24 Declassified: 05 - Vanishing Point, page 11
5:15:47 P.M. PDT Hangar Five, Experimental Weapons Testing Range Groom Lake Air Force Base
“This is certainly an impressive machine,” Senator Palmer declared with genuine awe.
“The Boeing Sikorski LO–88 Blackfoot was commissioned by the Army,” Dr. Megan Reed explained. “The brass were looking to procure a stealthy insertion and recovery aircraft suitable for conducting special operations. Unfortunately the Pentagon wasn’t happy with the helicopter’s payload limitations, and the program was cancelled shortly after this prototype was tested—successfully, I might add.”
The cavernous interior of Hangar Five housed only one aircraft, a sleek, black shape that reminded Senator Palmer of a predatory raptor. A tri-motored, rotor-controlled aircraft, the LO–88 Blackfoot resembled no helicopter Palmer had ever seen. Instead of a main rotor on top of the aircraft, the Blackfoot had two ten-bladed fans housed in engine nacelles affi xed to both sides of the aircraft’s fuselage. The vertical tail rotor was conventionally set on the tail fin, but was also housed in a hooded nacelle.
Apart from the propeller housings, there were no rounded edges on the Blackfoot. Viewed from the front, the fuselage was triangular—its bottom was flat, sides sloped like the body of an F–117 stealth fighter. This shape—the so-called “Hopeless Diamond” configuration—was designed to defl ect radar waves. It was also clear to the head of the Defense Appropriations Committee that no metal was used in the construction of the craft’s exterior—everything was fashioned from super-strong plastics or extremely-expensive radar-absorbing composite materials. Two flat-paned cockpit windows in the shark-like, pointed nose were tinted black to match the light-absorbing surface of the fuselage.
Palmer circled the high-tech stealth helicopter once. “This aircraft is quite amazing. But I have to ask, why am I here? This has nothing to do with the demonstration . . . Or does it?”
“The Blackfoot may have disappointed the Army, but it’s the perfect platform to carry the Malignant Wave device to the enemy,” Dr. Reed explained. “It’s low observable, has a range of over a thousand miles, terrain-mapping capabilities. It can fly nap of the
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earth, and because of the new vortex technology that powers the main engines, the Blackfoot can also attain altitudes no other helicopter can match.”
“I believe I’ve already expressed my amazement,” Palmer replied. He crossed his arms behind his back and waited for the other shoe to drop.
“We learned during early trials that the low-observable composite material used in the Blackfoot’s construction not only works to repel radar, it also deflects the waves generated by our weapon. Therefore the pilot and co-pilot can deploy Malignant Wave without risk.”
Palmer nodded. “I’m impressed that you’re thinking ahead, Dr. Reed. But I find it a little presumptuous, as well. Or wouldn’t you agree?”
Dr. Reed frowned. “I don’t think I understand, Senator.”
“Your research seems to be farther along than anyone on my Committee imagined. I’m even more eager to see this non-lethal technology demonstrated.” Palmer glanced at his Rolex. “Shouldn’t we proceed with the demonstration?”
“Of course, Senator,” Dr. Reed replied, still smiling. “I understand your eagerness and share it. I merely wanted to show you the Blackfoot, and let you know that if my team is given the green light, we can immediately proceed to the next level—deployment of the Malignant Wave technology under simulated battlefi eld conditions.”
Senator Palmer frowned. “It’s nearly fi ve thirty now. Is there a problem?”
Corporal Stratowski, who’d been standing quietly on the sidelines, stepped forward. “I’m sorry to report it’s a matter of security, Senator. The Chinese have taken a special interest in Area 51 in the last few days. Their last space-based surveillance satellite of the day won’t pass over Groom Lake for another ten minutes. After it’s out of range, we can proceed with the demonstration.”
Palmer nodded. “Sorry for my impatience, Corporal. I wasn’t aware of the facts.”
Then the Senator faced Megan Reed. “Well Doctor, in the mean time, perhaps you can introduce me to the rest of your team . . .”
