for a minute, then he began to chuckle, inviting a curious stare from a lieutenant on stage with him.
One of the foot soldiers arrived on stage a moment later. “They have set up loudspeakers in the street outside,” he reported. “What does it mean?”
“It’s a tactic right out of the Americans’ counterterrorism text book,” Grost replied with a sneer. “They mean to drive us out of this place with bad music. A ridiculous tactic that has no chance of success.”
Bastian Grost shouldered his machine gun. He wrapped his head with the long, night-black scarf hanging at his neck. It pleased him to think that his enemies were so helpless.
The pre-mission briefing was so populated it packed the vehicle from one end to the other. Every chair was occupied, and many stood, including Lonnie Nobunaga, who managed to hang around long after his active role in the proceedings had ended. Even Christina Hong was there, after being spelled by a well-known network journalist who was doing a masterful job of bogus reporting for his audience of terrorists.
Despite the air conditioner laboring overtime, it was sweltering inside the command center. The hatches and doors had been shut tightly to guarantee security, and block out the music blasting around the auditorium.
Most of the men who occupied the room were snipers, ten of them, culled from Chet Blackburn’s Tactical Unit, the FBI, and Captain Stone’s SWAT team.
Jack began the briefing without preamble. “The auditorium and over a thousand hostages are being held by twenty Chechen gunman, all well-trained, all armed with 9mm Agram 2000 submachine guns. Their leader is this man—”
A face appeared on the wall-mounted flat screen monitor.
“Bastian Grost. He’s not a Chechen by birth, but he is, as far as we can determine, fanatically dedicated to their cause.”
The image on the screen changed again. Portraits of four women appeared, some in headscarves.
“More dangerous than the twenty gunmen are five suicide bombers placed in the audience—”
The women were replaced by the seating chart of the auditorium.
“—From the plans in Valerie Dodge’s computer, we know that the bombers have been positioned to do maximum damage to the structure’s five support columns when the explosives are detonated. You see from this chart that they are planted here and here, and two in the back of the auditorium. There is also a bomber close to the stage, seated among the celebrities.”
Jack paused. “The plan is simple. Five of our operatives — all female, all dressed in evening clothes, take out the female bombers. At the same instant, the snipers each take out two gunmen in quick succession. Our timing has to be perfect, and because the terrorists are jamming all radio signals, individual groups will be out of contact once we enter the auditorium and separate.”
“Jesus,” muttered an FBI sniper.
“The takedown has to be timed perfectly. We’ll prearrange a time for the strike, and everyone will have to act at the same split second.”
Groans and sighs greeted the news.
“Unfortunately, timing’s not the worst of our problems.” Jack paused until everyone quieted down. “While we have photos and names for four of the bombers, the identity of the fifth bomber is unknown—”
Outcry greeted this news.
“That means one bomb will most likely go off,” an FBI sniper shouted.
“Not necessarily,” said Jack, raising his voice to be heard over the mounting commotion. “We know where this bomber is located — down among the celebrities. We’re going to send the female strike team in ahead of the sniper attack. If we’re lucky, Nina Myers and her fellow operatives will locate and neutralize this unknown bomber along with the other four.”
“Wait a minute,” Lonnie Nobunaga cried. “You said the unknown bomber is in the celebrity seating area?”
“Yes,” Jack replied. “She has to be. That’s what the terrorists’ plans indicate and that’s also where the fifth support beam is located. If they miss just one support beam, the structure may not collapse even after the blasts.”
“And you’re sure it’s a woman?”
“That’s how the Chechens have done things up to now,” Jack replied. “Your point?”
Nobunaga took a deep breath. “Listen. This may have nothing to do with the terrorists—”
“Get to the point. We’re running out of time here.”
“Abigail Heyer rolled into Hollywood for the award’s show very pregnant—”
“No surprise,” said Christina Hong. “Gossip is she and Nikolai Manos are an item.”
Jack blinked. “Did you say Manos?”
Christina nodded. “It’s in all the tabloids, including that low-rent rag Lonnie works for.”
Nobunaga smirked. “I’m wounded.”
Jack fixed his gaze on Lonnie. “So you’re telling me Abigail Heyer is pregnant with Manos’s child?”
Lonnie shook his head. “I’m telling you that she’s been faking her pregnancy the whole time. Wearing a harness, just like she did in the movie
One of the snipers spoke up. “That’s crazy. How could Abigail Heyer get a belly full of explosives past auditorium security?”
Even Lonnie knew the answer to that one. “The celebrities walk the red carpet. They don’t pass through security. It would be like wanding the President and First Lady. You don’t screen the people you’re supposed to protect.”
22. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 2 A.M. AND 3 A.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME
White House intern Adam Carlisle awoke with a start. He began to stir, but his back was stiff from sleeping on the cold concrete. His movements awoke Megan Gleason, who had been using his thigh for a pillow.
“What’s wrong?” she whispered.
“I heard a noise,” said Adam, rising quickly.
Though the two wives had been dozing in their chairs, they were awake now too, and whispering nervously. In the sub-basement’s gloom, Adam spied Craig Auburn close to the crank phone, where he’d collapsed. He was lying on the ground now, his right hand still holding his left arm. His eyes were closed, his breathing shallow.
A terrible crash boomed, as loud as a landslide.
“Jesus,” Megan whispered. “What’s that?”
Adam informed her, “From what Special Agent Auburn said before he passed out, that’s the calvary….I hope.”
Megan blanched. “You
At the far end of a long corridor, Adam saw flashlights stabbing through the darkness. Dark silhouettes appeared a moment later.
Raising the USP Tactical that Special Agent Auburn had given him, Adam walked resolutely toward the flashlights, the weapon leveled at the man on point.
“Who are you?” Adam loudly demanded.
“Special Agent Jack Bauer, Counter Terrorist Unit,” Jack replied.
With an audible exhale, Adam lowered the weapon. A moment later the sub-basement was filling with armed men. One of them approached the two ladies.
“I’m Special Agent Evans, Secret Service,” he told them.
