24 Declassified: 06 - Chaos Theory

by John Whitman

  “Actually, tomorrow is better. Better to get it over with, you know?” Agent Becker said smoothly. “Then you have the whole week ahead of you once you’re cleared.”

  “Right,” Henderson said. “Sunday it is.”

  He hung up, then used the intercom. A moment later Peter Jiminez marched up the stairs to Henderson’s office.

  “Close the door,” Henderson ordered. Peter did so. Once they were alone, Henderson’s normally stoic features bunched up into a violent bundle of knots and veins and muscles. “Why the hell is Jack Bauer still alive!”

  5:17 P.M. PST CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles

  Jack hung up the phone. “Get this. Webb had no definite plans to see the fights until today. That’s why the visit wasn’t on our schedule.”

  “But,” Seth asked, “if even the target didn’t know he was going to be there, how would Zapata know?” “Because that’s what he does,” Chappelle interjected. “Get down there, Bauer.”

  5:18 P.M. PST CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles

  Peter Jiminez glared back at Chris Henderson. “What do you think I’ve been trying to do!”

  Henderson stood up from his seat, pacing the width of his small office. “Jesus, this is bad. Internal Affairs wants to interview me tomorrow. They’re not coming in on a Sunday to run a Bible study with me. Damn it!”

  Christopher Henderson’s plan had almost worked. It had come so close to working so many times in the last few hours.

  He’d been behind it from the beginning, of course. Bauer’s testimony would seal his fate once Internal Affairs started chasing the misappropriated funds. Jack had to die. Henderson had known it for weeks. The only question was how to do it without being blamed.

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  Chappelle had kept his little Zapata scheme close to the vest, but Henderson was no idiot. There was no mission being run out of his field office that he didn’t catch wind of, even one as tight as this. In fact, the confidential nature of the scheme was what inspired Henderson to hatch his own plot. Only a few people had known that Jack Bauer was innocent, and that his presence in the Federal Holding Facility was a setup to get him close to Zapata. Henderson had planned carefully to have them removed, so that Bauer would have no avenues of escape. Chappelle had been the easiest of the three—a large dose of barbiturates had put him down almost immediately. Henderson had known the hospital would conduct blood tests, of course, but he was a clandestine operative. Slipping into a hospital lab and switching the test results had been child’s play.

  Bargaining with the MS–13 gang-bangers had proved relatively easy as well. Smiley Lopez had been eager to hire his men out as killers, especially when Henderson offered reduced or commuted sentences as a prize (the fact that he could not actually have had any sentences reduced did not bother him at all). That Jack had embarrassed some of their soldiers once before gave the Salvatruchas additional motivation.

  It should have been easy. It should have been over hours ago. Isolate Jack in the jail. Have the Salvatruchas kill him. Over, done, end of story.

  But it hadn’t happened that way. Jack Bauer had fought off the assassins not once but twice. In fact, the bastard had somehow used the fights to get even closer to his quarry Ramirez, and once he realized he was isolated, he’d somehow organized a prison riot to cover his escape.

  From that moment on, Henderson’s plan had gone downhill. He’d put Jiminez on Jack’s trail, first watching the Bauer house. That lead had turned hot almost immediately when Bauer contacted his wife and asked her to make a delivery for him. Henderson, trying to keep himself and Jiminez at arm’s length, had sent MS–13 again, but they’d proved just as inept out of prison as in.

  “You had him,” Henderson swore under his breath. “You had him in your hands and you let him get away.”

  Jiminez knew exactly what he was talking about. He’d gone downtown to find Jack and deal with him, but the U.S. Marshals had picked him up first. Even Henderson had to admit that the younger agent had taken a bold step: ramming Pascal’s car and freeing Jack. Jiminez’s intention had been to help Jack escape, kill him, and dump him somewhere. But he hadn’t expected Jack to overpower him.

  They had one more crack at Bauer when he assumed Studhalter’s identity. Jiminez had let him escape, hoping he’d contact his Ukrainian suppliers, which he’d done. But once again Bauer had fought out of his predicament. The man was a goddamned prodigy.

