24 Declassified: Vanishing Point 2d-5

by Marc A. Cerasini

  Ignoring the thick framed glasses now tucked in her pocket, the team leader stooped low, to squint through a small porthole set in the wall-sized hangar door. Outside the sky was blue and cloudless. Beyond the boundaries of the Air Force facility, the desert horizon was a series of stacked layers of browns, mauves and rust reds fading into the firmament. The wind kicked up, and the camouflaged tower was momentarily obscured by a tornado of swirling sand.

  I can’t see the damn thing with my naked eyes from five hundred feet away! How can any satellite — even the most advanced — spot it from Earth’s orbit? Dr. Reed mused, convinced this was another futile exercise. Another way for Air Force Security personnel to justify their pointless existence!

  With an impatient gesture she turned her back on the desert, scanned the interior of Hangar Six. Her team of technicians, researchers, and support personnel — numbering seventeen in all — lolled casually on packing crates or in folding chairs. The air conditioning inside the hangar was inadequate and many had succumbed to the sleepy warmth.

  For an instant, Dr. Reed locked eyes with Beverly Chang, who was fully alert and fidgeting with a plastic cup of tea. The thirty-something cyber specialist appeared as tense and nervous as Megan Reed felt.

  At least one other person is taking this demonstration seriously.

  “Ninety seconds and we’re in the clear. The satellite will be out of range,” the corporal announced — a statement that elicited a groan from Dr. Reed.

  “Why did this have to happen today, of all days. Just hours before a critical test in front of a VIP from the Senate Defense Appropriations Committee?” she complained.

  “Actually, you should be flattered, Dr. Reed. You got their attention,” Stratowski replied.

  “Who? The Chinese? Are you telling me they’re interested in my demonstration? How do they even know about it? This project is top secret. Or did you security boys drop the ball again?”

  Scratching his nose, Corporal Stratowski peered at the tracking screen. The young man’s pale pink complexion had been cooked lobster red in places by the desert sun. His hair had been cropped so short it was hard to tell whether the color was blond or brown.

  “This is no coincidence, Ma’am,” the Corporal explained patiently. “Something piqued their interest.

  The Chicoms went to a lot of trouble to stage this fly over. They have a whole bunch of photo reconnaissance satellites that pass over this facility on regularly scheduled visits. We know their trajectory and adjust our schedules accordingly.”

  “Yeah,” said Dr. Phillip Bascomb. “But those are old fashioned film-return satellites using technology that’s twenty years out of date. By the time the payload is dropped back to earth, the film recovered by the Communist Chinese military and evaluated by their intelligence ser vice, the information is twelve hours old and likely obsolete.”

  A microwave specialist and a critical member of Dr. Reed’s team, Bascomb often displayed a wide range of knowledge that reached beyond his academic field of study. Under his lab coat, he was a stylish dresser, but his affection for the latest designer casual was belied by his refusal to part with a ponytail and walrus moustache — both streaked with gray, both holdovers from his late ’60s Berkeley days.

  “If these satellites are so outmoded, then why all the paranoia?” Dr. Reed demanded.

  “Ask Big Brother,” Dr. Bascomb quipped, jerking his head in the Corporal’s direction.

  “This fly over was unscheduled, Dr. Reed,” the man explained. “US Space Command only warned us it was being repositioned two hours ago. And this satellite is a Jian Bing ZY–5, the Chicoms’ most advanced space based photo reconnaissance vehicle launched to date.”

  Stratowski tapped the blip on his screen with his finger. “The ZY–5 has real time capabilities. That means some technician at the Taiyuan Satellite Launch Center in Shanxi Province is watching this hangar right now.”

  “Smile. You’re on Candid Camera!” Dr. Alvin Toth grinned. A retired physician and pathologist, the sixty-four year old was the oldest member of Dr. Reed’s team. Portly and bald with bushy eyebrows that matched his worn lab smock, Toth leaned against the tow tractor, arms folded across his paunchy torso.

  “Careful, Alvin. You’re showing your age. Nobody under sixty ever heard of Candid Camera,” Phil Bas-comb called.

  “I’m not showing my age,” Toth countered with a wink. “What I’m demonstrating is my vast range of knowledge, experience, and expertise.”

