24 Declassified: 03 - Trojan Horse

by Marc Cerasini

  The explosion of weapons, then the red tracers warbling across the stage to rip through flesh, muscle, and bone had ended any notion that this was some sort of prearranged stunt. People in the audience stumbled into the aisles, trampled over each other, trying to flee the auditorium, only to be turned back at the doors by the handsome ushers and seat escorts provided by the Dodge Modeling Agency. These young men, who’d already donned black headscarves and green armbands, waved submachine guns, firing into the air in an effort to throw back the panicked mob.

  Meanwhile, on stage, Chip Manning and his tough-guy five o’clock shadow were giving the world a demonstration of his martial arts skills. With lightning quick evasive maneuvers, he’d managed to flee the attacking gunmen faster than his lovely co-presenter who, hobbled by her high heels, was easily brought down by the butt of an assassin’s gun.

  Up in the control booth, the director heard a crash, turned to find a trio of armed men breaking in. Black headscarves covered all but their eyes, and each carried some kind of machine gun with a banana clip and a big ring under its barrel.

  The single security guard inside the booth aimed his sidearm. The chatter of a machine gun stopped him,

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  eliciting cries of horror from everyone in the small space.

  “Put your hands up!” One of the masked men was aiming his short, stubby machine gun at the control booth crew. The invader slapped a gloved hand on Hal’s shoulder and roughly yanked him off his chair, to the floor.

  “Bastard,” Ben Solomon spat. He tried to strike back, but the terrorist threw the older man off, hitting him with the butt of his gun.

  “Ben!” Hal cried.

  Now both men were cowed and down on the floor. The masked man herded them into a corner. The second gunmen pushed the soundman and the rest of the staff into the opposite corner.

  The third masked man strode to the center of the control booth, machine gun resting on his elbow. He scanned the room, then spoke.

  “This auditorium, this event is now in the control of the United Liberation Front for a Free Chechnya. Cooperate and you may live. Resist and you will most surely die.”

  7:05:09 P.M. PDT Security Booth Chamberlain Auditorium

  “LAPD respond! Respond!” cried the uniformed dispatcher over the radio. “This is an emergency, the Chamberlain Auditorium is under attack. There’s gunfire, officers down. Repeat. We are under assault.”

  Static was the only answer.

  Security Chief Tomas Morales squeezed the dispatcher’s shoulder. “The system’s down. Or the signal’s jammed. We can’t talk to the outside. I hope the cops figure out what’s going on. Until then, let’s open up the arsenal.”

  Nodding, the young dispatcher stood and hurried to the next room.

  “The goddamn phones are out too,” said a woman at the next desk, a bank of security monitors in front of her. Heavyset, with short red hair, Cynthia Richel slammed the receiver into hits cradle. Today was her forty-fifth birthday.

  Cynthia turned to the security chief. “I could have predicted this, Tomas. In fact, I did predict this. I told them land lines. Land lines. But the architect ignored me and went wireless. He put control of everything through that goddamn computer. ‘Sanjore’s vision of the future,’ claimed the papers.” Cynthia snorted. “Well guess what? When the shit hits the fan, the future doesn’t work!”

  Morales shifted his gaze to the dozens of monitors in front of Cynthia, all displaying scenes of terror and chaos, save one.

  “The network has gone to commercials,” noted Morales.

  “Someone’s thinking.”

  The dispatcher returned, handed out weapons. Cynthia dangled the barrel of a handgun between thumb and forefinger. “What am I supposed to do with this. I’m a computer programmer.”

  That wasn’t entirely true and Tomas Morales knew it. Before joining Summit Studios, of which the Chamberlain Auditorium was a part, she’d been an intelligence officer in the U.S. Air Force.

  Morales checked his weapon, removed the safety. “Then tell me what’s wrong with the computers.”

  Cynthia Richel set the gun onto the desk. “Five

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  minutes ago some kind of overlord program took control of our security protocols—”

  A succession of strange noises interrupted her. Over the sounds of shots, screams, and thundering feet, the entire auditorium shook from an eerie, rhythmic booming, like dozens of gongs sounding off one after the other.

