose to his feet, crept to a mountain of wooden crates and peered around them. A man was there, his back to Tony. He slumped in the battered office chair beside the workbench, head lolled to the side. While Tony watched the man snored again.
Tony retreated to a massive spool of cable mounted on a rack. Irregular lengths of the black wire lay around his feet like dead snakes. He selected the most useful one and crept back to the sleeping man.
Tony moved around the work bench and behind the snoring man. It was one of the Cubans. Tony had heard the men speaking Spanish while he spied on them and recognized their accents, though how the Cubans and Chinese came together for this operation was beyond Tony’s grasp at the moment.
Crouched behind the man, Tony saw a Makarov PM tucked his belt. He longed for that weapon more than he’d wanted the beer. Peeking between boxes and banks of machinery, Tony could see a guard standing over the hostages, who were still huddled on the floor.
He would have to strike quickly and quietly, or he would die in this dusty storage room. Hands rock steady, he looped the wire, then slipped it around the man’s neck.
The Cuban’s legs kicked out and, choking, he flopped in his chair, but the only sound he made was a faint gargle. The Cuban clutched at the wire around his throat, but it was sunk so deeply into his flesh, he could not get his fingers around it. Grunting, Tony yanked harder, crushing the man’s trach
ea, the arteries in his neck. A final tug, and the Cuban’s neck snapped. The struggling ceased. Tony released the cable and snatched the pistol from the man’s belt.
He fumbled through the dead man’s pockets, discovered two more clips of ammunition, a fake passport identifying him as a Salvadoran. When Tony was finished tossing the corpse, he carefully adjusted the man in the chair so he would appear asleep. Then Tony faded back into the shadows of the hangar, to plot his next move.
22. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 9 A.M. AND 10 A.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME
9:00:17 A.M. PDT Somewhere inside the Nevada desert
Nina and Morris circled back when they noticed Curtis was no longer following. They found him squatting on the sand next to his vehicle, which was tipped on its side. The sandrail had broken an axle and flipped over.
“It’s finished,” said Curtis, gesturing to a front wheel that was hanging askew, like a broken wing on a chicken.
“What do we—” Morris was interrupted by an electronic crackle and ran for the radio. “Come in CTU. We hear you,” he replied.
There was a pause while the transmission was scrambled. Then they listened with mounting anxiety as Jamey Farrell explained they had only three hours to liberate the base or get out of the way of the bombers. “Be advised that contact with CTU will end in two minutes, when the signal jamming resumes,” Jamey told them.
“If we’re being jammed, how do we let you know we’ve liberated the base?” Morris asked.
“At eleven fifty-seven, the jamming will cease. The B–52s will release their payload three minutes later, unless you made a radio call, identify yourself, and deliver the code word.”
Morris threw up his hands. “Code word! What’s the bloody code word?”
“Coronet Blue,” Jamey replied.
Morris shook his head. “Bleeding ridiculous spy games.”
Nina took the radio from Morris. “Have you heard from Tony?”
“Ryan is talking to him now, over a cell phone that is not secure,” Jamey replied.
“But they’re giving him the code word, no doubt!” Morris bellowed. “Some secret that is.”
“What about Jack?”
There was a pause. “We’re trying to reach him, but so far we’ve got nothing,” Jamey replied.
“What are we going to do now?” Morris said after the radio call ended.
“Is this a vote?” Curtis asked. “Then I say we go.”
Morris crossed his arms. “And I say we don’t.”
“We’re going,” Nina declared.
Curtis cleared his throat. “We have a problem, then. There are only two seats in your rail, and no room to squeeze in a third person.”
Nina pulled the safety helmet over her ebony hair. “Morris doesn’t want to go. We’ll leave him here.” “In the middle of the desert? I could perish out here,” Morris protested.
“You’ll be safe,” Curtis said. “You’re probably out of range of the bombs should they fall. And if all goes well, we’ll send someone back to get you.”
Morris watched them drive away. When they faded from view and the dust in their wake settled, he slumped down in the sand under the dubious shade of the ruined sandrail. The desert was getting hotter by the minute. Morris glanced up at the burning sun.
“Oh, what a bloody fine mess this turned out to be,” he moaned.
9:11:11 A.M. PDT Hangar Six, Experimental Weapons Testing Range Groom Lake Air Force Base
After the sun rose, the morning began to heat up. Dr. Reed decided to ask permission for the hangar door to be closed, the air conditioning turned on. A Cuban guard pretended not to understand her, but she persisted. Finally he took her by the arm and led her to the hangar door, where the man in charge sat on a steel chair staring out at the desert.
“Why do you need air conditioning?” Carlos Boca demanded in a surly tone. He turned then, and openly appraised her from head to toe, until Dr. Reed felt naked in her sweat-stained pink teddy and flip-flops.
“You look comfortable enough, doctor. Request denied.” Boca turned away, signaling her time was over.
The guard led her back to the hostages, but threw her down in a different spot. Because they were not allowed to move around, Megan could only make eye contact with Dani Welles, but could not speak to her.
“I tried asking for the air conditioning an hour ago,” a young woman in dirty overalls said. The white label on her breast patch had the word CONSUELO penned in bold black letters.
