forefinger. “What am I supposed to do with this. I’m a computer programmer.”
That wasn’t entirely true and Tomas Morales knew it. Before joining Summit Studios, of which the Chamberlain Auditorium was a part, she’d been an intelligence officer in the U.S. Air Force.
Morales checked his weapon, removed the safety. “Then tell me what’s wrong with the computers.”
Cynthia Richel set the gun onto the desk. “Five minutes ago some kind of overlord program took control of our security protocols—”
A succession of strange noises interrupted her. Over the sounds of shots, screams, and thundering feet, the entire auditorium shook from an eerie, rhythmic booming, like dozens of gongs sounding off one after the other.
Cynthia’s full face went pale.
“What’s wrong?” asked the dispatcher.
Morales already knew. “That was the sound of the steel doors closing all over the auditorium. Those doors are meant to be activated in case of fire — after the building has been evacuated — to isolate the damage to one section of the structure.”
“Now they’re obviously being used as jail house doors,” said Cynthia, “to trap all of us inside.”
Morales scanned Cynthia’s computer screen. “Can’t you do something?”
“Sure.” Cynthia Richel picked up the weapon again, this time by the handle. She checked the magazine like a professional, flicked off the safety. “Tell me where to aim.”
Special Agent Craig Auburn had memorized the evacuation route the old-fashioned way, by walking it ten times.
When the evacuation order had come through his earbud, the Secret Service agent had been at his post in the lobby. He’d followed standard operating procedures and immediately moved to a set of utility stairs that led directly to the evacuation route — in this case a long, avocado-green corridor running beneath the theater, which led to a pair of glass doors that opened onto a loading dock.
Earlier that day, Auburn had walked the route with the bomb detection team. A service elevator was located near the loading dock exit and he personally locked it into an open position to maintain the security of the route.
Now that he’d arrived at the end of the corridor, Auburn was surprised to see that he was the first agent on the scene — and nearly six minutes after the flight order had been given. He moved through the glass doors, weapon drawn, to make sure the exit was clear of threats.
While it was possible they’d gotten the two wives out by another route, no one had communicated a successful evacuation — or anything else for that matter. Auburn’s earbud had been quiet. He’d assumed the detail was maintaining radio silence, but now he suspected something else was happening and he couldn’t hear it.
He walked back into the corridor, tried to hail his boss, Ron Birchwood, but got no response. Then he heard a loud clanging boom right behind him and realized with a shock that a pair of steel fire doors had just closed off the only exit on this end of the corridor. He searched for some way to open the doors or override their lock, but could see no key pads or control panels. Nothing.
The sound of approaching gunfire came next. Auburn drew his weapon and ran toward the noise. Four people were entering the far end of the hallway through the open stairwell door. He immediately recognized the Vice President’s wife and the Russian First Lady. Marina Novartov was limping, trailing blood, from a wound in her calf. Assisting her were a young man in a blue blazer and a pretty, young woman with straight brown hair. Auburn knew they were two low-level members of the Vice President’s staff, but he couldn’t recall their names.
Behind the foursome, Auburn saw Special Agent Ron Birchwood, and the head of Russian security, Borodin. They had their weapons drawn and were pumping off shots while retreating. A red tracer burned down the hall and tore through the Russian’s chest. A crimson explosion, and Borodin’s arms flew out as he fell backward.
A masked man appeared in the stairwell doorway. Birchwood pumped off a shot, then two more. When the man vanished again, Birchwood glanced over his shoulder.
“Auburn! There’s a whole hit team behind me. Caught us right outside the Presidential Box. The others are down…they’re gone. Communications are jammed. I’ll try to hold them off, buy you time while you evacuate the women.”
The foursome moved past Auburn. “The exit’s cut off!” he cried to them, stepping behind them to guard their back. “Get into the elevator.”
When they were all inside, Auburn plugged the key into the elevator panel and called to his boss. “Come on, Ron! It’s clear.”
Before he could even turn around, the hail of gunfire tore Special Agent Ron Birchwood to pieces. Auburn turned the key. The doors closed and the elevator moved down the shaft.
Jack Bauer raced through the streets, running traffic lights without a siren. For the twentieth time, he auto- dialed Teri’s cell phone. Once again, he reached her voice mail.
It was obvious she’d turned off her phone for the duration of the Silver Screen televised broadcast. The show had probably requested it of its audience, so he wasn’t surprised, but he was damned frustrated. With the Chamberlain Auditorium compromised, he wanted her out of there.
By now Jack had realized that CTU had become non-operational. He’d come to that conclusion back in Valerie Dodge’s office when he’d tried to summon forensics and cyber-unit teams to the site.
From what he’d seen of the schematics on Dodge’s computer screen, Jack had suspected more information was locked in the hard drive. He could be sitting on a gold mine of intelligence, but he couldn’t safely access it without a cyber-unit’s help. And with CTU in operational chaos, he knew he wouldn’t be able to get that help anytime soon. So he’d powered down the PC, yanked its connections, and dumped it into the back of his vehicle.
Knowing CTU channels would be dead, he’d tuned his car radio to the Los Angeles Police band. That’s when he’d learned that the attack at the Chamberlain Auditorium had already begun.
Slaloming around slower vehicles, he flew through the streets with one hand on the wheel, one hand on the speed dial of his cell, trying to reach his wife. He hit the first police barrier five blocks from the auditorium.
“I’m Special Agent Jack Bauer, Counter Terrorist Unit,” he told the uniformed officer who’d asked for his ID. “I need to speak with your superior, immediately.”
The man spoke softly into a shoulder radio. Listened to a response in his headset, nodded.
“Okay, Special Agent Bauer. Captain Stone wants to speak with you. Park your car and follow me, sir.”
Escorted by the uniformed officer, Jack walked two blocks along eerily deserted streets in the middle of downtown Los Angeles. A hot wind blew in from the desert, only to be scattered by the beating blades of helicopters circling the theater. Columns of white, beaming down from their belly-mounted searchlights, crawled along the pavement, across roofs, down walls.
Around the next corner, Jack was still three blocks away from the brilliantly lit facade of the Chamberlain. Hugging the walls of buildings, a line of black armored vehicles were positioned to remain invisible from the auditorium’s view. Jack realized they belonged to his old outfit, the Los Angeles Special Weapons and Tactics unit.
Captain Gavin Garrett Stone was inside the mobile command center armored-up and loaded for bear. As tall as Jack and at least fifty pounds heavier, his physical presence had nothing on his personality. He was a hardened police officer who’d distinguished himself many times over on the job. As forces of nature went, the man was a Category Five.
Around the Captain, other members of the SWAT team were preparing for a physical assault of the complex. Jack approached Stone, hand extended. The man gave Jack a cold, don’t-piss-on-my-parade stare.
“We’ve been trying to contact CTU, Bauer. Finally sent a squad car out to your headquarters. Some kind of computer attack, they said. Your Tac Team leader,
Chet Blackburn, checked in with us over LAPD radio.”
“Good,” said Jack.
Stone made a show of checking his watch. “Blackburn claimed he’d be here. But he and his team are obviously having trouble getting out of the gate — or through traffic — or both.”