  Dr. Dani Welles snorted. “Candid Camera was a TV show, not a breakthrough discovery in particle physics. But you know I love you, Doc!” She threw a dazzling smile at Toth. “’Cause, I think older men are hot.”

  Not yet thirty, Welles was down-to-earth friendly. No one who met her ever guessed that the breezy young woman graduated with honors from MIT. In fact, most of her MySpace friends thought “Ms. Cocoa Quark” was just another girl from South Central.

  Steve Sable laughed. “So that’s why you won’t go out with me? You’re waiting for me to get an AARP card?”

  He’d been observing the conversation from a folding chair, munching a donut and sipping coffee from a Styrofoam cup. A cyber engineer and software designer, Dr. Sable was a relative newcomer to the project — only their newest technician, Antonio Alvarez, had less tenure since he’d joined them nearly three months earlier. But Sable had proven himself invaluable in the fourteen months since he joined them. Malignant Wave was Sable’s second project at Groom Lake. The previous program had been cancelled.

  “I never went out with you because you never asked,” Dani replied with a sly smile.

  The banter was interrupted when the airman’s laptop beeped three times in quick succession. Dr. Reed watched over the Corporal’s shoulder as the blip drifted off the grid map and vanished from the screen. A moment later Stratowski tapped a key and shut down the computer.

  “All clear, Dr. Reed. Your team can proceed.”

  Dr. Reed sighed. “Finally.”

  Heels clicking on the concrete, she strutted across the hangar and punched a red button on the doorjamb. A warning siren wailed, reverberating deafeningly throughout the massive hangar — the signal that nap time was over. With a metallic clatter, the massive steel door began to rise, filling the dim interior of the hangar with bright sunlight and waves of oppressive heat.

  After ten seconds, the warning siren went mute. Several young airmen, yawning and stretching, emerged from a tangle of packing crates. A young Hispanic woman in overalls climbed aboard the tow tractor, and the engine roared to life in a cloud of blue smoke. Rumbling, the tractor lurched forward, dragging an aluminum tow platform containing the microwave emissions array.

  A split-second later, the tow tractor abruptly braked, tires squealing. Carried by momentum, the tow platform continued forward, colliding with the rear of the tow vehicle. The jolt rattled the sensitive microwave emitter strapped to the platform. Cries of alarm erupted from the research team and Dr. Bas-comb cursed. Sable threw his Styrofoam cup to the ground and Beverly Chang took a step backwards, blinking in surprise.

  Dr. Megan Reed went ballistic.

  “What the hell is that… that thing blocking the door?” she cried. Reed pointed to a ten foot steel pole set in a concrete filled tire. A volleyball dangled from a long rope hooked to the top.

  “It’s a tetherball post,” Corporal Stratowski declared.

  “I know what it is,” Dr. Reed said. “I want to know who owns it.”

  “It belongs to Antonio — I mean, Dr. Alvarez.” Dani Welles regretted speaking before the words were out of her mouth.

  “I should have known,” muttered Dr. Reed. She looked around for the guilty party, but saw no sign of the project’s energy system programmer. She shouted out in a voice that rivaled the decibel level of the warning siren.

  “Alvarez, where the hell are you?”

  “Yo!” came the call from the back of the hangar. Dr. Antonio Alvarez stuck his head out of the interior of a malfunct
ioning electrical generator.

  “Front and center, now!” Dr. Reed commanded.

  Alvarez hurried forward, a power coupler in one hand, the end of a long electrical cable in the other. The wire in his hand unwound until it reached its limit, nearly jerking him off his feet. With an embarrassed frown, Alvarez dropped the cable and tossed the power coupler onto a crate. Standing before Dr. Reed, he wiped his greasy hands on his white lab coat.

  “You called?”

  Dr. Reed stared at the newest member of her team. She’d known many “eccentric” scientists and researchers in her day, but few were as clueless as Dr. Alvarez. She studied the man, from the dark tangle of his unkempt hair; black, thick-framed glasses; and perpetual five o’clock stubble; all the way down to the baggy, oversized sweatpants.

