appeared we arrived just in time to prevent a potential disaster. ”
The white airport maintenance van swerved off the pavement, onto the scrub grass that lined the black asphalt. The service road ran parallel to the busy East Imperial Highway, less than half a mile away. Dust billowed behind their vehicle and hung in the arid, Southern California air.
In the passenger seat, Jack Bauer tensed. The brown cloud was large enough to give away their presence to the terrorists, but nothing could be done about that now. If the tipster was correct, time had already run out.
“I see another maintenance van near runway seven,” said Jack. “Vehicle identification tag 1178 Charlie- Victor.”
Behind the wheel, Tony Almeida squinted against the yellow glare of the morning sun. Tony was Jack’s junior by seven years. Latino, originally from Chicago, he was a single ex-Marine with advanced degrees in computer science. Average height, muscular build, black hair worn short, and a soul patch beneath his lower lip. On paper Almeida looked good — Scout-Sniper School and Surveillance and Target Acquisition Platoon School. But Jack hadn’t seen the man in the field enough to trust him completely.
“I count two men inside,” Almeida said quietly, “both wearing maintenance uniforms.”
Jack was also clad in airport maintenance overalls. His black combat chukkas, however, were standard-issue military. As he continued to catalog the flat featureless landscape through binoculars — gray concrete runways, black asphalt service roads, brown grass— Bauer’s headset crackled.
“1178 Charlie-Victor is an authorized repair,” Agent Costigan announced from the van’s cargo bay.
“Roger that,” Jack replied.
Gina Costigan waited for Bauer to relay more information. She was in her late twenties and, like Jack, married with one daughter. Former LAPD Special Weapons and Tactics, she’d been recruited by Walsh as well. She was presently squeezed into the windowless space in the back of the van with four large men. She could see nothing. Like her, all were clad in bulky assault gear— black Kevlar helmets and body armor harnesses, response belts, holsters, weapons, and chukkas. But unlike the men, Gina, her face pinched with tension and beaded with perspiration, balanced a laptop computer on her knees. Beneath her straight brown bangs, her green eyes never left the monitor screen. Across its flat surface were displayed the international airport’s daily maintenance schedule and flight manifests, including arrival times and departures — even scheduled deliveries by outside vendors. The data scrolled in an array of display boxes. Gina’s quick glance scanned each in turn, evaluating every fragment of information.
“I’ve got another vehicle, two o’clock, near the concrete power shed,” said Jack, increasing the magnification on the binoculars. “It’s a black Ford Explorer with a valid LAX security sticker on the inside front window.” Jack carefully read out the license plate number, already certain they’d located their target.
When she replied, Agent Costigan could not hide the excitement in her voice. “That vehicle was reported stolen from a driveway on Essex Street in Palmdale two nights ago.”
Jack dropped the binoculars onto the seat next to him, drew the SigSauer P228 from its shoulder holster under the airport coveralls. He checked the magazine and chambered an extra bullet, bringing the ammo capacity to the maximum thirteen rounds. Then he spoke into the headset.
“Tactical Team Two, are you with us? Over.”
From somewhere behind them, a voice responded. “With you, Team One.”
“I want you to move in now. Follow our coordinates. What is your estimated time of arrival?”
“EST less than two minutes, sir.”
Jack cursed. “Too long.”
“If we brought a parade with us, we would have attracted attention,” Tony reminded him.
Agent Chet Blackburn, the assault team leader, stuck his helmeted head into the cab. “Maybe we should have used an assault chopper.”
Jack glanced at Blackburn, looked away. “We couldn’t risk bringing a chopper into the airport. Too much air traffic.”
“I see three men on the ground. There’s another inside the vehicle.” Tony’s voice was flat, but his hands were putting the steering wheel in a choke hold.
“Get this van as close as you can without letting them know we’re coming,” said Jack.
“Too late,” said Tony. “One guy definitely sees us.”
Tony slowed the truck. “Listen, Jack. All they’re really seeing is a maintenance van coming their way. But trucks like this are all over the airport. Why don’t we just roll past the target, circle around, and come up behind them using the power shed for cover. Otherwise we’re sure to end up in a firefight.”
Jack visualized the maneuver, nodded. “Okay. We’ll try it.”
Gina Costigan’s voice crackled in Jack’s headset once again. “Special Agent Bauer?”
“Yes.”
“We have an aircraft approaching runway seven from the southwest. It’s National Express Cargo Flight 111 out of Austin, Texas. General manifest. Crew of three. It’s less than two minutes away, sir. ”
Bauer digested the information as the van steadily approached the suspects. For a long time, no one around the black Explorer moved, though at least one of the occupants was monitoring them. Finally, one of the men turned his back on the maintenance van, went down on one knee, and pointed an unfamiliar object at the sky. Even from a distance, the device appeared ominous — two black tubes on a metal handle. The device must have been unwieldy; the man rested it on his shoulder to steady it.
“That’s a weapon,” said Jack. “Some new kind of surface-to-air missile. Looks like they’re locking onto a target.”
Tony sounded doubtful. “You sure?”
“We don’t have time to be sure. We have to move
Tony smashed the gas pedal, the van shot forward, and Jack was jolted back in his seat by the abrupt acceleration.
“Lock and load,” bellowed Agent Blackburn inside the rocking cargo bay.
Gina Costigan slammed the lid of her laptop, drew the Heckler and Koch UMP out of her Velcro back strap. She slid a twenty-five-round magazine into the state-of-the-art submachine gun, switched the fire selector to semi-automatic, and lowered the visor on her helmet.
Ahead, the man remained on his knees beside the black Explorer, seemingly oblivious to their approach. On his shoulder, the device was still pointed at the cloudless sky, where the silhouette of an aircraft had appeared. Suddenly one of the other men pointed toward the maintenance van and drew a weapon.
“Artillery! Get down!” Bauer warned.
The first shot blew out the windshield and roared through the cargo bay. It punched an exit hole in the rear door large enough to shake it off its hinges. Daylight flooded the cargo area as the steel door broke free.
Outside, the shooter aimed the.357 again — this time at Jack Bauer. Almeida swerved the vehicle onto a concrete access plate. When the front wheel struck, the van bounced high enough for the second shot to slam into the engine block instead of the cab. The van began to bellow steam and smoke as the engine locked. Forward momentum carried the stalled vehicle closer to the suspects, who were all scrambling for cover by now. Another shot blasted through the already-shattered window and into the cargo area. This time Jack heard a meaty thwack, a cry of surprise. Someone had been hit.
Finally the white van rolled to a halt, not fifteen yards from the Ford Explorer.
“Out! Move!” Jack shouted. He popped his own door and rolled into brown desert grass. Engulfed by a cloud of dust, he could barely see the black Explorer. From the shouts and sounds in his headset, Jack knew Blackburn and the rest of the tactical team had burst out of the side and rear doors of the crippled van and laid down suppressing fire.
Finally an opening appeared in the brown haze. Jack spied one of the suspects racing toward the concrete power shed. The other two had dived into the black Explorer with the third man. One was obviously wounded, the other clutched the unfamiliar shoulder-mounted weapon.
“Don’t let them leave the area!” Jack cried.
Then he was on his feet. P228 in hand, he pursued the lone runner toward the power shed. A few yards away from the concrete block structure, a wave of hot gases washed over him, followed in a microsecond by an earsplitting roar. Jack was blown off his feet as the Explorer detonated in an orange fireball. The three occupants were engulfed. Completely immolated.
