“She’s a cool one, eh?” Manning whispered to Sol. “I mean, look at her. Not even fazed. I wonder who knocked her up? Lucky bastard, that’s for sure.”
“If you’re feeling so damn rambunctious, why don’t you use those martial arts skills of yours to take out a couple of these guys?”
Manning snorted. “Don’t fall for your own hype, buddy. Breaking boards in a dojo is a far cry from facing down a bunch of armed men.”
“But you could do something,” Sol pointed out. “You have more skills than the rest of us. Act like a man.”
“Please, Sol. Let the fascists take these bums down.
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Better the LAPD break out their guns here than in some oppressed neighborhood like South Central.”
9:09:16 P.M. PDT CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles
Milo Pressman continued struggling with the CTU’s infected mainframe, using the only isolated computer. He’d restored a modicum of functionality by running various virus dump protocols. The work was slow, inefficient, and minimally effective. To top it off, his focus was off. Thoughts of Richard Lesser continuously overran his concentration.
Chappelle had told Milo what had happened less than an hour before: “Lesser said he’d tasted Paradise. He didn’t care what he we did to him. He’d found religion and said he was ready to die. Then he committed suicide.”
Milo’s jaw had gone slack at Chappelle’s words. “You’re saying Lesser’s... dead?”
Chappelle had nodded. “A button on his shirt was actually a cyanide capsule.”
“But Lesser’s a secular, agnostic iconoclast, not some kind of religious fanatic.”
“Hasan managed to turn him into a believer. Used drugs to dull Lesser’s mind, broke down his will. Call it mind control. Brainwashing. A coerced religious delusion.” Ryan shrugged, “I didn’t believe it was possible either, until I saw it for myself.”
Ever since that conversation, memories of Lesser had crashed over Milo in waves—the arguments, the insults, the struggle for one pretty classmate’s attention that neither ended up getting. Even back in grad school Lesser had displayed a vicious anti-social streak. Twice he’d sabotaged the Stanford University computer labs, reveling in the chaos he’d caused for others. Just when students were sure their projects were ruined beyond repair, Lesser would sweep in, tap a few keys, restore everything.
Just then, Milo’s fingers paused over the keyboard. “Wait a minute.”
“What?” asked Doris.
“Is the mainframe still up?”
“It’s up, but it’s ignoring all commands.”
Milo spun in his chair, rolled across the floor and muscled Doris out of the way at her station.
“What are you doing?” Doris cried. “If you shut it down, it will take me twenty minutes to get it up again!”
“I have a hunch,” said Milo.
“A hunch! This is no time for a hunch!”
Milo ignored her, entered a series of commands.
“What commands are you issuing?” Doris asked, afraid to look.
“It’s something Lesser used back in grad school.”
Doris was aghast. “And you actually think that will work?”
Milo launched his hunch and held his breath.
For a moment nothing happened. Then every system, every monitor came back on line—fully functional—as if it had never gone down in the first place. Cries of surprise, joy, relief and scattered applause exploded all over the situation room.
Milo heard the sound of pounding feet. Ryan Chappelle rounded the corner at a run. He stopped so quickly he skidded on his Oxfords.
“How?” he asked.
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Doris pointed to Milo. “Ask him.”
“Pressman, you know what? It doesn’t matter how. You’re a genius!”
Milo sighed. “Good enough for government work.”
9:41:22 P.M. PDT Avenue de Dante Tijuana, Mexico
Minutes after Tony Almeida lost all contact with CTU, two Chechen technicians pulled up in front of the house in a late-model Ford. The men climbed out of their car, chatting in their native tongue as they walked to the front door.
Tony waited for them to enter the house, then finished them off with the Glock he’d given Fay for protection—rough justice, but earned in Tony’s estimation.
The last of the wet work wrapped up, Tony had spent the next two hours scanning the contents of the computer database. Fortunately for Tony, the Chechens had been careless—they’d left the system running, the security protocols bypassed, allowing Tony full access to the mainframe and all of its contents.
