“Homeland Security?” asked Jack.
“The Director’s already spoken to the Governor. The California National Guard has been activated to help us secure the perimeter. With CTU offline — or, for all we know, sabotaged from within — Homeland Security is advising that LAPD take point.”
Jack jaw tightened. “What are you planning, Captain?”
“What’s it look like?”
“Have the terrorists identified themselves or made any demands? Have they executed any of the hostages? Released anyone? Have you even made contact with them, opened a line of communication?”
Stone brushed past Jack, gestured to a television monitor. A single camera displayed a long shot of the stage. Men in black masks were gesturing, waving Agram 2000s, a compact Croatian-manufactured submachine gun, easily recognizable by the unique ring grip under the front of the barrel.
“There are three men on the stage,” Stone said. “We figure maybe a dozen more among the audience. They’ve sealed the fire doors. They think we’re screwed. But we have an override ready to go on two doors—” Stone showed Jack a blueprint. It looked eerily familiar. “The doors are here…and here.”
The attack points were on opposite ends of the auditorium. It looked good on paper, but Jack shook his head. “It’s too neat, too tidy. It could be a trap.”
Stone sneered. “I won’t let this siege go on. The longer these guys have control of the situation, the worse it’s going to get.”
“Listen,” said Jack, holding the man’s gaze, “what you probably have here is a reprise of the Moscow Opera House scenario. That means there may be dozens of terrorists in there, strapped with bombs. If you charge into that auditorium, they’ll set off those bombs and hundreds will die. You’ve got to wait for a better plan—”
Another voice interrupted. “We’re out of time, Special Agent Bauer. The Vice President’s wife and the wife of the Russian President are both inside that building—”
Jack turned. “And you are?”
The man stepped closer. The dim light of the monitor illuminated his face. His skin was dry parchment, eyes hard behind lines and creases. “Evans, Secret Service. One of ours, an agent named Auburn, managed to get the two women down a service elevator to a sub-basement. He’s holed up there now with them and a pair of White House interns. The terrorists haven’t gotten to them yet. Auburn has the elevator locked. But it’s only a matter of time. FBI’s with us on this. We can’t wait.”
“How are you communicating with Auburn?” Jack asked.
“Crank phone, connected to a temporary land line. It was left there with tools and equipment by a crew working on the air conditioning system. Good thing, too. Cell phone and radio transmissions are being jammed.”
Jack noticed one of the command center monitors was tuned to the television station that had been carrying the Silver Screen Awards show. A commercial was running. Jack pointed to the screen. “What does the public know?”
“Nothing yet,” said Evans. “The network put a twenty-second delay on the broadcast feed. Someone at the network hit the panic button as soon as the bad guys showed up on stage. All Mr. and Mrs. America saw was the screen going dark for twenty seconds, then a commercial. Now they’re playing a rerun of a show that usually appears in the same time slot, but their news people want to know what’s happening.”
“What are you telling them?”
The Secret Service agent paused. “You have a suggestion?”
Jack nodded. “Cut the power grid in the downtown area. A blackout is a visible event and television news can show it to the world. The public becomes convinced it’s a technical glitch, and if the men inside that auditorium insist on making some kind of broadcast statement to the world, we can tell them the power’s out, tough shit.”
Captain Stone and the Secret Service agent exchanged glances. Evans nodded, and Stone motioned another SWAT officer over.
“Talk to the power company,” Stone said. “See that the power is cut in a ten-block radius around the Chamberlain as soon as possible.”
Relieved he’d gotten the proverbial inch, Jack tried for the yard. “Captain, you have to rethink this assault. Lives could be lost unnecessarily—”
Stone cut him off. “I’ve spoken with the Mayor and the Governor. It’s my call to make and I’ve made it —”
“But—”
“Enough,” Stone said. “You guys at CTU are supposed to prevent this type of attack. You didn’t. Once my assault team’s ready, I’m going to see this is finished before it gets worse.”
16. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 8 P.M. AND 9 P.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME
Almost as soon as the computers went down, Nina Myers arrived at the Cyber-Unit with a security team in tow, and took Lesser into custody. He didn’t resist. A crooked smile broke over his face as they led him off to a cell.
For an hour after that, Milo, Doris, and Jamey worked frantically to restore CTU’s computers. No matter what they tried, the servers seemed to be stuck in a loop. Reboots and restarts, flushing and washing all failed to purge the system. Calendar rollback programs — which should have restored the system to the point where it was before the attack — simply wouldn’t function. There was no help coming from outside, either. The CIA’s computers had caught the bug and were down, too.
After half an hour, Jamey began to panic. The LAPD had shown up and delivered the news of the hostage situation down at the Chamberlain; and CTU couldn’t even get its satellite televisions on line to see the events unfold like the rest of the world. The situation, and pent up emotion over Fay Hubley’s murder, sent Jamey over the edge.
“I’m a programmer, not security expert!” she cried, her voice rising in volume. “That’s your job, Milo. Why don’t you do it?!”
Jamey threw up her hands as she watched countless files vanish into cyberspace.
Then Milo hit on an idea. He rebooted one computer, the very one they’d isolated and intentionally infected with Lesser’s midnight virus. Milo used the rollback program to purge the non-executed virus string, then washed the memory. Now he had a clean computer. With Doris’s help he tried to use it to hack into the infected mainframes and put Humpty Dumpty back together again.
Ryan Chappelle entered the cell and sat down at the small table opposite Richard Lesser. The computer whiz had been searched, his hidden thumb drive taken from him. Now the two men silently eyeballed one another. The unspoken challenge? Who would talk first.
Chappelle, a master of bureaucratic silence, won the match.
“Why are you bothering me, pinhead?”
Ryan didn’t reply.
“What?” continued Lesser. “Is this some kind of silent torture? Sitting across from you, looking at your sorry, earthbound face.”
“Earthbound,” said Ryan. “That’s an interesting choice of adjective.”
“Yeah, earthbound. You’ll never know the ecstasy I felt when I was touched by God.”
“Don’t you mean
“You wouldn’t understand. God.
“Paradise? You mean that place in the mountains?”
