Manning had several years’ experience as a member of CTU’s tactical team, but this was his fi rst 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

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  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 satisfi ed triumph. For her part, Sherry Palmer acted suitably contrite.

  “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Lee,” she said graciously, extending her hand. “And please call me Sherry. Can I offer you something. Coffee or tea, perhaps a drink.”

  “No, no, I can only stay a moment. I do not wish to waste your valuable time” Sherry directed her attention to the woman beside Jong Lee. “And who is this beautiful creature?”

  “Her name is Yizi,” Jong said. At the mention of her name, the woman bowed deeply. “Alas, she speaks no English.”

  “I’d like you to meet the Senator’s Chief of Staff, Mr. Lev Cohen.”

  Cohen’s handshake was perfunctory.

  “A pleasure,” Jong said in fl awless English.

  They sat around the central table. Jong with Yizi

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  on the couch. Sherry on the lounge chair. Lev Cohen remained standing, a drink from the bar in his hand.

  “Mr. Lee is a Taiwanese chip manufacturer who holds many defense contracts with the United States military. That means Lee here has a stake in who wins the next presidential election,” Bell explained.

  “More than that,” Jong declared. “Your government has been my nation’s greatest ally, since the dark days of the Japanese invasion, since our present government was established in 1947. I and many of my compatriots know that it is only America’s military might and our own resolute spirit that keeps Taiwan, the Republic of China, safe from those bandits in Beijing.”

  “Excuse me for being blunt,” Sherry said, “but I’m not sure I understand why you’re here, exactly.”

  “Of course,” Jong said with a nod. “Senator Palmer is head of the Senate’s Defense Appropriations Committee. In his position, he has made it a point of sharing American defense technology with Taiwan. I merely want to make certain your husband will continue to support my nation when he becomes president. ”

  “Unfortunately my husband has not yet been elected,” Sherry replied.

  Larry Bell threw his long arm around Jong’s shoulder. The cultured man winced at the familiarity of the gesture. “Don’t worry about old David,” Bell said with a laugh. “He’s one guy who knows how to win.”

  “I would like to make his victory even more certain,” Jong said.

  Larry Bell rose and glanced at his watch. “Look at the time,” he cried with all the conviction of a high school thespian. “I really have to go. There’s so much to do before tonight’s gala event.”

  With a curt farewell, Bell departed. Sherry focused her gaze on Jong Lee.

  “You were saying?” she prompted.

  “I was merely suggesting that I would like to make a generous monetary contribution to Senator Palmer’s presidential campaign fund.” Jong said with a crooked smile.

  Lev Cohen spoke up. “We have a committee for such things, Mr. Lee. Contact them and they’ll tell you where to mail the check.”

  Sherry Palmer silenced the chief of staff with a touch of her hand.

  ”What Mr. Cohen means is that there are many barriers against my husband’s campaign accepting foreign donations. There are limits to the amount one can give, and much scrutiny. If they wished, our political enemies could use such contributions against us.”

  Jong smiled again. “I understand perfectly, Mrs. Palmer—”

  She raised a fi nger. “That’s Sherry.”

  “Ah, yes . . . Sherry. I would, however, prefer to give much more than the allowable amount, and also avoid such scrutiny.” “Just how would you do that?” Lev Cohen demanded. Again, Sherry silenced the man with a gesture. “I’m not sure I understand.”

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  Jong frowned. “Then I must be even more blunt. I am prepared to contribute five million dollars cash, today, in exchange for one piece of information.”

  Lev Cohen paled. Sherry smiled knowingly. She’d been waiting for this shoe to drop since Jong Lee entered the suite.

  “I know why your husband is here in Nevada, Mrs. Palmer,” Jong continued. “I know that even as we speak, he is witnessing a demonstration of a brand new weapons system at Groom Lake Air Force Base less than fi fty miles from this spot.”

  Lev choked on his drink.

  Sherry blinked in surprise, then quickly recovered. So that’s where he went, she mused bitterly. And the worst part about it is that I had to hear the truth from a defense contractor from Taiwan!

  “I’m not free to discuss such things, Mr. Lee,” Sherry replied coolly.

  “No need to. Though the information is top secret, I know this because the chips I manufacture are vital components in the system being demonstrated.”

  Sherry’s eyes narrowed as she studied the man.

