Bix nodded, turned his back on the workmen. “I reckon they’ll be here any minute.”
“Then what?” the mechanic called back.
“Then you’ll do your jobs and stop asking questions,” Bix replied before closing his door.
3:57:19 P.M. PDT The Cha-Cha Lounge, Las Vegas
Jack waited in the Tiki Lounge, his mind still focused on Henderson’s phone call.
“You wanted to see me, Jaycee?”
Jack nodded. “Sit down, Curtis. Any sign of Ray Perry?”
Curtis shook his head. “Driscoll put out some feelers. Found out Perry wasn’t hiding out at Circus, Circus. Don talked to Perry’s girlfriend and she hasn’t seen him in two days.”
Curtis leaned close. “Do you think it was really Perry who wasted Max Farrow?”
Jack smiled humorlessly. “That would be convenient, sure. Ray’s gone so we don’t have a spy among us. That’s what someone wants us to think.”
“Who do you think it is then, Jack?”
“It could be anyone. It could be Ray Perry. Or Don Driscoll. Or Chick Hoffman. Hell, it could even be Nancy over there.” To Curtis Manning’s surprise, Jack laughed once. “We’ll know soon enough. I think Hugo’s about to make his move.”
“You think sending Max Farrow here was the beginning of something?”
“I think whatever Hugo’s planning, it’s already begun. That’s why I want you to go over to Bix Automotive and keep an eye on the place.”
Curtis nodded. “Can do, Jack. I’ve already established a reconnaissance position inside a vacant tool and die factory across the street.”
“Go now. Call Morris with updates every hour. And be careful. This whole operation is already in jeopardy. One more strike and we’re out.”
5. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 4 P.M. AND 5 P.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME
4:00:01 P.M. PDT Groom Lake Secure Terminal McCarran Airport, Las Vegas
After helping the Senator pass through the restricted terminal’s extensive security protocols, which included X-ray scans, metal detectors, and a fingerprint check, Air Force Colonel Vincent DeBlasio handed David Palmer off to the scientist in charge of the Malignant Wave Project. Palmer, who understood the silent language of the military hierarchy, saw this as a sign that the Air Force was not comfortable with the direction the project had taken, and that the top brass who originally authorized the project were now maneuvering to distance themselves from the research they initially funded.
Dr. Megan Reed was unlike any research scientist Palmer had ever met. A tall, striking blond in pearls, a crisp business suit, and high heels, she boldly shook the Senator’s hand when they were introduced. She immediately dismissed DeBlasio and took charge of her VIP guest. Since both of them knew it would be unwise and unlawful to discuss the Malignant Wave Program before they arrived at the secured top secret site, the Senator and the scientist talked about their destination instead. The woman proved to be an eager and determined tour guide.
“Have you ever visited Groom Lake before, Senator?”
“I haven’t,” Palmer replied. “But I’m impressed by the high level of security at this terminal.”
Dr. Reed nodded. “I’ll pass on your compliment to Beverly Chang, or you can tell her yourself. Dr. Chang is one of the researchers in the Malignant Wave program. She was also in charge of instituting the new security protocols.”
Palmer looked around. The concrete interior of the restricted terminal on the northwestern edge of Mc-Carran International Airport was unimpressive. He glanced back at the glass doors he’d passed through earlier. The Tropicana and New York New York casinos were so close to the building they seemed to border the runway.
“I understood that Groom Lake is close to being deactivated. Was I misinformed?”
“Not at all, Senator,” Megan Reed replied. “Activities on the base are winding down ahead of the scheduled deactivation. Staffing is down, but several top secret research programs still continue.”
Dr. Reed did not mention the fact that those research projects were also close to deactivation — or rather, de-funding — or that Malignant Wave was at the top of the Senate Defense Appropriations Committee’s endangered projects list. Palmer had come to Nevada this day to assess the program as part of his duties as chairman of the committee. He took a special interest in Malignant Wave because the weapon they were developing was supposedly based on nonlethal technology. Palmer was enthusiastic about any weapon system that had the potential to minimize casualties in times of war.
