24 Declassified: 03 - Trojan Horse
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“I’m a programmer, not security expert!” she cried, her voice rising in volume. “That’s your job, Milo. Why don’t you do it?!”
Jamey threw up her hands as she watched countless files vanish into cyberspace.
Then Milo hit on an idea. He rebooted one computer, the very one they’d isolated and intentionally infected with Lesser’s midnight virus. Milo used the rollback program to purge the non-executed virus string, then washed the memory. Now he had a clean computer. With Doris’s help he tried to use it to hack into the infected mainframes and put Humpty Dumpty back together again.
8:12:54 P.M. PDT Interrogation Block CTU Headquarters
Ryan Chappelle entered the cell and sat down at the small table opposite Richard Lesser. The computer whiz had been searched, his hidden thumb drive taken from him. Now the two men silently eyeballed one another. The unspoken challenge? Who would talk first.
Chappelle, a master of bureaucratic silence, won the match.
“Why are you bothering me, pinhead?”
Ryan didn’t reply.
“What?” continued Lesser. “Is this some kind of silent torture? Sitting across from you, looking at your sorry, earthbound face.”
“Earthbound,” said Ryan. “That’s an interesting choice of adjective.”
“Yeah, earthbound. You’ll never know the ecstasy I felt when I was touched by God.”
“Don’t you mean Allah? What’s a nice Jewish boy like you going to say when he meets his new Muslim pals. Shalom?”
“You wouldn’t understand. God. Allah. It’s all the same. I’ve been to Paradise. I know.”
“Paradise? You mean that place in the mountains?”
Lesser’s eyes narrowed. He pointed his finger. “Now you’re trying to trick me. But you can’t.” He leaned forward, lowered his voice. “You don’t understand how I’ve been changed. Transformed. Only one man understands.”
“Hasan?”
Lesser sat back in his chair, fingered a button on his shirt. “Even you’ve heard of him. All of you people in your government cubicles, your marble matrixes, your subversive multinational corporate castles—Hasan already has you quaking in your military-industrial complex boots. He’s the real deal, the prophet, the savior, he’s—”
“The Messiah? Is that why you’re working for him?”
Lesser smirked. “I don’t work for Hasan. I serve
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him. Just like you’re all going to serve him. Like everyone is going to serve him. All of this you serve now, it’s nothing, vacant and pointless. All of human life, all of it, is a blink in cosmic time. You, me, everyone, we live in the past, the constant, continual past. Hasan is the future—”
“Whereas you don’t have a future, Mr. Lesser.” Chappelle leaned back, causally folded his arms. “You’ll be seventy before you walk out of a federal penitentiary, unless we drop you in the general population with cartel members, mob assassins and the like. You may last a week, but it won’t be a pleasant seven days.”
Lesser’s smirk vanished. His face clouded, brow furrowed in thought. Chappelle waited, hoping Lesser would bargain for a shorter sentence in exchange for cooperation. Finally, Lesser spoke.
“I guess I have no choice.”
Chappelle nodded, pleased he’d broken through.
“Goodbye, Mr. Chappelle,” said Lesser. In one fluid motion, he ripped the top button from his shirt, slipped it into his mouth, and bit down.
8:16:03 P.M.PDT Terrence Alton Chamberlain Auditorium Los Angeles
Teri Bauer winced. Carla Adair was squeezing her hand so tightly her fingers were turning purple. Between moans, Carla took deep, noisy breaths through her mouth, just as she’d been taught to do in her Lamaze classes. Finally, she released Teri’s hand.
Carla’s labor pains began shortly after the auditorium was taken over. Nancy Colburn, in her fringed flapper dress, who had given birth herself just two years before, had helped Teri lift the armrests of the plush blue seats for Carla to lie across them. Their old boss, British producer Dennis Winthrop, had covered the pregnant woman’s gown with his formal evening jacket.
“It’s the adrenaline,” whispered Nancy. “The fear she’s feeling is inducing labor.”
“Christ,” hissed Dennis.