Using the computer’s log, Tony opened the active files in reverse order, one at a time. Occasionally he would cross-reference a name or address, to uncover another rich cache of intelligence. After an hour of fitting together seemingly unconnected data, Tony began to grasp the bigger picture.
He learned that Richard Lesser had created the Trojan horse in this very house. After burying the virus inside the movie, he’d sent it into cyberspace using the server ticking in the corner. Inside that Gates of Heaven download, Lesser had hidden an overlord virus that took control of a program called CINEFI. Hugh Vetri, who had an office in the Summit Studios complex, found the pirated version of his yet-to-be released film on the Web and downloaded it—releasing the Trojan horse into the studio’s computers, where it lay dormant until a couple of hours ago. At that time the virus woke up, took control of Chamberlain Auditorium. Fire doors were closed, the telephone system was shut down, the hostages locked inside.
But that was only phase one. Richard Lesser had not been lying about the midnight virus or its potential to wipe out the World Wide Web’s infrastructure. That virus was to be released from this facility by the two Chechens who were currently staring at the ceiling with dead eyes.
Tony sighed with relief. At least he’d thwarted that part of Hasan’s plan.
Clearly, Lesser had never intended to hand that virus over to CTU as he’d claimed—he’d been a living Trojan horse, sent to wreck CTU’s computer system. Judging by the agency’s silence, Tony assumed Lesser had accomplished his mission.
Continuing to mine data, Tony came up with the names of people who were either accomplices or dupes of Hasan—Nawaf Sanjore, Valerie Dodge, Hugh Vetri.
It was architect Sanjore, or someone in his firm, who had provided Hasan with plans for the auditorium. It was ex-supermodel Valerie Dodge, or someone inside her modeling agency, who placed Hasan’s assassins at Silver Screen Awards in the guise of ushers.
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From the files in the computer Tony learned about Hugh Vetri. The producer had accidentally stumbled onto part of Hasan’s plot—not much, but enough to recognize a threat. So Vetri and his family had to be silenced before Hugh went to the authorities.
After two headache-inducing hours there were still dozens of files unopened, but Tony’s time had run out. Before he left, he decided to fill every blank disk, pen drive, and removable memory chip he could find with data culled from the system.
In the middle of the process, his cell chirped. It was Jamey Farrell. “Tony? Is everything okay?”
“Yeah. What happened?”
“Lesser infected the mainframe,” Jamey replied. “But the problem’s been corrected.”
“What about Lesser?”
“That problem’s been solved, too. He’s dead.”
Tony didn’t ask how. He didn’t care. “Listen, I think the Chamberlain Auditorium is a target for terror—”
“Too late, Tony,” Jamey interrupted. “The place has already been seized. There are hundreds of hostages.”
Tony cursed. “Look, I want to send you the contents of Lesser’s computer. There are dozens of files.”
“Fine, I’ll open a secure line, you transfer the data. Dump it all in Cache 224QD.” Tony and Jamey worked together and Tony quickly dispatched the files.
“I’ve got them,” Jamey said a moment later. “Ryan wants to know when you
’re coming back.”
“I have one more job to do,” Tony replied.
He ended the conversation, went downstairs to the kitchen, shoved the stove away from the wall, exposing the natural gas pipe, which he broke open with several kicks of his booted foot.
When he heard the hiss of leaking gas, Tony grabbed a cloth sack full of computer disks, paper files—any piece of intelligence he thought might be useful—and headed for the front door. He paused in the living room just long enough to set a paper fire in front of the television.
Tony Almeida was behind the wheel of his van and halfway down the block when the place blew, shattering the quiet evening. His rearview reflected tongues of crimson vainly trying to burn the sky.