Dr. Reed took the lead. “If you’ll follow me out to the airplane.”
They passed through another glass door. The afternoon was dazzling, the sky a clear, cloudless blue. The brightness of the day was intensified by the sun bouncing off the bleached concrete. The noise of jet engines was deafening, so conversation ceased until they crossed to the portable staircase that led into the belly of the unmarked Boeing 737–200 parked on the tarmac.
Here, the main terminal at McCarran Airport was clearly visible across a stretch of runway, and the illusion that the Las Vegas strip bordered the runway was intensified as well. The looming shadow of The MGM Grand’s green “Emerald City” towers appeared to stretch across the perimeter of the landing field.
Dr. Reed led Palmer up the stairs and into the cabin. Inside the airliner, the buffeting noise of jet engines subsided, the only sound was the steady hum of the on-board climate control system. The pilot and an air steward, both in United States Air Force uniforms, greeted them inside the door.
“I’m Captain Brent, Senator Palmer. Welcome aboard Janet Three-two-three.”
Palmer noted that Captain Brent was close to retirement age. He also noticed several campaign ribbons on the officer’s dress uniform, including those for Operations Desert Shield and Desert Storm. Respectfully, the Senator shook the combat veteran’s hand.
Megan Reed then directed the Senator to seats at the front of the craft, close to the pilot’s cabin. Behind them a scattering of civilian and military workers pretended not to stare at the high-profile politician in their midst.
“I see the Air Force is in charge of transport now,” Palmer noted.
“That’s correct,” Dr. Reed replied, fastening her seat belt. “Formerly, the defense contractor Edgerton, Germeshausen and Grier, Inc. managed transport and security around Groom Lake. But since the deactivation was announced, their contract was voided and Air Force security took over daily operations.”
Palmer lifted an eyebrow. “So EG&G is out?”
“They are. But their ongoing contracts with NASA, the Department of Energy, Defense, Treasury and Homeland Security guarantees EG&G will have plenty of work to do in the foreseeable future.”
Palmer realized Megan Reed had missed the motive behind his question. The Senator didn’t care that EG&G was out of a contract, only that Groom Lake’s legendary security was at the same levels that existed before the transition. Rather than clarify his query, Palmer let the subject drop.
The steward brought them coffee. Within a few minutes the aircraft was taxiing down the runway.
“This aircraft is fairly empty,” Palmer noted. “What kind of personnel levels are we talking about these days?”
Megan Reed’s pug nose curled as she considered his question.
“Well, there are flights north every half hour,” she explained. “But what we call rush hour occurs weekday mornings, when our fleet of jets carry close to five hundred military personnel, contractors and civilian workers to several top secret locations in the desert. Most of these workers depart at our first stop — the main runway at Groom Lake.”
She leaned back in her seat, crossed her tanned and shapely legs. “Next year I suspect those personnel numbers will be significantly curtailed due to ongoing cuts.”
They hardly seemed to have left the ground when Senator Palmer heard the airplane’s wheels come down again. He peered through the window, saw three concrete runways stretching whitely across the scorched bro
wn desert terrain.
“Right now we’re over Emigrant Valley in Lincoln County, Nevada,” Dr. Reed told him. “Area 51 is al most below us. The experimental base is a relatively small, sixty square mile area inside of a much larger base called—”
“I know, Dr. Reed,” Palmer said, cutting her short. “The Nevada Test and Training Range is about forty-six hundred square miles, Area 51 is just a tiny section of the entire complex.”
She nodded, unperturbed by the Senator’s apparent rudeness. “The dry lake bed is clearly visible from the air, and you can see both operating runways.”
“I see three runways,” Palmer replied.
“The one on our right has already been decommissioned. It’s been neglected for so long it’s no longer suitable for operations.”
The aircraft descended then, until they were below the peaks of the Groom and Papoose Mountain ranges that surrounded the valley. Finally the wheels bumped once and the aircraft braked, engines whining shrilly. They landed in a cloud of sandy dust. The aircraft powered down and taxied to a small concrete building squatting in the sun.