Now Carla was propped on her elbows, face flushed, brow sweaty. Chandra Washington was about to tear off a section of her violet wrap dress, then spied a white silk scarf someone had left on his seat. She picked it up and used it to mop Carla’s brow.
Pieces of elegant outfits were strewn all over the theater. During the crowd’s vain race for the exits, stiletto mules and strappy sandals had been kicked off, satin wraps and beaded handbags had been dropped, jewelry had been ripped away. Teri noticed a single diamond earring with a platinum setting, a broken necklace of rose gold.
Are the owners of these items even still alive? Teri couldn’t help wondering. At least two dozen people had been shot during the initial mad rush for the exit doors. Then the terrorists demanded everyone drop to the floor wherever they stood. Now clusters of people were sitting in the aisles and by the theater’s back doors.
Teri closed her eyes and tried to calm down by picturing Kim at her cousin’s. But then the inevitable questions came. How much had her daughter seen of the awards show? Were the terrorists broadcasting scenes from inside? Was Kim watching now? Was she scared?
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Carla moaned again.
Teri opened her eyes and glanced at her slim, jeweled watch. “The pains are coming closer together,” she told Chandra.
“We need a doctor,” whispered the young woman.
Carla heard the exchange, her face was twisted with pain. “I don’t want to lose my baby,” she rasped.
“You won’t,” Teri assured her. “I won’t let that happen.”
Carla laid back again, her shoulder-length auburn hair fanning out against the blue velvet theater seats.
“Gary and I cleared out the second room last month,” she murmured, meeting Teri’s eyes, “we got it all ready...you should see the wallpaper. It’s this beautiful sunrise yellow...and the baby furniture . . . it was delayed so long we thought maybe the baby would come before the furniture ...but it came two days ago.” Sweating and tearful, she sobbed in a tiny voice, “I want to go home.”
So do I, thought Teri, scanning the crowd. Most of the audience was quiet now. Like her, they’d all given up trying to use their cell phones. Teri couldn’t get a signal and neither could anyone else. She could only assume the terrorists had activated jamming equipment.
She watched silently as ten armed men with black headscarves wrapped around their faces moved around the auditorium, lapping the aisles in slow circles. The rest of the terrorists—and Teri had counted over twenty of them during the initial assault—were nowhere to be seen.
When the terrorists had first taken over the auditorium, they’d emptied the mezzanine, forcing everyone down to the ground floor where they could be guarded with a single perimeter sweep. Soon after, the masked men had led four women into the room. Teri had recognized one as the beautiful young usher who’d escorted their party to their theater seats.
All of the women had changed out of their evening gowns and swathed themselves from head to toe in black robes. Members of the audience had gasped when they’d seen what else the women now wore— bricks of plastic explosives strapped to belts around their waists. With beatific smiles on their faces and push-button detonators clutched in their hands, the women had moved into position, one in each corner of the room.
When the audience first realized that suicide bombers had been placed among them, a second burst of panic had ensued, put down with more shots fired into the air, more pistol whippings.
After that, Teri had witnessed dozens of brutalities and strange little dramas. Cowards tried to broker deals for their own lives. Heroes tried to protect those near them without regard for their own safety. But the most memorable act of courage was still to come.
Dennis Winthrop stood up. “There’s a pregnant woman here!” he cried. “She’s going into labor. She needs a doctor!”
Two masked men immediately confronted him. One man slapped him across the face, but his British pluck remained. He refused to back down, just stood in front of them, waiting for an answer. Finally, he told them, “If you can’t get this woman help, at least get her some water.”
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One of the men had replied to his demand in perfect English. “If you want water, come with me. The rest of you remain here and make no trouble.”
That’s when Nancy jumped to her feet. “I’m going too,” she declared, a crusader in flapper fringe. “I can bring back water for everyone.”
The masked men said nothing, simply pushed the pair forward with the barrel of their submachine guns. With worry, Teri and Chandra had watched them go, until they were lost in the crowd.