  If Dr. Reed applied some of the considerable powers of observation she used for her research, she might have noticed that Alvarez was as tall as she was — a fact disguised by his submissive demeanor and perpetually slumped shoulders. Also masked was the man’s muscular, former-Marine physique, his strong shoulders and arms strategically camouflaged by a lab coat two sizes too big.

  “Does that… that pole belong to you?” Dr. Reed asked through gritted teeth.

  Alvarez followed Reed’s gaze to the tetherball stand outside.

  “Yes, Dr. Reed.”

  “Could you move it.”

  “Of course, sorry. I was trying to fix the backup

  generator. It blew yesterday, when we tested the

  coupler set up. I had to reconfigure a few of the—”

  “Move the pole. NOW!”

  Alvarez flushed red. Pushing up his thick glasses,

  he tucked his head into his chest and ran to the tetherball pole. He yanked on the rope until the pole toppled. Corporal Stratowski joined him and together they used the concrete-filled tire to roll the post out of the way. A moment later the tractor rumbled through the door of Hangar Six.

  “Got it, partner?” Stratowski asked.

  “Sure, Corporal,” Alvarez replied. “Thanks for the help.”

  A crane rolled out of another hangar and approached the steel tower. Stratowski joined the others, following the tow vehicle to the base of the structure. Dr. Reed and Dani Welles passed Alvarez on their way out. The Team Leader glanced at the nerdy technician, who was struggling to position the pole as close to the hanger wall as possible.

  “A grown man and he still plays tetherball. Can you believe it?” Megan Reed said incredulously.

  Dani shrugged. “He plays solo squash, too. Last week I saw him over at the dorms before sunup. I’m sure he didn’t know anyone was around. The dude’s hot. He was wearing nothing but shorts, and he whacked that ball like a pro. I was surprised to see how trim he is. Hides it under those ridiculous clothes.” Dani glanced over her shoulder at Alvarez. “A girl could do worse…”

  Dr. Reed snorted. “Antonio? Please. It’s lonely out here in the desert, but not that lonely.”

  When everyone was out of earshot, Dr. Alvarez reached around the pole, until his fingers located a small hole drilled into the metal. He probed inside, until he located two buttons hidden there. He tapped them in a precise sequence, heard a faint beep over the sound of the desert wind and rustling sand.

  “Jamey, it’s Almeida. Can you hear me?”

  The voice that answered was faint, broadcast from CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles, hundreds of miles away.

  “I hear you loud and clear, Tony,” Jamey Farrell replied after a split-second lag.

  “How’s the reception. Do you have a clear image?”

  “Crystal clear. I don’t know how you placed the surveillance camera so close to a top secret test in a photo restricted area. You have to tell me how you did it when you get back.”

  Tony smiled. “Let’s just say that sometimes the best place to hide something is in plain sight.”

  “Okay, I’ve activated the digital recorder,” Jamey said. “You have unlimited memory available to you, so you should have a complete visual recording of the weapon’s set up, the test, and the equipment break down afterwards.”

  “Excellent. If anyone approaches that array we’ll have a photographic record,” Tony replied, glancing over his shoulders. “I better join the others now… Over and out.”

  12:41:22 P.M. PDT The Cha-Cha Lounge, Las Vegas

  Jack Bauer’s right arm felt like lead. It hung limply at his side. With his left hand he wiped a splash of blood off his cheek and stared down at the man slumped in the corner of the room, amid orange shards of the shattered fiberglass chair.

  “Who sold you the device and when did you buy it?” Bauer asked in a soft voice.

  Max Farrow winced at the sound. His chin was buried in his chest, rivulets of blood ran out of his nose. His left eye was swollen shut when he lifted his face to stare at Jack.

  “It was Bix,” Farrow croaked. “Hugo Bix. I bought it down at his garage… Paid seventy grand for it…”

  “When?”

  “Two days ago… Tested it out at the Chuck Wagon Casino yesterday… Big win… Then Bix sent me here ’cause he said the Cha-Cha was an easy touch…”

  Farrow’s voice caught in a muffled sob. “The son of a bitch lied, and now that bastard Bix is gonna kill me for what I’m telling you…”

  Jack looked up, nodded to Curtis Manning on the other side of the one-way mirror. The door lock clicked a moment later, and Jack left the cell. Manning glanced at the man huddled on the floor, then closed and locked the door.