  Cynthia’s full face went pale.

  “What’s wrong?” asked the dispatcher.

  Morales already knew. “That was the sound of the steel doors closing all over the auditorium. Those doors are meant to be activated in case of fire—after the building has been evacuated—to isolate the damage to one section of the structure.”

  “Now they’re obviously being used as jail house doors,” said Cynthia, “to trap all of us inside.”

  Morales scanned Cynthia’s computer screen. “Can’t you do something?”

  “Sure.” Cynthia Richel picked up the weapon again, this time by the handle. She checked the magazine like a professional, flicked off the safety. “Tell me where to aim.”

  Special Agent Craig Auburn had memorized the evacuation route the old-fashioned way, by walking it ten times.

  When the evacuation order had come through his earbud, the Secret Service agent had been at his post in the lobby. He’d followed standard operating procedures and immediately moved to a set of utility stairs that led directly to the evacuation route—in this case a long, avocado-green corridor running beneath the theater, which led to a pair of glass doors that opened onto a loading dock.

  Earlier that day, Auburn had walked the route with the bomb detection team. A service elevator was located near the loading dock exit and he personally locked it into an open position to maintain the security of the route.

  Now that he’d arrived at the end of the corridor, Auburn was surprised to see that he was the first agent on the scene—and nearly six minutes after the flight order had been given. He moved through the glass doors, weapon drawn, to make sure the exit was clear of threats.

  Something’s wrong, he thought immediately. No other agents were outside, or any of their vehicles.

  While it was possible they’d gotten the two wives out by another route, no one had communicated a successful evacuation—or anything else for that matter. Auburn’s earbud had been quiet. He’d assumed the detail was maintaining radio silence, but now he suspected something else was happening and he couldn’t hear it.

  He walked back into the corridor, tried to hail his boss, Ron Birchwood, but got no response. Then he heard a loud clanging boom right behind him and realized with a shock that a pair of steel fire doors had just closed off the only exit on this end of the corridor. He searched for some way to open the doors or override their lock, but could see no key pads or control panels. Nothing.

  The sound of approaching gunfire came next. Auburn drew his weapon and ran toward the noise. Four people were entering the far end of the hallway through the open stairwell door. He immediately recognized the Vice President’s wife and the Russian First Lady. Marina Novartov was limping, trailing blood, from a wound in her calf. Assisting her were a

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  young man in a blue blazer and a pretty, young woman with straight brown hair. Auburn knew they were two low-level members of the Vice President’s staff, but he couldn’t recall their names.

  Behind the foursome, Auburn saw Special Agent Ron Birchwood, and the head of Russian security, Borodin. They had their weapons drawn and were pumping off shots while retreating. A red tracer burned down the hall and tore through the Russian’s chest. A crimson explosion, and Borodin’s arms flew out as he fell backward.

  A masked man appeared in the stairwell doorway. Birchwood pumped off a shot, then two more. When the man vanished again, Birchwood glanced over his shoulder.

  “Auburn! There’s a whole hit team behind me. Caught
us right outside the Presidential Box. The others are down...they’re gone. Communications are jammed. I’ll try to hold them off, buy you time while you evacuate the women.”

  The foursome moved past Auburn. “The exit’s cut off!” he cried to them, stepping behind them to guard their back. “Get into the elevator.”

  When they were all inside, Auburn plugged the key into the elevator panel and called to his boss. “Come on, Ron! It’s clear.”

  Before he could even turn around, the hail of gunfire tore Special Agent Ron Birchwood to pieces. Auburn turned the key. The doors closed and the elevator moved down the shaft.

  7:38:12 P.M. PDT Downtown Los Angeles

  Jack Bauer raced through the streets, running traffic lights without a siren. For the twentieth time, he auto-dialed Teri’s cell phone. Once again, he reached her voice mail.

