“We’ve got something for you, Jack, and you’re going to like it,” said Jon Francis. He plugged a pen drive into the digital map table and called up a file.
“That little guy was right,” Francis began. “The old Crystal Palace movie theater was located on the site currently occupied by the Chamberlain, and that old theater had five — count ’em, five sub-basements. If you look hard enough, some of the old walls appear in the Chamberlain’s blueprints.”
“But can we get inside the auditorium through those basements?” Jack asked.
“We can cut a hole into the old sub-basement through this storm drain, right here,” a man from the Department of Water and Sewage explained. “That will put you under the Chamberlain. You’ll probably have to cut a hole somewhere else, but you’ll be inside.”
“It’s all completely underground,” Jon Francis interrupted. “The security cameras outside the auditorium, the ones the terrorists are using to watch us, they won’t see a goddamn thing.”
“The noise will be a problem, though,” another engineer cautioned. “We’ll need to use a jackhammer for five minutes or so to get through this wall — it’s over two feet thick. Normally we’d blast something this stout, but in this case. ”
“That’s okay,” said Jack. “We’ll set up loudspeakers around the Chamberlain, blast music. It will drown out the sound of the jackhammer.”
“What will the terrorists think?” Francis asked.
“They’ll think we’re practicing psychological warfare techniques,” Jack informed them.
“Techniques that aren’t effective, and everyone knows it,” Secret Service Agent Evans interjected. “Won’t that make us look foolish?”
In the harsh white light of the map table, Jack held Evans’s eyes. “Let the terrorists think we’re helpless. If they underestimate us they’ll get careless, make a mistake. Then we’ll take the bastards down.”
1:18:06 A.M.PDT In the storm drains
Jon Francis brought in a digging team from Pacific Power and Light. Armed with picks, shovels, flashlights, and a portable electric jackhammer, they entered the sewer system three blocks away from the auditorium.
Led by a team of inspectors from the Department of Water and Sewage, they moved efficiently through the murky, ankle deep water that flowed through a maze of seven-by-ten-foot concrete tunnels. Bringing up the rear, two technicians from the telephone company unspooled a long telephone wire — a land line that connected the construction team to Jack Bauer in the LAPD command center.
The inspectors led the team to what seemed like a dead end.
“Yep, this is the place,” grunted Jon Francis, shining a mini Maglite on a paper map — he never used digital versions in the field. “There’s eight inches of poured concrete right here. Behind it two feet of solid brick. Think you can break through without dynamite?”
“Stand back,” said the man with the jackhammer.
Using the land line they laid on the way in, Jon Francis contacted the command center. “Cue the music,” he declared.
1:25:50 A.M.PDT Terrence Alton Chamberlain Auditorium Los Angeles
From his throne-like chair in the center of the massive stage, Bastian Grost maintained a confident facade in front of his men, and in front of the hostages. His headscarf dangled around his neck — he did not care who among this crowd saw his face, for they would all be dead soon. Casually but authoritatively, he clutched his Agram 2000 in the crook of his arm in a gesture that suggested power and confidence.
So far his strategy had worked. Even the high and mighty members of the Hollywood elite averted their eyes when he fixed his glacial gaze on them. Despite his cool exterior, however, inside Sebastian Grost was boiling with rage. As an operational mastermind, he cursed his men’s missteps and missed opportunities, their inability to follow even the simplest order without indulging in violence of every sort, including the violation of some of the female hostages. Indeed, everything had gone wrong from the start.
After the successful seizure of the awards show, his trained strike team had failed to capture Russia’s First Lady, Marina Novartov, or even the wife of America’s Vice President. Most of Grost’s team had been shot during their firefight with the American and Russian security teams, and none of his men had witnessed exactly where the women had fled. It was possible the women had gotten out before the fire doors had slammed shut. It was also possible the two had escaped into a service elevator.