  The only thing that had gone right was when Jiminez got to Smiley Lopez first. Jack had left him alive, of course, but Lopez might have identified Henderson

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  as the man who’d plotted to have Jack murdered, so

  Jiminez had put him out of his misery.

  “So what now?” Jiminez said. “We giving up?”

  “Give up?” Henderson said in a voice heavy with sarcasm. “Follow the nice men to the prison? No. You need to kill Jack Bauer.”

  “What, right now, in the middle of CTU? I’m not going to prison for you.”

  “We both took a piece of that money,” Henderson retorted. “You’re going to prison anyway, unless you kill him.”

  Jiminez knew he was right. There was no way he was going to spend the rest of his life in Leavenworth over a few hundred thousand dollars that no one should have missed anyway. And if Jack Bauer had to die to make sure Peter Jiminez didn’t end up fighting off bull queers in prison every day, then so be it.

  Henderson’s phone rang. He answered and listened for a minute, then nodded. “Good, keep me informed.” He hung up and smiled at Peter. Now’s your chance. Jack just left for the Staples Center.”

  5:25 P.M. PST Staples Center

  Zapata sat a few seats from the Chairman of the Fed, glancing his way once in a while but mostly observing the crowd slowly filling up the huge sports arena. The fights were sold out, with most spectators there to watch the much-anticipated title fight between Salvatore Silva and Ben Harmon. The Kendall-Webb fight was on the undercard, and was scheduled as the second fight of the night.

  Several giant monitors hung from the high ceiling. Later, they would show the fight to the spectators in the cheap seats, but for now, they showed promotional video with interviews of the fighters, their past records, and highlights from earlier fights. The more he watched, the more certain Zapata became that Kendall would lose his fight. Young Webb was peaking, and Kendall was washed up. And the moment he lost, his chances of earning any big money from the fight game were reduced to zero, and he would take the offer.

  5:32 P.M. PST 101 Freeway, Los Angeles

  Jack’s car sat in the middle of the worst traffic he’d ever seen in Los Angeles. The freeway was a parking lot, and according to the news, every other freeway looked exactly like this one.

  “It’s unbelievable,” he said to Tony Almeida over the phone. “Can you get to the Staples Center?” “I can’t even get to the freeway!” Almeida yelled in general frustration.

  Jack hung up and dialed CTU, getting Chappelle. “We’ve already alerted security at the Staples Center,” the Regional Director said before Jack could even ask. “They can’t roll any more units downtown.

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  The whole city’s paralyzed. But they have three or four black-and-whites there for every event. I’m having those uniforms go inside and stay close to the Chairman.”

  “Good,” Jack said. “I’m on the 101 near Cahuenga. Can you send a helicopter for me?”

  Chappelle paused. “Are you serious?”

  “I guarantee you Zapata is there. I need to be there now. I’ve seen his face.”

  Chapelle said, “We should evacuate. Or lock down.”

  “No,” Jack replied sharply. “He’ll find a way out. I don’t want to warn him.”

  He hung up before Chappelle could object. He glared at the endless stream of cars before him, gleaming in the last rays of sunlight like a river of steel. “What the hell’s going on!” he yelled.

  5:35 P.M. PST Los Angeles Department of Transportation

  D
arren Spitz had worked for the Department of Transportation for the better part of two decades, and he’d never seen anything like what was going on that afternoon. Los Angeles traffic was always bad, but at least it flowed. If anyone understood that, he did. He was employed by the city planner’s office, and he specialized in traffic flow patterns. The end result of his job was pretty mundane—he helped determine how long the traffic lights stayed red or green, and how those changes related to the timing of other traffic lights nearby. Not the most exciting work. But Spitz liked it.

  “Traffic is a force of nature in this city,” he would say to anyone who would listen (it was not a large crowd). “You listen to the weatherman. You listen to the newsman. You’d better listen to the traffic man. Traffic has a memory, it has a rhythm all its own. It might as well be a living thing.”

  At the moment, that living thing was sick. Paralyzed, in fact. Or maybe a better metaphor was that all its arteries were clogged.