“We’ve just arrived on the main runway, built in the 1990s,” Megan Reed explained.
Palmer bit back a response. The demonstration had not even begun and already Palmer was tired of Dr. Megan Reed’s endless explanations.
The “fasten seatbelt” light went off and the air steward popped the main door. Hot, dry desert air flooded the air conditioned compartment.
“Come along, Senator,” Megan Reed said, rising and straightening her skirt. “Corporal Stratowski should be waiting on the tarmac with a Hummer.
He’ll drive us over to Hangar Six where the demonstration will take place…”
4:42:40 P.M. PDT Senator Palmer’s suite Babylon Hotel and Casino, Las Vegas
Sherry Palmer had just returned from an intimate luncheon with the mayor’s wife and twenty-two of her closest female friends — wives of party leaders, community board members and large donors, mostly. It was an unglamorous and exhausting affair, but necessary for building useful bridges to help her husband triumph in this state’s primary, and later in the national elections.
Sherry had kicked off her shoes and was rubbing her tired feet when the suite’s phone rang. She nodded and Lev Cohen answered for her.
“It’s Larry Bell,” Lev said a moment later, his hand covering the receiver. “Tell him David isn’t taking any calls,” Sherry replied.
“He doesn’t want David. He wants to talk to you.”
Sherry took the phone, her expression doubtful. “Hello, Larry.” “Sherry,” the Congressman purred. “How was your luncheon?”
“About as charming as that impromptu press conference this morning,” Sherry replied, her hackles rising at the memory.
She heard a chuckle. “What’s so funny?” Sherry demanded.
“That was just a little demonstration I cooked up,” Bell replied. “I thought you’d appreciate it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Sherry, you and I both know your husband is running for president—”
“That hasn’t been determined yet—”
“Cut the crap, woman. He hasn’t announced yet, but he’s caught the fever. I can see it. You forget that I’ve known David almost as long as you have.”
“What’s your point,” Sherry snarled.
“Now I can be a good and loyal ally and help David reach his goal, or I can be a friendly — or even a not so friendly rival. It’s really up to you.”
Sherry eyes narrowed. “What are you angling for, Larry?”
“For now, I only want you to meet a friend of mine. He’s a businessman with very deep pockets, who’s interested in David’s political career.”
“And later?”
Sherry could feel Larry’s smile across the wires. “The House of Representatives is a very crowded place. Very crowded,” he said. “It’s hard for a man of my aspirations to shine. A better fit for me would be a cabinet position in the Palmer Administration, don’t you think?”
Bell fell silent for a moment. Sherry’s knuckles strained as she clutched the receiver, her self control slipping.
“My friend is in the hotel. Why don’t I fetch him, bring him up to that luxury suite of yours right now, and make the introductions.”
There was a long pause before Sherry replied. “I’m willing to listen,” she said at last.
“Great.” Bell’s tone was triumphant. “See you in ten.”
The line went dead and Sherry dropped the receiver into the cradle.
“What did he want?” Lev asked.
“He wants to be in David’s cabinet.”
Lev jumped to his feet. “What?”
Sherry shook her head, slipped her heels back on. Then she rose and, faced her husband’s chief of staff. “We’re going to have a visitor,” she announced. “I want you to stay and listen to what this man has to say. This could work out very well for David’s campaign, but only if we play our cards right.”
“You’re scaring me, Sherry,” Lev replied, his ruddy face suddenly pale. “You can’t buy and sell cabinet positions.”
“Don’t panic, Larry. Nothing’s been decided yet,” Sherry replied. “What Larry Bell wants and what he gets are two entirely different things. And if the esteemed Congressman thinks he can buy himself a cabinet position in my husband’s administration, he better know that it’s going to cost him and his deep pocket friend a lot of money and a lot of influence…”
4:47:15 P.M. PDT Tunney and Sons Quality Tool and Die Browne End Road, Las Vegas
Curtis Manning had used the abandoned factory to stake out Bix’s operation several times before. A shattered front window commanded a perfect view to the entrance of Bix Automotive, just across street. Better still, because the deserted tool and die works was completely boarded up, no one suspected the building could possibly be occupied, even by a homeless vagrant.