Ten minutes went by, then twenty, but Dennis and Nancy had not returned. Not for the first time Teri began to ask herself where Jack was. She checked her watch again, wondering whether he knew what was happening in the auditorium and what he and his CTU team would do once they found out.
“Where’s Nancy? And Dennis?” Chandra fretted. “When are they going to come back with the water?”
Teri’s heart nearly stopped when she heard muffled but clearly audible sounds of gunfire from somewhere behind the stage. There were two short bursts from an automatic weapon, then nothing more.
“Teri?” rasped Chandra, her eyes wide with fear.
Willing her hands to stop shaking, Teri checked her watch again. “They’ll be here soon,” she assured the young woman. “Soon.”
8:36:50 P.M. PDT Terrence Alton Chamberlain Auditorium Los Angeles
A ring of shadows now surrounded the brilliantly lit auditorium. The power had been cut in a twenty-twoblock radius, but the Chamberlain didn’t need the grid to continuing glowing like a torch in the night. Its own generators supplied electricity for lights, water pumps, and the air circulation and cooling system.
Over twelve hundred people were trapped inside the sealed structure, according to the seating chart. A hundred more counting the Chamberlain’s service staff, stagehands, and broadcast technicians. No attempt would be made to shut down the Chamberlain’s generators. Without air conditioning, lights, and water, the situation would go from bad to worse for the hostages.
Jack Bauer was well aware his wife, Teri, was among them.
While preparations for the assault were finalized, Jack continued to argue against the attack. “You have to give us more time to formulate a rational response,” he badgered Stone. “We can’t just blunder in there, guns blazing.”
“We have two of the most important women in the free world trapped inside that building,” Stone replied, his patience obviously wearing thin. “We have limited communication with the single agent protecting them through a temporary land line that might be cut at any moment. There’s no time for negotiation.”
A member of Stone’s team interrupted them. “Deputy Chief Vetters and the men from the fire department are here, sir.”
Three firemen swathed in heavy gear and helmets,
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stepped forward. Captain Stone faced the oldest of them, a ruddy-faced man with a gray moustache.
“I understand you’ve performed fire drills with the Chamberlain’s management, that you can open these steel fire doors.” He gestured to the schematic on a monitor.
Chief Vetters nodded. “We have the codes to open those doors. They’re both designated fire department entry points. But there are twenty-four other steel fire doors we can’t open.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Stone replied. “We only need two doors. Your men are coming with us to work the locks. Then my SWAT teams are going in.”
Vetters did not appear happy with the plan, but he said nothing. The Fire Chief huddled with his men, then all three firemen moved toward a pair of armored assault vehicles outside. Jack followed Vetters to the vehicles, pulled him aside.
“Chief, you have doubts about this, like I do,” said Jack by way of introduction.
The Chief looked over Bauer, as if sizing him up. “As a rule, I don’t like armchair quarterbacks, and I have the Mayor telling me to obey Stone’s orders.”
“But?” Jack sensed there was one in there.
“But I was a Ranger in the First Gulf War, and this smells like a trap to me.”
Rather than return to the crowded command center. Jack stood side-by-side with Vetters, waiting for the operation to begin. When the black armored assault vehicles rolled down a dark, deserted four-lane avenue toward the luminous auditorium, Jack pulled out his mini-binoculars to better observe the action.
One vehicle circled around the Chamberlain and out of sight. The second rolled right up to the glassfronted facade, crashed through it a moment later to reach the fire door and the theater entrance behind it.
“There they go,” Jack informed the Chief. “Your man is out, flanked by the SWAT team. He’s at the fire door...It’s opening.”
The chatter of automatic weapons reached their ears before Jack realized what had happened. “Dammit!” Jack cried. “The SWAT team’s getting slaughtered. Your man is down. Wounded. Not dead. A cop’s grabbing him, pulling him clear. No, the cop’s down too.”
“Christ,” muttered Vetters.