5:24:02 P.M. PDT Mirabelle’s French Dry Cleaners Monitor Street, Las Vegas
Ignoring signs that promised “guaranteed two-hour ser vice,” and proclaimed that all cleaning was “done on the premises,” Yizi checked the address on the store front against the card she clutched between manicured fi ngers. Satisfied she’d arrived at the correct address, Yizi pushed through the glass door.
The tiny shop seemed empty, but an electronic buzzer sounded somewhere out of sight. The atmosphere inside the dry cleaners smelled of bleach. Behind the counter, hundreds of shrink-wrapped garments hung on a large circular rack.
A young Chinese man appeared at once, stepping through a curtained door in the wall. He wore nondescript pants and a crisp white shirt with a plastic
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nametag that identified him as Mr. Hsu. He smiled politely, though he’d never seen the woman before.
“May I help you,” Mr. Hsu asked in perfect English.
“This is an urgent job. My boss wants this cleaned at once,” Yizi replied, also in English. She slid the garment across the Formica table top. Then her dark eyes met his. “Jong Lee wants you to know there is a stain in the right sleeve, Mr. Hsu.”
Still smiling, Hsu nodded. “I understand completely. Tell Mr. Lee that the jacket will be ready in two hours.”
“Good afternoon, then,” Yizi replied. Without another word, she spun on her heels and left the shop immediately.
Mr. Hsu, jacket in hand, once again stepped through the curtain. He set the garment down on a stainless steel table and began his search. It didn’t take long for Hsu to locate the instructions tucked into the sleeve, exactly as the woman promised.
It took the man a few minutes to read and memorize the handwritten instructions. Then he dropped the message into a document shredder, along with his Green Card and plastic nametag.
“Yee! Uhr!” Hsu cried. Two young Chinese men with thick necks and close-cropped stubble on their heads hurried from the depths of the roaring, windy cleaning plant.
“Yes, Captain?”
“Alert the team. Make final preparations. The mission is on for tonight.”
A flicker of emotion crossed their faces. “At once,” they replied smartly. Uhr and Yee returned to the bowels of the cleaning plant, while Hsu hurried to the front of the shop and locked the door. He turned out the lights and hung the closed sign in the window. Behind him, he heard the dry cleaning machines power down and the steady whine of the dryers fall suddenly silent. For good measure, Hsu placed a fi tting screen in front of the glass door, so that no curious eyes could see the activity within.
Though his US government-issue Green Card identified him as Anh Hsu, an immigrant from Hong Kong, only the name on the card was accurate, the personal history a careful fabrication devised by China’s military intelligence bureau, the Second Department. In truth, Hsu had never even seen Hong Kong, even after he fled the tiny rural village in the Jiangxi Province of South-Central China where he was born. Hsu’s village did not even have electricity until the mid–1980s, and Mao’s modernization programs passed them by. Consequently, Hsu was raised without the education or benefits of the city-bred youth of Beijing, or even China’s newest acquisition, Hong Kong. The people of Hsu’s village were perpetually poor due to abysmally low agricultural prices, so poor that no one in his town—not even the town doctor—owned a bicycle or a clock, let alone a radio or television.
Because of the Communist’s government’s Draconian birth control laws which limited Chinese couples to two children, most female babies born in Hsu’s village were placed outside to die of exposure. Girls
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were considered useless mouths to feed, while boys would at least grow up to work the fi elds. Considered too uneducated and unskilled for factory work, compared to those citizens born in the cities, Hsu faced a dull future as a subsistence farmer.
So, to escape that fate, he became a member of the two and a half million strong People’s Liberation Army, the largest military on Earth, enlisting just days after his seventeenth birthday.
Through drive, diligence and hard work—and by exhibiting a cold ruthlessness that impressed his superiors—Anh Hsu moved up the ranks, until he was promoted to a level seemingly unattainable for one of such lowly birth and questionable heritage—a Captain in the Second Department’s Human Intelligence Bureau. Among his newfound skills, he learned to speak English like an American. But Hsu was not content with a behind-the-scenes position analyzing data on some desk-bound general’s staff. In an effort to boost his visibility, Hsu volunteered for ser vice in the 6th Special Warfare Group, a unit that performed a variety of operational missions including counterterrorism, long-range reconnaissance, sabotage, hostage rescue, hit-and-run strikes, and deep penetration warfare.