On one of the early reconnaissance missions, Curtis found a back entrance known only to a nest of rattlesnakes he was forced to quietly eradicate before taking sole possession of the property. After he’d found the broken window with the strategic view, Curtis set up a bent steel chair behind an ancient desk and used them for his observation post.
In the beginning, Curtis Manning believed Jack’s goading of Hugo Bix was both reckless and a waste of CTU resources. While it was known that Bix was a powerful player on the local crime scene, there was no evidence the man was connected with the stolen military technology. Now Curtis knew differently, and he was man enough to admit it to anyone who asked, especially his boss, Jack Bauer.
Manning had several years’ experience as a member of CTU’s tactical team, but this was his first real covert operation. Because of his inexperience, Curtis looked to Jack for instruction and Bauer was proving to be a very good teacher.
Today, Jack had provided Curtis Manning with a dangerous new challenge. Every other time he had infiltrated this property, he’d done so at night. This time Curtis would have to slip into the old factory in broad daylight, which meant taking special precautions. First he parked his car many blocks away, in an alley behind an apartment building on Pena Lane. Then Curtis crossed two yards, three empty lots, and climbed two chain link fences to get behind the abandoned factory without being spotted. Weaving his way through a gauntlet of dozens of dented and forgotten Dumpsters, Curtis finally reached the rear of the abandoned tool and die factory.
The back door was blocked by an old steel grate, but Curtis had found another way in — a hole in the wall masked by a sheet of plywood lodged in a pile of debris. He tossed the wooden panel aside and stepped through the ragged gap. Once inside the building, he used shafts of afternoon sun streaming through holes in the collapsing roof and broken windows to guide his way through the factory’s gloomy interior — right to the battered desk he’d placed near a hole punched in the grease-stained front window.
Curtis had hidden some bottles of water under a pile of
wooden boxes and was relieved to see they were still untouched. After checking for scorpions, he grabbed a plastic container and sat down at the desk. Curtis no sooner unscrewed the cap on the water and focused his CTU issue mini-binoculars on Bix’s establishment, when a white panel truck arrived at the gate. Curtis recognized the man behind the wheel, too. It was Drew Hickam, one of Bix’s goons.
Curtis dutifully recorded the event on his PDA. He noted that the truck was a Dodge Sprinter, late model, and that the vehicle was sporting dealer plates. He tapped in the numbers, sure they were fake, and noted the time in the log. A garage door opened and the truck drove through. The door immediately closed again, but before it did Curtis noticed plenty of activity inside. Yet the place was shut tight. Odd on a day like this. So many people working inside, no one drifting out for a smoke, a break. Something big was going on, big enough for Bix to hide his activities from prying eyes.
Curtis had only been at it for twenty minutes, but already the afternoon heat was oppressive. In a few hours the sun would go down and it would become cooler — maybe even cold. But for now, Curtis stripped off his jacket, then the Kevlar vest underneath, draping them both behind his rickety chair. He loosened his shirt and rolled up sleeves already damp with perspiration. He left the shoulder holster carrying the fully-loaded Glock in place.
Manning spotted another truck pulling up to the gate a few minutes later. This one was driven by Frank “Fat Frankie” Toomes, a high stakes gambler closely associated with Hugo Bix. Curiously, the white panel truck was also a current year Dodge Sprinter with dealer plates. The truck soon disappeared inside the bowels of the Bix Automotive garage. He wondered if the arrival of two trucks of the same make was some kind of weird coincidence. He doubted it. In fact, Curtis Manning was almost certain something more ominous was going on.
4:56:40 P.M. PDT Senator Palmer’s suite Babylon Hotel and Casino, Las Vegas
“Mrs. Senator David Palmer, I’d like you to meet Mr. Jong Lee.”
Larry Bell arrived inside of ten minutes, as promised. He wore a Fendi suit and a look of satisfied triumph. For her part, Sherry Palmer acted suitably contrite.
24 Declassified: Vanishing Point 2d-5 Page 9