That elevator, Grost subsequently discovered, had not been in the auditorium’s original blueprints, nor was it controlled by the facility’s computer. Grost could find no way to unlock and reactivate the elevator, but he didn’t waste much time on that effort. He knew from his study of the blueprints provided to him that this structure had only four floors to search: the mezzanine, the theater floor, the ground floor, and the basement.
Hours had passed now, and the few men Grost could spare from guard duty had failed to locate the women. He would have to accept that he could not show the women on camera. He could only bluff that he had them in his custody.
The second problem arose at 11 p.m., when Hasan had failed to contact them through a secure and secret landline that connected the Chamberlain Auditorium to the computer center in Tijuana, even though Hasan had promised he would make “a final statement to the martyrs,” as he put it.
Then, at midnight came the final blow. The destructive virus that was supposed to destroy the West’s computer infrastructure had not been launched as scheduled. Grost knew that was true because he dispatched men to the auditorium’s roof, to watch the Los Angeles skyline beyond the blacked-out area around them. They reported that city lights still blazed, traffic lights functioned, and there were even passenger airliners lining up in the sky overhead as a prelude to landing at LAX.
At that point, Grost could no longer deny what he knew to be true.
The computer center at Tijuana must have been compromised, perhaps destroyed, which means that we are truly on our own—
Bastian Grost’s thoughts were interrupted by a curious sound — the throbbing beat of American hip-hop music. The sound was muffled, but still loud enough to be heard throughout the auditorium. He listened stone-faced for a minute, then he began to chuckle, inviting a curious stare from a lieutenant on stage with him.
One of the foot soldiers arrived on stage a moment later. “They have set up loudspeakers in the street outside,” he reported. “What does it mean?”
“It’s a tactic right out of the Americans’ counterterrorism text book,” Grost replied with a sneer. “They mean to drive us out of this place with bad music. A ridiculous tactic that has no chance of success.”
Bastian Grost shouldered his machine gun. He wrapped his head with the long, night-black scarf hanging at his neck. It pleased him to think that his enemies were so helpless.
If this is the best CTU can come up with, then the final phase of Hasan’s plan — the mass murder of everyone in this auditorium during L.A.’s morning rush hour, in front of a million eyewitnesses — is in no danger at all.
1:33:09 A.M.PDT LAPD Mobile Command Center
The pre-mission briefing was so populated it packed the vehicle from one end to the other. Every chair was occupied, and many stood, including Lonnie Nobunaga, who managed to hang around long after his active role in the proceedings had ended. Even Christina Hong was there, after being spelled by a well-known network journalist who was doing a masterful job of bogus reporting for his audience of terrorists.
Despite the air conditioner laboring overtime, it was sweltering inside the command center. The hatches and doors had been shut tightly to guarantee security, and block out the music blasting around the auditorium.
Most of the men who occupied the room were snipers, ten of them, culled from Chet Blackburn’s Tactical Unit, the FBI, and Captain Stone’s SWAT team.
Jack began the briefing without preamble. “The auditorium and over a thousand hostages are being held by twenty Chechen gunman
, all well-trained, all armed with 9mm Agram 2000 submachine guns. Their leader is this man—”
A face appeared on the wall-mounted flat screen monitor.
“Bastian Grost. He’s not a Chechen by birth, but he is, as far as we can determine, fanatically dedicated to their cause.”
The image on the screen changed again. Portraits of four women appeared, some in headscarves.
“More dangerous than the twenty gunmen are five suicide bombers placed in the audience—”
The women were replaced by the seating chart of the auditorium.
“—From the plans in Valerie Dodge’s computer, we know that the bombers have been positioned to do maximum damage to the structure’s five support columns when the explosives are detonated. You see from this chart that they are planted here and here, and two in the back of the auditorium. There is also a bomber close to the stage, seated among the celebrities.”
Jack paused. “The plan is simple. Five of our operatives — all female, all dressed in evening clothes, take out the female bombers. At the same instant, the snipers each take out two gunmen in quick succession. Our timing has to be perfect, and because the terrorists are jamming all radio signals, individual groups will be out of contact once we enter the auditorium and separate.”