  “You heard?” Jack asked, wrestling the knuckle duster off of his swollen right hand.

  “I’m not surprised,” Manning replied. “Thanks to the DEA, we already have a direct link between the Bix gang and the Rojas Brothers. Now we’ve linked Bix to the technology thefts. I think Hugo Bix is our man, Jack. You were right to go up against him.”

  It was a tough admission for Curtis Manning. Initially he’d resisted the plan to begin undermining the most powerful gangster in Las Vegas. But Jack knew he wouldn’t get bites unless he started baiting. He hadn’t wanted to do it, either, but—

  “We had no choice, Curtis,” Jack reminded him. “The local DA and the Nevada Prosecutor’s office have nothing on Bix, and when the FBI tried to trap him, their undercover agent ended up in a shallow grave in the desert.”

  “You better proceed with caution. Bix has got a real hate on for you.”

  To Manning’s surprise, Jack laughed, short and sharp.

  “Good. That’s the way I want it,” Bauer said. “The more Jaycee Jager threatens Bix, the more desperate he becomes. We’ve been cutting into his drug trade and stealing away his customers for three months. By sending that cowboy to shake us down, Bix showed his hand. That was his first mistake.”

  12:52:09 P.M. PDT Babylon Hotel and Casino, Las Vegas

  Jong Lee recognized his visitor the moment the man was ushered into the luxury suite. The face he had seen many times, on American television, and on the covers of American magazines and newspapers. Although Jong knew everything there was to know about this man — from his humble birth in the deep South to his impressive athletic and political careers — nothing could prepare him for Congressmen Larry Bell’s size and physical presence.

  Hùnzhàng! Where does this brute purchase his clothing? Lee wondered.

  Smiling affably, Jong Lee rose and moved to greet the newcomer. At nearly six feet, Jong was tall for a Chinese man. But the former pro basketball player towered over him. When they shook, Lee’s pale hand disappeared in the American’s ebony fist. Protocol demanded Jong bow, so he did. Not deeply, but enough to show respect. Tradition also dictated that Jong’s head should never be lower than his visitor’s — symbolic of his own dominant position in the coming negotiations. But in this case, he would have to forego tradition.

  “Please sit down, Representative Bell,” Jong said. “I realize how busy you must be. You are quite generous to spare me even a moment of your time.”

  “You�
�re the one who’s generous, Mr. Lee,” Representative Bell replied. “I know how busy you must be. Your firm operates five factories in Hong Kong alone…”

  Jong crossed his legs. “I’m impressed, Congressman. You have done your homework.”

  Silently, Jong Lee’s associate, a petite woman named Yizi, set a mahogany tray on the table between the two men. Aromatic steam rose from a porcelain tea pot. Gracefully she served. Her blue-black hair was swept to one side. Bell’s eyes followed the cascade along one delicate cheek, past her pale throat. The only sound in the room was the rustling of her black dress, the tap of her heels on the marble floor. Mesmerized, Bell continued to follow her movements. When the woman placed the warm cup before him, her alabaster hand briefly brushed his.

  “You were saying, Congressman…”

  The man blinked, faced the speaker. “I was saying that I’m delighted you made this trip, Mr. Lee. But I also admit I’m surprised.”

  Jong Lee raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

  “What I mean to say is that you’re a chip manufacturer from China, and the Pan-Latin Anti-Drug Conference chiefly involves business leaders and law enforcement officials from the major Latin American drug producing nations…”

  “Ah, I see your point, Congressman,” Jong said with a wry laugh. “I suppose I could plead altruism, mumble a collection of familiar platitudes about how we’re all part of the global community, and in an ever-shrinking world no issue is truly local, but the truth is, my firm also operates a factory in Mexico, so I am no stranger to the drug epidemic in the West. My company also happens to manufacture an array of sensors and microchips that are quite useful in drug interdiction, so I also have a selfish motive.”

  Congressman Bell held the porcelain cup between his thumb and forefinger, then swallowed the contents. He placed the cup on the table with a click, then slapped his knees.

  “That’s a relief, Mr. Lee. As a United States Congressman from the great state of Louisiana, I get uncomfortable around too much altruism.”