  Spitz sat at his computer screen, flipping from traffic camera video of various congested areas (which was all of them) and grid overlays that showed the entire network of freeways and surface streets. Most of them now flashed red, meaning they were jammed. Six different spots showed a starburst indicating a SigAlert—a major accident that caused a disruption of traffic service.

  “Huh,” he said as the big picture caught his attention. It wasn’t unheard of to have six large accidents in the greater metropolitan area, but something about these six accidents intrigued him: the 405 Freeway at the Sepulveda Pass; the 101 Freeway at Cahuenga; the 10 Freeway just before the 110. You know, he thought, if you were going to jam the freeways on purpose, these would be some of the best spots to do it.

  Darren Spitz called his supervisor.

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  5:41 P.M. PST 101 Freeway, Los Angeles

  The helicopter came in low, swooping over the hoods of cars stretched on for miles. Jack saw it coming and got out of his car, leaving the keys in the ignition and the engine running.

  “Hey!” yelled the driver behind him, but Jack ignored the call.

  He jogged around and between the unmoving cars until he reached the edge of the freeway. There was a small park nearby and the helicopter made for it. Jack followed, and a few minutes later he ducked low beneath the propeller blades and slid into the passenger seat.

  “Staples Center!” he yelled, and the chopper rose into the air.

  5:47 P.M. PST Staples Center

  “Game time, baby,” Chico D’Amato, the corner man, said. He tapped his fists onto the top of Jake Webb’s gloved fists. “You ready for this?”

  Jake Webb had never felt so ready in his life. He’d trained hard for the last four months. He’d hit his weight exactly, and then spent the last forty-eight hours bulking up on carbs and protein, a long-standing tradition among fighters who got to weigh in a day or two prior to the actual fight. He now weighed a good seven pounds more than his officially listed weight. He felt strong and he felt fresh.

  Jake knew he was at his peak. He also knew that he matched up well against both Salvatore Silva and Ben Harmon. It didn’t matter to him which one of them came away with the champion’s belt tonight. He’d come after him and he’d take it. All he had to do was get through Kendall, who didn’t look to offer him much of a problem.

  “Your grandpa picked up his tickets,” Chico told him. “He’s out there. You gonna win for him?” Chico was an old hand at the fight game. He locked his eyes on Jake’s and was content with the fire he saw there.

  “I’m gonna win for him,” Jake replied.

  “Let me tell you what this boy’s gonna do,” Chico said. “He’s gonna fight with a lot o’ heart. You got to weather the first few minutes of the round. My guess is he’ll fight tough then. Don’t panic if he roughs you up, just stay in the pocket, keep your chin down. His ground game is good but it ain’t great, so if he takes you down just stay calm. You watch, come the end of that round, his heart’s going to go out a little bit. Doubt’s gonna creep in. That’s when you finish him.”

  “That’s when I finish him,” Jake repeated like a mantra.

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  5:51 P.M. PST Staples Center

  Zapata saw the four uniformed cops gather at the end of the corridor that led from the outer circle of shops and concession stands and into the seating area. He looked the other way and saw four more cops there. Once or twice, the police officers glanced casually up to his area, but they weren’t searching. They were checking the Chairman and then glancing away.

  The anarchist felt a pang in his chest, but he did not know if it was anger or fear. Could those policemen be here for the Chairman? Zapata looked across the arena to the entry corridors over there. No police officers. No police officers anywhere except near the Fed leader.

  Casually, Zapata stood up and pulled out his wallet, checking his cash as though contemplating a trip to the hot dog stand. He walked to the nearest corridor and said “Excuse me” as he slid past the police officers. These men had no idea who he was or what he looked like, but there was no doubt in Zapata’s mind that if these men had been told to come here, Agent Bauer was not far behind. Zapata went to a concession stand and bought a pair of binoculars. Then he walked around the wide circular hallway that girdled the Staples Center until he came to the far side of the arena. He climbed the outer stairs until he was up in the nosebleed seats on that side. Entering the seating area, he looked around for someone who seemed to be

  sitting alone, a muscled twenty-something in a T-shirt that said “Tap Out” on it. Zapata showed the young man his ticket. “Don’t ask,” he said. “Just trade with me.”