Jack was about to lower the binoculars when he saw two civilians moving through the chaos, dodging bullets. A man and a woman. The man wore a dark suit, the woman was clad in an ivory evening gown. They raced out of the auditorium, hand in hand, using the armored vehicle for cover. But as soon as they reached the rear of the assault vehicle, the pair was pinned down by the hail of gunfire that poured out of the auditorium.
“Two people just escaped. They’re trapped out there,” Jack told the Chief. Scanning the street, Jack spied a third armored assault vehicle parked behind the command center.
“Come on, let’s go.” Chief Vetters was right behind him. As they crawled into the vehicle, Vetters placed himself behind the wheel.
“I commanded a Bradley fighting vehicle in Desert Storm. Same damn thing,” said Vetters by way of explanation.
The engine roared to life and they were off. The vehicle rolled on giant puncture-proof tires which gave it a much smoother ride than the tracked fighting ve
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hicles both men were accustomed to. And it was fast. They reached the auditorium in under a minute.
Vetters stopped the assault vehicle behind the shot up one near the fire door. Jack popped the side hatch, saw the formally dressed man and woman crouched behind the meager cover. Sporadic gunfire still erupted, but Jack could see the fight was over— everyone from the assault team had been massacred.
“Come on!” screamed Jack. The pair didn’t hesitate. They bolted the five feet to the hatch, the woman making good time on high heels, the man rushing her along. They leaped through the door and Jack slammed the hatch with a clang.
Vetters swung the vehicle around as bullets pinged off the armor. Jack faced the newcomers—a young, attractive Chinese-American woman, and a Japanese-American youth with a digital camera dangling around his neck.
“Who are you?” Jack asked.
“Christina Hong, entertainment reporter for KHTV, Seattle. This is—”
“Lon Nobunaga. I’m a photographer.”
“You were both inside the auditorium,” Jack prompted.
The pair nodded. “I got there late,” the man replied. “I was sneaking in through a side entrance when everything started to go bad. I tried to get out, got trapped in the lobby when the fire doors came down, so did Christina—”
“We both hid inside a storeroom. We watched the terrorists line up at the fire doors, waiting to fire on the police. They knew the cops were coming. It was an amb
ush!”
The man nodded, wiped sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his evening coat. “In the middle of the firefight, I saw a path through the mess and grabbed Christina. We made our move, got outside.” Nobunaga paused, shook his head. “We were lucky. Those terrorists, or whoever they are—they’re crazy and they don’t care about anything or anyone. I saw them shoot people, beat women in the head with guns. Unless they’re stopped, they’re going to kill everyone in that place!”
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 9 P.M. AND 10 P.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME
9:02:06 P.M. PDT Terrence Alton Chamberlain Auditorium Los Angeles
In the rows nearest the stage, where the celebrity presenters had been instructed to sit, Hollywood publicist Sol Gunther shifted nervously in his seat. He opened his cell phone, saw there was still no signal. He tucked the phone away, whispered to his star client.
“What do you think they’ll do?”
“Like everybody in this town, they’ll make a deal,” Chip Manning replied. “You don’t think they’re nuts enough to kill themselves, do you?”
Sol shrugged. “Maybe they are, maybe they aren’t.
But if they aren’t, then you don’t have a career unless the network cut away before you bolted off that stage and let your co-presenter take one to the head. It’s not exactly heroic to leave a woman behind.”
“Listen, Sol,” Chip whispered, propping his ostrich-skin boots on the back of the seat in front of him. “I’m not gonna die because some over-hyped bim can’t run on high heels.”
Sol rubbed his chin and sighed. “Why don’t the damn cell phones work?” He checked for a signal again. “I want to call my wife. I want to talk to her.”
Chip Manning didn’t respond to his publicist. The man had been chanting the same mantra since the hostage situation had begun. Bored, Chip’s gaze skipped around the nearby seats and settled on Abigail Heyer’s stunning profile—a far more interesting vision than the sight of documentary filmmaker Kevin Krock blubbering hysterically into the arms of his agent. The actress sat quietly, only a few seats away, her face expressionless, her manicured hands resting on her bulging stomach.