Captain Hsu’s military achievements and fanatical drive eventually attracted the attention of Communist Chinese espionage agent Jong Lee, also a member of the Second Department. Lee, an active espionage agent who passed himself off as a Taiwanese lobbyist when spying on the West, was one of China’s greatest operatives. Because of his formidable reputation, Jong Lee was permitted to recruit Captain Hsu.
For his part, Hsu admired Jong Lee because he never displayed a dearth of imagination, nor the slavish lack initiative of his peers in the PLA. Lee was not afraid to act, and act boldly.
It was Jong Lee who devised their current mission to seize America’s most advanced technology from under the long noses of the United States Air Force, and it was Lee who convinced his masters in Beijing to go along with his perilous plan. Along the way, he also convinced Captain Hsu to join him, though in the end it did not take much convincing. Like Jong Lee, Captain Hsu despised the decadent Western democracies, and resented their phenomenal wealth and economic might.
And so tonight, after months of planning and preparation, I will lead a commando raid so audacious it will shift the balance of power between the United States and China forever. Perhaps our daring strike here, in the enemy’s heartland, will convince those old fools in Beijing that the time for war against America is now. . .
5:48:02 P.M. PDT Hangar Six, Experimental Weapons Testing Range Groom Lake Air Force Base
Dr. Reed made the introductions, starting at the top of the food chain with Dr. Phillip Bascomb, then working her way down the pecking order.
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When she returned to Hangar Six with the Senator in tow, the woman rudely corralled the staff, then lined them all up in the hot afternoon sun for a military-style review. Her managerial skills had never been so clumsy, and pretty much everyone was mortified by the woman’s behavior—except for the oblivious Dr. Reed, of course.
What could have been a very uncomfortable few minutes was lightened considerably by Senator David Palmer’s charisma and easy charm. Unlike most VIP visitors to Area 51, the Senator from Maryland seemed to take a genuine interest in the people involved in the project, not only the project itself. He spent a few minutes with each member of the Malignant Wave team, quizzing them on their tasks, their credentials—though the conversation was not always on topic. When Palmer tried to grill Bascomb about his previous experience as a microwave specialist for NASA, the scientist found a way to switch topics. While most professionals loved to talk about their work, to Palmer’s surprise, Dr. Bascomb preferred to talk about his pro-basketball days.
So did Dr. Alvin Toth, who grinned up at the Senator while pumping Palmer’s hand. “You and Larry Bell were a hell of a team,” the paunchy pathologist said.
“We still are, Dr. Toth,” Palmer replied. “I’m having dinner with Larry tonight.”
Beverly Chang smiled nervously when the Senator complimented her on the efficiency of her security system. The thirty-something cyber specialist shook his hand, but seemed too shy to meet his stare.
Senator Palmer and Steve Sable spoke only briefl y. Dr. Sable received a shock when the Senator cited his work on the F–22 Raptor’s highly-advanced computer control system.
“I read your report last year, Dr. Sable. Seems to me the Air Force owes you a debt of gratitude for ironing out a litany of technical glitches.”
“I’ll be sure to remind them, Senator,” the software engineer replied with a smirk.
“This is Dani Welles, the youngest member of our team,” Dr. Reed said, moving quickly past the acerbic Dr. Sable.
The Senator smiled at the young woman, and offered his hand. “Delighted to meet you, Ms. Welles.” When their hands met the woman nearly gushed. “Please call me Dani, Senator.”
“A pleasure . . . Dani.”
“This is Antonio Alvarez,” Dr. Reed said. “He’s our energy specialist.”
Senator Palmer hardly glanced at Tony. His attention was drawn to a sudden burst of activity a few hundred yards away, at the test site. A tow tractor appeared on the scene, dragging two wheeled carts carrying aluminum cages. In one cage, a pair of Rhesus monkeys were strapped to metal gurneys. The primates—a male and a female—had gray-brown fur and hairless pink faces. Rendered immobile, the monkeys snarled fearfully, lips curled back to reveal sharp teeth. Their dark eyes blinked against the sun’s glare.
Palmer moved closer, and noticed the animals’ heads were shaved. Electrodes had been implanted
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deep into the apes’ skull, wires running to monitors attached to the bars.