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 10 P.M. AND 11 P.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME
10:00:04 P.M.PDT LAPD Mobile Command Center
The command was Jack’s now. After Captain Stone’s disastrous assault, and after word reached the Mayor, Governor, and Director of Homeland Security that CTU’s computer capabilities had been fully restored, the Captain was quietly relieved.
Jack’s first act as operations commander was to make things right with Stone. He vowed to utilize the man’s resources as soon as a new plan was finalized. Until that time, he positioned the Captain and the rest of his SWAT team to a forward position, where they could assist the National Guard in securing the perimeter.
Before Jack contacted CTU, he called Teri’s cousin.
He was relieved to hear that Kim had fallen asleep waiting for the Silver Screen Awards show to resume. Like the rest of the nation, Teri’s cousin believed the downtown blackout had caused the cancellation of the rest of the show. Jack didn’t enlighten her. He simply explained that Teri would be delayed and asked if Kim could spend the night. He thanked the woman, ended the call, then it was back to business.
He phoned Ryan Chappelle. Chet Blackburn’s tactical team had arrived at the staging area, but Jack requested that one of CTU’s own mobile command units be dispatched to the scene as well.
Chappelle agreed. “I’ll send one immediately. Milo will join the team coming out to you. I’ll keep Jamey here to coordinate things.”
“Have Milo pick up a computer from my car. The vehicle’s a few blocks from here. I’ve activated the GPS chip so he’ll have no trouble finding it.”
“What computer?” Chappelle asked. “Where did it come from?”
“The Valerie Dodge Modeling Agency. Ms. Dodge was responsible for staffing the auditorium with ushers, seat fillers, celebrity escorts. I have reason to believe she was duped by an employee into sending terrorists to the auditorium instead. There are plans and schematics of the Chamberlain Auditorium in the computer hard drive. I want Milo to review all the data as soon as possible.”
At the communications console, a young police technician clutched his headset, looked up.
“Special Agent Bauer!” he called. “I have someone on the outside line. He claims to be the leader of the hostage takers. He demands to speak to the person in charge.”
“Put him on speakerphone. Record the call for dig
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ital analysis,” Jack commanded. The technician activated the recorder, switched lines, nodded.
“This is Jack Bauer, Special Agent in Charge of the Counter Terrorist Unit, Los Angeles. You wanted to speak to me.”
“You have seen what we can do. Your dead litter the street. Another attempt to assault this place will result in the deaths of a hundred hostages.” The voice was flat, emotionless.
“Who do you represent? What are your demands?”
“For now, our demands are simple. Restoration of broadcast capabilities in the next fifteen minutes—”
“That might be difficult,” Jack interrupted. “There’s a blackout in progress. We have no power in the downtown area—”
“Find a way. If we are not permitted to make a statement to the world in the next thirty minutes, we will begin to kill the hostages. One life will be taken every five minutes until you comply.”
“Wait—”
But the line was dead. Jack faced the communications technician. “Send the recording to CTU for voice analysis.”
Evans spoke up. “We can’t let them use America’s airwaves as a soapbox.”
“No. we can’t,” said Jack. “But if we look like we’re acceding to his demand, it will buy us some time to formulate a new plan of attack.” Jack massaged his forehead. His headache was returning with a vengeance. “There must be a way we can fool them into believing they are getting their message out.”
10:29:09 P.M.PDT Outside the Chamberlain Auditorium
Everything was ready, thanks to the work of broadcast technicians culled from rival networks on the scene to cover the Silver Screen Awards.
At Jack Bauer’s request they had cooperated to accomplish the impossible. In under twenty-five minutes, these experts in their fields had managed to locate the fiber optic cables under the street and tap into them—the first step toward controlling the images the terrorists saw on their television screens inside the auditorium.
CTU knew there were dozens of monitors hooked up to cable inside the Chamberlain. The terrorists would surely be watching to see their own broadcast on the local channels, or perhaps on the 24-hour cable news nets. That meant those channels and only those channels would have to be jammed and replaced with bogus broadcasts. It seemed an impossible task, but the technicians assured Jack they could accomplish it.