  It was obvious she’d turned off her phone for the duration of the Silver Screen televised broadcast. The show had probably requested it of its audience, so he wasn’t surprised, but he was damned frustrated. With the Chamberlain Auditorium compromised, he wanted her out of there.

  By now Jack had realized that CTU had become non-operational. He’d come to that conclusion back in Valerie Dodge’s office when he’d tried to summon forensics and cyber-unit teams to the site.

  From what he’d seen of the schematics on Dodge’s computer screen, Jack had suspected more information was locked in the hard drive. He could be sitting on a gold mine of intelligence, but he couldn’t safely access it without a cyber-unit’s help. And with CTU in operational chaos, he knew he wouldn’t be able to get that help anytime soon. So he’d powered down the PC, yanked its connections, and dumped it into the back of his vehicle.

  Knowing CTU channels would be dead, he’d tuned his car radio to the Los Angeles Police band. That’s when he’d learned that the attack at the Chamberlain Auditorium had already begun.

  Slaloming around slower vehicles, he flew through the streets with one hand on the wheel, one hand on the speed dial of his cell, trying to reach his wife. He hit the first police barrier five blocks from the auditorium.

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  “I’m Special Agent Jack Bauer, Counter Terrorist Unit,” he told the uniformed officer who’d asked for his ID. “I need to speak with your superior, immediately.”

  The man spoke softly into a shoulder radio. Listened to a response in his headset, nodded.

  “Okay, Special Agent Bauer. Captain Stone wants to speak with you. Park your car and follow me, sir.”

  Escorted by the uniformed officer, Jack walked two blocks along eerily deserted streets in the middle of downtown Los Angeles. A hot wind blew in from the desert, only to be scattered by the beating blades of helicopters circling the theater. Columns of white, beaming down from their belly-mounted searchlights, crawled along the pavement, across roofs, down walls.

  Around the next corner, Jack was still three blocks away from the brilliantly lit facade of the Chamberlain. Hugging the walls of buildings, a line of black armored vehicles were positioned to remain invisible from the auditorium’s view. Jack realized they belonged to his old outfit, the Los Angeles Special Weapons and Tactics unit.

  Captain Gavin Garrett Stone was inside the mobile command center armored-up and loaded for bear. As tall as Jack and at least fifty pounds heavier, his physical presence had nothing on his personality. He was a hardened police officer who’d distinguished himself many times over on the job. As forces of nature went, the man was a Category Five.

  Around the Captain, other members of the SWAT team were preparing for a physical assault of the complex. Jack approached Stone, hand extended. The man gave Jack a cold, don’t-piss-on-my-parade stare.

  “We’ve been trying to contact CTU, Bauer. Finally sent a squad car out to your headquarters. Some kind of computer attack, they said. Your Tac Team leader,

  Chet Blackburn, checked in with us over LAPD radio.”

  “Good,” said Jack.

  Stone made a show of checking his watch. “Blackburn claimed he’d be here. But he and his team are obviously having trouble getting out of the gate—or through traffic—or both.”

  “Homeland Security?” asked Jack.

  “The Director’s already spoken to the Governor. The California National Guard has been activated to help us secure the perimeter. With CTU offline—or, for all we know, sabotaged from within—Homeland Security is advising that LAPD take point.”

  Jack jaw tightened. “What are you planning, Captain?”

  “What’s it look like?”

  “Have the terrorists identified themselves or made any demands? Have they executed any of the hostages? Released anyone? Have you even made contact with them, opened a line of communication?”

  Stone brushed past Jack, gestured to a television monitor. A single camera displayed a long shot of the stage. Men in black masks were gesturing, waving Agram 2000s, a compact Croatian-manufactured submachine gun, easily recognizable by the unique ring grip under the front of the barrel.

  “There are three men on the stage,” Stone said. “We figure maybe a dozen more among the audience. They’ve sealed the fire doors. They think we’re screwed. But we have an override ready to go on two doors—” Stone showed Jack a blueprint. It looked eerily familiar. “The doors are here ...and here.”