“Are you from the terminal crew?” Megan whispered.
The woman nodded. “After the plane landed and the shooting started, I hid in Hangar 18. Some of the soldiers found me and brought me here.”
“At least they didn’t shoot you,” Megan replied.
“Give them time. I’ve been listening,” the woman said, her dark eyes staring at the floor. “These guys are Cubans, soldiers or former soldiers, I think. I know they consider us the walking dead. They’re only waiting for orders to pull the trigger and finish the job.”
For the first time since she was captured, Megan was glad she didn’t understand what the men had been saying. It would only have made the ordeal worse.
She counted her captors. There were three men guarding them, all Spanish-speakers. She watched as the man called Carlos called to one of his men and issued instructions. The man turned his back on his commander and walked to the rear of the hangar, to disappear among the crates and machinery.
“What did he say? Where is that man going?” Megan asked.
“He said Manuel has slept long enough, and that it was time for the other man to wake him,” Consuelo replied.
She breathed a sigh of relief. At least that Carlos guy didn’t order them all to be lined up and shot… Not yet, anyway. Searching her memory, Megan recalled that there had been four guards, and that one of them had wandered off and never came back.
Tony heard the man coming and ducked between two stacks of wooden boxes. He was armed with the Makarov, and a two-foot long, straight cutting blade he’d unscrewed from the industrial strength wire slicer. It looked like a samurai sword, but lacked a pointed tip. Nevertheless, Tony found a use for it.
The guard passed so close Tony could have tapped him on the shoulder. Instead, he waited until the newcomer approached the dead man in the chair. Then Tony crept up behind the man and slipped the noose over his head.
When the guard was dead, Tony slipped the AK–47 off his shoulder, fished through his pockets and belt. This time he came up empty. One clip of ammunition for the assault rifle was not enough to do squat, not against upwards of thirty men.
On top of that, Tony knew this guard was sent to wake the first man he’d killed. Soon the Cubans in charge would be wondering where he went, too.
Tony would have to strike quickly. He wanted to finish off the last two guards before they could raise the alarm, then secure the hangar. With the help of the hostages, they could probably hold out for an hour or so, even if the commandos attempted a counterattack to retake the position.
In any case, Tony knew there was a time limit now. Ryan Chappelle had warned him about the bombing. Tony also knew Jack Bauer was coming — they’d established a rendezvous point and a time during their telephone conversation ninety minutes ago. All Tony had to do was hold out until the cavalry arrived, or until the bombs fell.
Either way, the siege of Area 51 would end in the next couple of hours.
Megan Reed’s stomach rumbled and she shifted uncomfortably. She was hungry, thirsty and she needed to go to the bathroom. They’d had no water since six AM, around the same time they were last allowed to go to the restroom. More than a third of the prisoners were still asleep, and Megan admired those who managed to find peace despite the tension and discomfort.
They must be shock, or suffering from some type of stress reaction, she deduced, wishing she could
sidle over to Dr. Toth and ask his professional opinion. Only then did she notice that the physician w
as sleeping, too.
Unfortunately her bladder was too full for her to sleep. She had to go, and soon. At first Megan decided to wait for the other guards to return before making the embarrassing request. Then she mentally kicked herself.
What the hell is wrong with me? Do I have Stockholm Syndrome or something? I’m the victim here. Why make it easy on them?
Megan raised her hand. “Hey there. You. Hello!”
Boca and the other guard glanced in her direction. “I don’t know about these other people, but I need to use the ladies’ room pronto.”
Sneering, Carlos looked away.
“Hey, buddy,” Megan cried. “I’m talking to you.”
Face curled into a cruel sneer, Carlos Boca stood up, faced her. He slung his rifle over his shoulder and slowly approached the woman. Megan could tell he was angry. The closer he got, the more pissed the Cuban looked. The other guard watched from the sidelines, snickering. The prisoners around her grew uncomfortable, upset she was rocking the boat. But Megan didn’t care.
They’re going to kill me anyway, she thought. At least I’ll die with an empty bladder.
Tony had been observing the hostages for a few minutes. The guards were so far apart, Tony couldn’t see how he was going to neutralize them without firing a shot. But then, thanks to the reliably annoying Dr. Reed, he got his best opening yet.
While Boca loomed threateningly over the defiant Dr. Reed, Tony gripped the cutting blade with both hands, raised it over his head and burst from hiding. With a powerful downward thrust, Tony split the snickering guard’s skull from crown to jaw. The dead man dropped without a sound, blood pooling around Tony’s sneakers. Unfortunately, the guard dragged the blade down with him — it had wedged so deeply in the Cuban’s torso, Tony could not yank it free.
Carlos Boca was still a few feet away. Turning, the Cuban tried to drag the AK–47 off his shoulder to fire. But Megan Reed grabbed the assault rifle and hung on with both hands like a tenacious pit bull. With the strap tugging at his arm, Boca had no choice but to release the weapon. Still, the Cuban commando was not unarmed. Boca drew a long stiletto out of his high boot and lunged at Tony.
24 Declassified: Vanishing Point 2d-5 Page 22