  “You see, I require information that only your husband can provide,” Jong continued. “I need to know whether or not today’s demonstration was a success, and whether or not the program will continue. It is a very expensive proposition to retool my factories. With this advance knowledge, I will know whether or not to proceed with the retooling process, or move on to more lucrative opportunities.”

  Sherry nodded. “And for that information?”

  “I will pay fi ve million dollars, cash.”

  Sherry’s mind reeled. Five million dollars would nearly double David Palmer’s campaign chest. And since it was cash, the money need never be declared on any campaign budget statement or election board. It would be a secret fund, used at her discretion, if and when the need arose.

  “I am always glad to help a political ally,” Sherry declared. “Therefore I accept your very generous offer, Mr. Lee. In the name of my husband.”

  Cohen’s eyes went wide and he turned beet red. But he knew better than to speak up.

  Jong rose and bowed. “Here is my card,” he said. “My cell phone number is there. Call me with the information I ask for, and the money is yours.”

  Sherry raised a manicured eyebrow. “Oh, I’ll call you, Mr. Lee. But it’s Mr. Cohen here who will accept the money. You understand why I can’t . . . And why this conversation never took place.”

  Jong grinned. “I understand completely . . .”

  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 5 P.M. AND 6 P.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME

  5:04:02 P.M. PDT Hangar Six, Experimental Weapons Testing Range Groom Lake Air Force Base

  Relentless in her pursuit of perfection, Dr. Reed kept Tony Almeida and the rest of her staff hopping all morning and into the early afternoon. Tony knew from weeks of observation that Megan Reed had gained her “people skills” at Donald Trump’s School of Management. Her modus operandi was to browbeat her staff to the point of exhaustion, but never had her ham-handed managerial style been more evident than today.

  Then, roughly at two-thirty, Dr. Reed hastily departed with Corporal Stratowski to meet and greet today’s VIP observer at the Las Vegas terminal, and the members of the Malignant Wave team visibly relaxed. The necessary tasks still got done—now under the sensible supervision of Dr. Phillip Bascomb—but the mood was much lighter, despite the crucial, makeor-break demonstration looming over their heads.

  It wasn’t too long after Tony downloaded the contents of Steve Sable’s cell phone into his laptop that he managed to slip the phone back into the man’s lab coat pocket. A simple pat on the back and Tony smoothly returned the man’s phone. It was gone, then back again before the other man noticed his cell was ever missing.

  That left Tony with another urgent problem. He didn’t have the tools to analyze the information he’d stolen, which meant that he had to transfer the cell phone memory to Jamey Farrell at CTU, Los Angeles, as soon as possible. But every time he tried to get back to his office, some new task arose. Finally, almost ninety minutes after Dr. Reed’s departure, Tony found the chance to excuse himself when Dr. Bascomb went to the cafeteria to grab a late lunch.

  “Yo, Steve, I think my laptop’s winking out. I’m going to switch to the backup in my offi ce,” Tony lied.

  “Take your time,” Dr. Sable replied, swigging from a bottle of water. He’d found a shady corner and was playing craps for pebbles with a pair of young airmen.

  “I’ll be back in fi ve.” “Hey, man, no sweat,” Steve said with a laugh. “The tough stuff’s done and Madame de Sade won’t

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  be back for another half hour. Have yourself a party, Antonio.”

  Tony shut the computer down and tucked it under his arm. He left the shade of the tent, crossed the hard-packed sand to the hangar unnoticed. Dani Welles was locked in a heated debate with Dr. Alvin Toth about which television physician was the most competent. Toth opted for someone named “Marcus Welby, M.D.”—then expressed dismay to learn that no one among them had ever heard of the show. Dani was pushing for George Clooney’s character in E.R.

  “I said the most competent television doctor, Dani. Not the ‘the one with the tightest booty,’ ” the elderly doctor complained.

  Only Beverly Chang seemed tense. She avoided conversation with the others while silently staring at her own computer screen. Tony knew she was obsessively running and rerunning various diagnostic programs on the hibernating transmitter atop the steel tower. He knew because he’d been monitoring her computer with his own.

  As soon as he reached his cramped cubicle in a dim corner of Hangar Six, Tony kicked up the window air conditioner, then fired up his desktop PC. Then he downloaded a copy of the data from Steve’s cell into his desktop. Now the real task began.

  Groom Lake AFB, and especially Area 51, was the most closely watched patch of ground in America. The activities of the staff were monitored closely, both inside and outside the base. Telephones, cell phones, and Internet connections were also screened.