  The man in the “Tap Out” shirt looked suspiciously at him. “I find out that seat’s taken, I’m coming right back here.”

  “Deal,” Zapata said. The man shrugged, took the much better ticket, and left. Zapata sat down in his new seat, as far from the Chairman as possible, and raised the binoculars to his eyes.

  Agent Bauer could surround Chairman Webb with as many police officers as he wanted. It wouldn’t matter.

  At that moment, the entire arena darkened and deafening music blared. The fights were under way.

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24

  THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 6 P.M. AND 7 P.M. PACIFIC STANDARD TIME

  6:00 P.M. PST Staples Center

  It was not every day that a helicopter dropped out of the sky and landed on the narrow plaza on the north side of Staples Center. This chopper touched down lightly and Jack Bauer jumped out, running low under the prop wash.

  A moment later he reached the entrance. A large crowd still hovered outside, composed mostly of latecomers and fight dilettantes who didn’t care about the undercard fights. Jack pushed past them, ignoring cries and complaints. At the glass doors he flashed his badge.

  “Okay,” the teenage ticket taker said, waving him through. The metal detectors shrieked as Jack entered the Staples Center, but he flashed his badge again and the cop posted there let him pass.

  6:07 P.M. PST Staples Center

  Peter Jiminez reached the Staples Center on a motorcycle, the only mode of transportation that had any chance of maneuvering in the paralyzed city. He left the bike in a motorcycle parking spot directly across from the entrance, jogged across the street, and got himself in much the same way Jack had.

  Peter’s heart was pounding. Bauer was a formidable opponent, and to hunt him would be dangerous. But Peter had one advantage: Jack had no idea that Peter was the hunter.

  6:09 P.M. PST CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles

  Christopher Henderson opened his office door and looked down on the bullpen with its network of analysts’ computers. What he needed to do now, he couldn’t do from his own computer terminal. He walked downstairs and passed by Jamey Farrell’s workstation. “Are you seeing that slow crawl data from server four?” he asked her.

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  Jamey lifted her head up from the screen. “Hmm? Oh,
yeah, but it’s nothing out of the ordinary.”

  Henderson looked dubious. “I’m going to check it anyway.”

  “We can have the techs do it,” Jamey offered. “Or one of us.”

  Henderson smiled as warmly as he could manage. “Let’s see if the old field hand can still work the fancy machines. I don’t get much of a chance to be a computer whiz.”

  Henderson walked up the hallway to one of the tech rooms that housed CTU’s massive servers. At certain times of day, techs and analysts turned this room into Grand Central Station, but at the moment it was empty and quiet. Henderson opened a panel that gave him direct access to the server’s memory cards . . . specifically, memory cards that had to do with phone logs. If he accessed these memory cards from another terminal, the system would register his keystrokes and annotate his file with the fact that he had ordered the deletions. This way, the system would show that someone had accessed the panel, but that was Henderson’s stated goal in entering the room, and Jamey would back him up.

  Henderson popped a specific memory card out of its slot, then removed a small device with a tiny screen from his jacket. In moments, wires from the device were connected to the memory card, and he was reading its information. He scrolled down until he found a data file for his own telephone, including traces of his cell phone conversations inside the building. He deleted every one of them that went to Peter Jiminez. In moments, almost every communication between the two of them had been wiped clean.

  Henderson purposely left a few lines of code in the file, specifically, those related to telephone calls and mobile intercepts of his calls to Smiley Lopez. These he did not erase. He altered them so that the source appeared to be Peter’s phone instead.

  Content, he replaced the memory card, closed the panel, and walked out of the tech room. “You’re right,” he told Jamey with a wave. “Nothing there.”

  6:29 P.M. PST Staples Center

  Mark Kendall watched the opening fight on a television screen in his room. It was a bruiser. Neither fighter had much finish, but both were tough as nails. The fight had dragged out to the third of its three five-minute rounds, and neither fighter seemed willing to give up.