“Trust us,” said one producer. “We’re in the illusion business. We can make the audience believe anything, for a little while at least.”
“I hope a little while is all we’ll need,” Jack replied.
Now the cameras were in position. The brilliantly lit auditorium had been carefully framed as a backdrop. As Christina Hong awaited her cue, her makeup was perfected by a feature film stylist, her hair was sprayed stiff by a famous anchorwoman’s personal assistant. Her entire segment had been put together by an Emmy Award-winning producer. It was about to be directed by a veteran of one of the national networks. The whole thing was something of a dream come true
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for a girl seen three times a week on a local station in Seattle.
“I’m about to give the performance of my television career,” she muttered, “and no one but a bunch of psycho terrorists will ever see it.” Half-exhilarated and half-terrified of the consequences should she fail to pull it off, Christina cleared her throat and squared her shoulders.
The makeup artist and personal assistant stepped back as the director loudly counted down. On the final three seconds, his voice disappeared. Three fingers were up, then two. He pointed—
“This is Christina Hong, broadcasting live from the Chamberlain Auditorium in Los Angeles. We’re interrupting your regularly scheduled programming with this breaking news. Unknown terrorists have taken control of the annual Silver Screen Awards ceremony and are holding hundreds of people hostage, among them many well known celebrities...”
Inside the command center, Jack watched a monitor. Ms. Hong was certainly convincing enough. From the logo on the lower right hand corner of his screen, Jack appeared to be watching Los Angeles News Channel One. He changed the channel. On Fox News he saw the same image of Christina Hong—now framed by the familiar Fox News logo.
“Officials of the United States government currently on the scene say they are awaiting an imminent statement from the unknown terrorist group, scheduled to begin in under a minute.”
Christina Hong’s image vanished, replaced by a man swathed head to toe in black, an ebony head-scarf obscuring his features. Only his eyes were visible. He clutched an Agram 2000 in the crook of his elbow. Jack winced when he recognized the green and black flag of the United Liberation Front for a Free Chechnya, an ultra violent splinter group of indeterminate size.
Though it was a menace to peace and
stability within the region it operated, Jack Bauer had never regarded the United Liberation Front as a threat to national security, nor did he believe they had the intelligence or the resources to pull off a masterful takeover like this one—not without help.
Meanwhile Christina Hong’s impromptu voiceover continued. “Perhaps we will learn what these people want, and what cause they represent, and what drove them to such a desperate act. Here is their statement, coming to you live...”
After a pause, the masked man began to speak. He issued a long list of impossible demands—Russia was to end its presence in Chechnya, release all political prisoners, pay restitution to the victims of its occupation.
Jack noted that the masked terrorist claimed to be holding Russian First Lady and the U.S. Vice President’s wife hostage—lies, and Jack knew it. He’d briefly spoken with Craig Auburn in the sub-basement under the Chamberlain before the broadcast began, and they were still secure in their hiding place. This told Jack that he was facing a man willing to bluff his way through a difficult position.
10:51:39 P.M.PDT LAPD Mobile Command Center
Near the end of the masked Chechen’s twenty-minute tirade, Jack’s cell rang. It was Nina Myers.
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“Jack, we have a positive voice match on the terrorist leader.”
“Great!”
“The first phone conversation you sent us was inconclusive, but this broadcast provided us with all the voice samples the audio lab needed to make a positive match—”
“How positive?”
“Our audio people and the voice analysts are ninety-eight percent sure the man speaking right now is Bastian Grost, forty-four years old, a former associate of Victor Drazen and a member of his secret police force the Black Dogs.”
“Damn,” muttered Jack. “Drazen again.”
“You know Drazen?”
“I’ve...read a few files,” Jack replied.
24 Declassified: 03 - Trojan Horse Page 23