  Tony knew that Steve had tinkered with his own cell phone, perhaps placed some sort of scrambler inside of it. Despite this precautions, Tony realized that the watchers of Area 51 still knew someone was using an unauthorized cell phone. They just couldn’t pinpoint the phone’s location or trace down the individual— yet. It was a dangerous game Steve Sable was playing. Sooner or later, he was bound to get caught.

  Now Tony was about to test a theory of his own. He had to send a large package of data over the Internet to Jamey back at CTU, without that data being noticed or intercepted by the security screening software. It was much easier to monitor Internet connections than it was cell phone signals, so any misstep by Tony would result in immediate arrest by Air Force security personnel and a rough interrogation by Intelligence offi cers.

  Before he went undercover, Tony, Milo Pressman and Jamey Farrell discussed this problem in CTU’s conference room. They came up with several creative solutions. As usual, Jamey’s fi rst impulse was to try a high tech fi x.

  “It’s simple,” she’d said with a confi dent smirk. “We use encrypted bundles broken down and dispatched through the base’s entire computer network. Air Force security protocols might detect the transmission—and I’m not saying they will—but there’s no way their security software could locate which computer was the source of the transmission. Nor could the information be easily decrypted if it was intercepted, because the fragments are too small to

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  provide enough source material to crack the digital coding.”

  “But wouldn’t the data arrive here a mess?” Milo asked.

  Jamey shrugged. “I could put it together in no time because I know the code.”

  “Too risky,” Tony replied, shaking his head. “I might be forced to send a data package every other day, or even every day. And I want a 24/7 CTU remote camera link on any classified activity, too. With all that information streaming out of Area 51 in tiny little bundles, the Air Force would make it a point of sniffi ng me out.”

  Milo shrugged. “How about we go low-tech. Something like carrier pigeons.”

  Milo was taking a shot, but it got Tony to thinking. “I think I have a low tech solution,” he announced.

  Instead of launching into his plan, Tony talked about how the Internet was born out of research begun in the 1960s by the Advanced Research Projects Agency of the U.S. Defense Department. It was they who created the ARPANET, the fi rst networking system consisting of just four computers, at the end of 1967. Soon after that, software and protocol research began. One development was the Network Control Program, or NCP, which provided a standard method to establish communications links between different hosts. This allowed the ARPANET to expand exponentially.

  “He’s right,” Milo said. “According to CIA fi les, Area 51 had an ARPANET by 1977, if not earlier.”

  “Yes,” Tony continued. “But in 1983, the current TCP/IP protocols replaced NCP as the principal protocol of the ARPANET. After that, the ARPANET became a small component of the then fl edgling Internet, and things only got bigger from there.”

  Milo nodded. “Meanwhile the outmoded NCP protocols were forgotten. Your point?”

  “Air Force intelligence used standard TCP/IP protocols to monitor Area 51’s Internet connections, right? So I can avoid detection by sending the data to CTU using the older NCP protocols, the old ARPANET pathways.”

  Jamey blinked, understanding his logic. “That will work, provided I can locate some of the older pathways.”

  Milo shook his head. “Sounds a little far fetched. You’re still transmitting data. Why won’t you get caught?”

  “It’s like the power company trying to meter electricity that is somehow sent through natural gas lines,” Tony explained. “The electric company isn’t paying attention to the gas system, so it slips right past them.”

  Milo nodded. “Okay, I’ll dig up some of those old protocols and we’ll give it a try. But Tony, if I were you, I’d use that same analogy when I explained this scheme to Christopher Henderson.”

  Tony chuckled at the memory. He’d done just that at the pre-mission briefing and Henderson was hooked. Together, Milo and Jamey developed protocols to translate the data, and stored them in Tony’s

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  laptop so that now it took Tony only minutes to convert the data and drop it into an NCP packet. Then he sent the packet on its way. Back in Los Angeles, Jamey would download this data, along with the camera feed from the test site, by tapping into the old ARPANET routes at UCLA, and then downloading all the collected data into CTU’s mainframe. And it all happened with only a few seconds’ delay.

  Tony closed down his computer, then glanced at his watch. In forty-five minutes the demonstration was scheduled to take place. Tony grabbed his backup laptop, and hurried back to the site. He wanted to be present for the fi nal preparations.

 

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