  The attack points were on opposite ends of the auditorium. It looked good on paper, but Jack shook his head. “It’s too neat, too tidy. It could be a trap.”

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  Stone sneered. “I won’t let this siege go on. The longer these guys have control of the situation, the worse it’s going to get.”

  “Listen,” said Jack, holding the man’s gaze, “what you probably have here is a reprise of the Moscow Opera House scenario. That means there may be dozens of terrorists in there, strapped with bombs. If you charge into that auditorium, they’ll set off those bombs and hundreds will die. You’ve got to wait for a better plan—”

  Another voice interrupted. “We’re out of time, Special Agent Bauer. The Vice President’s wife and the wife of the Russian President are both inside that building—”

  Jack turned. “And you are?”

  The man stepped closer. The dim light of the monitor illuminated his face. His skin was dry parchment, eyes hard behind lines and creases. “Evans, Secret Service. One of ours, an agent named Auburn, managed to get the two women down a service elevator to a sub-basement. He’s holed up there now with them and a pair of White House interns. The terrorists haven’t gotten to them yet. Auburn has the elevator locked. But it’s only a matter of time. FBI’s with us on this. We can’t wait.”

  “How are you communicating with Auburn?” Jack asked.

  “Crank phone, connected to a temporary land line. It was left there with tools and equipment by a crew working on the air conditioning system. Good thing, too. Cell phone and radio transmissions are being jammed.”

  Jack noticed one of the command center monitors was tuned to the television station that had been carrying the Silver Screen Awards show. A commercial was running. Jack pointed to the screen. “What does the public know?”

  “Nothing yet,” said Evans. “The network put a twenty-second delay on the broadcast feed. Someone at the network hit the panic button as soon as the bad guys showed up on stage. All Mr. and Mrs. America saw was the screen going dark for twenty seconds, then a commercial. Now they’re playing a rerun of a show that usually appears in the same time slot, but their news people want to know what’s happening.”

  “What are you telling them?”

  The Secret Service agent paused. “You have a suggestion?”

  Jack nodded. “Cut the power grid in the downtown area. A blackout is a visible event and television news can show it to the world. The public becomes convinced it’s a technical glitch, and if the men inside that auditorium insist on making some kind of broadcast statement to the world, we can tell them the power’s out, tough shit.”

  Captain Stone and the Secret Servi
ce agent exchanged glances. Evans nodded, and Stone motioned another SWAT officer over.

  “Talk to the power company,” Stone said. “See that the power is cut in a ten-block radius around the Chamberlain as soon as possible.”

  Relieved he’d gotten the proverbial inch, Jack tried for the yard. “Captain, you have to rethink this assault. Lives could be lost unnecessarily—”

  Stone cut him off. “I’ve spoken with the Mayor and the Governor. It’s my call to make and I’ve made it—”

  “But—”

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  “Enough,” Stone said. “You guys at CTU are supposed to prevent this type of attack. You didn’t. Once my assault team’s ready, I’m going to see this is finished before it gets worse.”

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  THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 8 P.M. AND 9 P.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME

  8:01:01 P.M. PDT CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles

  Almost as soon as the computers went down, Nina Myers arrived at the Cyber-Unit with a security team in tow, and took Lesser into custody. He didn’t resist. A crooked smile broke over his face as they led him off to a cell.

  For an hour after that, Milo, Doris, and Jamey worked frantically to restore CTU’s computers. No matter what they tried, the servers seemed to be stuck in a loop. Reboots and restarts, flushing and washing all failed to purge the system. Calendar rollback programs—which should have restored the system to

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  the point where it was before the attack—simply wouldn’t function. There was no help coming from outside, either. The CIA’s computers had caught the bug and were down, too.

  After half an hour, Jamey began to panic. The LAPD had shown up and delivered the news of the hostage situation down at the Chamberlain; and CTU couldn’t even get its satellite televisions on line to see the events unfold like the rest of the world. The situation, and pent up emotion over Fay Hubley’s murder, sent Jamey over the edge.