In the other cage, two small pigs squealed with fright. Unfettered, they sniffed the bars of their prison with their fl aring snouts.
Steve Sable turned his back on the scene, glanced at Tony. “If you’re a card-carrying member of PETA, you better leave now, amigo,” he muttered.
“Ah, the test animals have arrived,” Dr. Toth said. “I’d better go make sure the monitors are working.”
Dr. Bascomb nodded. “If you’ll excuse me, Senator. I also have work to do.”
Both he and Dr. Toth hurried back to their instrument panels inside the tent. Within seconds, the entire team had dispersed to complete fi nal preparations.
“Just be patient a little longer, Senator,” Dr. Reed said with a hint of pride. “Show time is just minutes away.”
The Senator glanced at Megan Reed, who watched as the cages were carefully unloaded by a group of airmen. Under Beverly Chang’s supervision, the cages were placed inside an invisible box bordered by four yellow poles pounded into the ground, about seventyfi ve yards away from the microwave tower.
“I wasn’t aware lab animals would be used in this demonstration,” Palmer said, unable to mask his distaste.
“I believe it’s necessary, Senator Palmer,” Dr. Reed replied. “In order to truly understand the power of this weapon, you must witness the Malignant Wave’s effect on actual brains and central nervous systems. I
don’t believe a print-out of a microwave graph would be suffi cient.” Palmer frowned. “I defer to your expertise, Dr. Reed.”
5:56:40 P.M. PDT The Cha-Cha Lounge, Las Vegas
Morris O’Brian led Jack Bauer to the sub basement storage room. Hands quaking, the little man unlocked the steel door, pushed it open, switched on the overhead light.
“Over there, Jack,” Morris croaked, averting his eyes.
Jack stepped over two canvas bags filled with dusty Christmas decorations, moved around a row of unused roulette tables. The corpse was there, where Morris had pointed. Face down on the concrete fl oor, blood had oozed from the stab wound after death, staining the fl oor black.
“Who is it, Jack?”
Bauer crouched over the dead man, carefully turned the corpse onto its side. The skin was already spotted with purple blotches, limbs stiffening but not yet frozen by rigor mortis, so the man had been dead for several hours.
Jack used his pen flashlight to probe the fl oor around the body. Not enough blood on the ground, so Jack knew he didn’t die here. He tossed the corpse, fishing through the man’s pockets, under his belt,
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under the shirt and inside his pants. He’d already made a positive identification, so Jack wasn’t trying to find out who the dead man was. He just wanted to see what he found—a wallet, keys, loose change, a pack of matches and a couple of chips from Circus, Circus.
“It’s Ray Perry,” Jack replied.
Morris swallowed loudly. “That explains why he’s been missing. I guess we know it wasn’t Ray who killed Max Farrow in his cell, then.”
Jack lowered the corpse to the ground. “He’s been stabbed a couple of times, but the neck wound fi nished him. I think Perry was killed in the security room, before or after Max Farrow was murdered. His blood mingled with Farrow’s. I should have fi gured out that there was too much blood.” Bauer’s expression darkened. “In a scene like that, there always seems to be too much blood . . .”
Bauer stood, tucked the dead man’s wallet into the back pocket of his black Levi’s. “Why were you down here, Morris?”
“Blew a bank of cameras on the northeast side of the gaming room. I wanted to check the circuit breakers . . .” Morris pointed to the opposite wall. “That’s the box, over there. I found the problem, corrected it. Then, as I was leaving, I saw . . . him.”
“Did you tell anyone?”
Morris stared at the dead man, shook his head. “I was looking for Curtis . . . Found you instead.”
“Who else has a key to this room?” Jack demanded.
Morris shrugged. “Too many people, Jack. Curtis . . . Don Driscoll . . . Chick Hoffman. That guy Manny . . . what’s his name . . . The guy who works the night shift. I think the bartender has a copy, too.”
“How well was the body hidden?” Jack asked, his mind categorizing the likelihood of each man’s guilt.
“I wouldn’t have found Ray, except that I was taking a peek at those roulette tables over there.” Morris scratched his chin. “Saw his feet sticking out from behind the canvas bags.”