“Jesus,” muttered an FBI sniper.
“The takedown has to be timed perfectly. We’ll prearrange a time for the strike, and everyone will have to act at the same split second.”
Groans and sighs greeted the news.
“Unfortunately, timing’s not the worst of our problems.” Jack paused until everyone quieted down. “While we have photos and names for four of the bombers, the identity of the fifth bomber is unknown—”
Outcry greeted this news.
“That means one bomb will most likely go off,” an FBI sniper shouted.
“Not necessarily,” said Jack, raising his voice to be heard over the mounting commotion. “We know where this bomber is located — down among the celebrities. We’re going to send the female strike team in ahead of the sniper attack. If we’re lucky, Nina Myers and her fellow operatives will locate and neutralize this unknown bomber along with the other four.”
“Wait a minute,” Lonnie Nobunaga cried. “You said the unknown bomber is in the celebrity seating area?”
“Yes,” Jack replied. “She has to be. That’s what the terrorists’ plans indicate and that’s also where the fifth support beam is located. If they miss just one support beam, the structure may not collapse even after the blasts.”
“And you’re sure it’s a woman?”
“That’s how the Chechens have done things up to now,” Jack replied. “Your point?”
Nobunaga took a deep breath. “Listen. This may have nothing to do with the terrorists—”
“Get to the point. We’re running out of time here.”
“Abigail Heyer rolled into Hollywood for the award’s show very pregnant—”
“No surprise,” said Christina Hong. “Gossip is she and Nikolai Manos are an item.”
Jack blinked. “Did you say Manos?”
Christina nodded. “It’s in all the tabloids, including that low-rent rag Lonnie works for.”
Nobunaga smirked. “I’m wounded.”
Jack fixed his gaze on Lonnie. “So you’re telling me Abigail Heyer is pregnant with Manos’s child?”
Lonnie shook his head. “I’m telling you that she’s been faking her pregnancy the whole time. Wearing a harness, just like she did in the movie Bangor, Maine. I have the photo to prove it. Shot it this morning on the woman’s estate.” He dangled the thumb drive from his key ring.
One of the snipers spoke up. “That’s crazy. How could Abigail Heyer get a belly full of explosives past auditorium security?”
Even Lonnie knew the answer to that one. “The celebrities walk the red carpet. They don’t pass through security. It would be like wanding the President and First Lady. You don’t screen the people you’re supposed to protect.”
22. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 2 A.M. AND 3 A.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME
2:09:03 A.M.PDT Chamberlain Auditorium Sub-Level Three
White House intern Adam Carlisle awoke with a start. He began to stir, but his back was stiff from sleeping on the cold concrete. His movements awoke Megan Gleason, who had been using his thigh for a pillow.
“What’s wrong?” she whispered.
“I heard a noise,” said Adam, rising quickly.
Though the two wives had been dozing in their chairs, they were awake now too, and whispering nervously. In the sub-basement’s gloom, Adam spied Craig Auburn close to the crank phone, where he’d collapsed. He was lying on the ground now, his right hand still holding his left arm. His eyes were closed, his breathing shallow.
A terrible crash boomed, as loud as a landslide.
“Jesus,” Megan whispered. “What’s that?”
Adam informed her, “From what Special Agent Auburn said before he passed out, that’s the calvary….I hope.”
Megan blanched. “You hope?”
At the far end of a long corridor, Adam saw flashlights stabbing through the darkness. Dark silhouettes appeared a moment later.
Raising the USP Tactical that Special Agent Auburn had given him, Adam walked resolutely toward the flashlights, the weapon leveled at the man on point.
“Who are you?” Adam loudly demanded.
“Special Agent Jack Bauer, Counter Terrorist Unit,” Jack replied.
With an audible exhale, Adam lowered the weapon. A moment later the sub-basement was filling with armed men. One of them approached the two ladies.
“I’m Special Agent Evans, Secret Service,” he told them.
“Thank god,” said the VP’s wife.
More men emerged from the gloom, flanking the two ladies and helping Marina Novartov stand on her injured leg. Adam told Evans about Auburn’s serious condition. A medic and another man were summoned to help.
“We’re walking out of here, right now,” he told the ladies and the interns. “Follow these two agents and stick close. We’re not out of danger yet.”
The group walked the length of the dark basement, until they came to an open steel hatch set in the concrete wall. Adam had found the hatch earlier and tried to open it, but it had been locked from the other side.
Just then, five women in fashionable evening gowns and high-heeled shoes emerged from the hatch. Megan shot Adam a curious look. He shrugged, shook his head. Don’t ask me.
Evans stepped up to them. “Let’s go. Through that hatch, to the sewers.”
Megan shuddered. “The sewers?”
Adam smiled and put his arm around her shoulders. “Didn’t I tell you when I first welcomed you to Washington—”
“I know, I know,” she said, “this job has its perks.”
2:13:32 A.M.PDT Chamberlain Auditorium Sub-Level Three
Jack checked the digital map display strapped to his forearm. It glowed green in the dimly lit subbasement. He assembled everyone in front of a large metal grill set into the wall. Using a universal key, Jack picked the lock. The grill swung wide like a door.
Behind the steel mesh grill an aluminum shaft climbed straight up to the Chamberlain’s roof. Steel rungs were embedded in the walls of the shaft, leading upward and out of sight. Jack could see light shining into the shaft from grills on the upper levels — the occupied floors.
“Okay, women first,” Jack whispered. Nina stepped forward, wearing a black spangled dress. The other four women were similarly attired. Jack addressed them all.
“Climb until you pass four more grills, then exit through the fifth. You’ll come out in a corridor right next to the women’s rest rooms on the main floor. Presumably the terrorists are allowing people to take bathroom breaks. I want you to mingle with the women returning to the auditorium, then get as close as you can to your respective targets. Understand?”
The women nodded, their faces tense.
“Take
them down as soon as you hear the first shot. We’ll fire at exactly 2:45 a.m. — not a second sooner.”
Jack paused. “Remember, the success of the entire mission rests on your actions. Do not hesitate to do what is necessary to save lives. If you fail, hundreds may die.”
Jack and the snipers watched the women enter the shaft. When they climbed out of sight, Jack closed the grill behind them.
“Let’s go,” he said, leading his snipers to the next air shaft, where they would make their own climb.
2:32:27 A.M.PDT Chamberlain Auditorium Mezzanine
Jack peered through the ornate brass grill of the auditorium’s deserted mezzanine. He’d climbed the air shaft with his team of snipers following behind. Now Jack carefully scanned the darkened area, using night vision goggles to determine that every seat was empty. Listening intently, Jack heard the murmur of the crowd on the main floor below.
Silently he slipped his universal key into the slot on the grill and jiggled it. The rattle of metal sounded like an explosion, but the simple lock mechanism was easily tripped. With the squeak of metal on metal, Jack opened the ornamental grill and squirmed through the opening.
He crawled forward on his belly, moving down the aisle between rows of seats. The glass control booth was behind and above him, but it overhung the mezzanine, and even if the booth was occupied, no one would be able to see him.
As he crawled down a carpeted aisle to the mezzanine’s edge, snipers silently emerged from the shaft behind him. Jack used hand signals to position the shooters at various points until they had a complete field of fire.
Finally, Jack peered over the edge of the balcony. Below him he saw hundreds of people, in seats or sprawled on the floor. Debris was scattered on the carpet, clothing draped over seat backs. Circling the hostages along the perimeter of the auditorium, Jack counted sixteen masked men, another two on the stage. There were still two shooters unaccounted for and Jack hoped they were escorting hostages to the rest rooms. As he watched, the missing pair appeared. They began chatting with the man seated on an ornate, throne-like chair in the middle of the expansive stage.
24 Declassified: Trojan Horse 2d-3 Page 25
