24 Declassified: Vanishing Point

vision became even hazier, casting a red veil over the world. Still, Guiterrez could see that the sidewalk was nearly empty now… except for one man. A pale Anglo resembling one of Henderson’s CTU men appeared to be running toward him, gun in hand.

Not sure whether Jack Bauer was an illusion, Guiterrez attempted to focus his fading vision when a hard jerk jolted his right arm. Someone was pulling at the attache case in his grip. He turned his head to find a boy about sixteen in a New York Mets T-shirt, his thick brown forearms mottled by the telltale scars from the coca labs. Behind the boy’s back, an older Colombian chollo, this one wearing a red bandana and holding an Uzi, was obviously watching the boy’s back.

Amid the screams and traffic noise, Guiterrez heard Bauer’s voice. “!Caiga su arma y paso lejos!”

The chollo with the Uzi turned — Jack’s two quick shots tore the top of the chollo’s head off, bandana and all. At the same moment, the handle broke away so suddenly from the attache case that the teenage boy toppled to the sidewalk.

Guiterrez stared numbly at the handle still clutched in his fist. This shouldn’t have happened, he thought in a cloud of shock and pain. I would have used handcuffs, if I’d had a pair. One cuff around the handle, another around my wrist. No one would have snatched the case away from me then.

Problem was, inside the Rojas compound where he’d been living, handcuffs were hard to come by. Explosives were easier to find. Much easier. So Guiterrez had rigged something up.

The bomb was inside the case, right next to the device he’d stolen. A brick of C4, more than enough to do the job. The handle was the detonator, the timed delay only five seconds — long enough to catch Jack Bauer’s eye, gesture a warning.

The boy tucked the case under his arm, scrambled to his feet.

“No, wait!” Jack cried, backing away.

The C4 detonated in a bright orange flash.

CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles Three days later

Jack Bauer was surprised by the sheer number of personnel packed into CTU’s soundproofed conference room. Christopher Henderson had cobbled together an impressive operation in under thirty-six hours, one of the largest undercover stings Jack had ever joined.

Along with Agents Tony Almeida and Nina Myers, Curtis Manning, a former member of Chet Blackburn’s strike team, was also at the table. Manning’s quick thinking and initiative during Operation Pinstripe had attracted the attention of Administrative Director Richard Walsh, who immediately moved Curtis over to Field Ops. This would be his first real assignment.

On the communications side, Programmer Jamey Farrell was present, along with the young computer protege, Doris Soo Min. Jack also noticed the shiny bald head of portly Morris O’Brian, CTU’s cyber-specialist. He’d recently come over from Langley, just ahead of a sexual harassment suit, according to the sealed portion of his personnel file.

What was amazing to Jack was that what had once been a shoestring operation involving only the late Agent Guiterrez and his CIA case officer, Christopher Henderson, had suddenly ballooned into a full-fledged black operation requiring the bulk of CTU’s West Coast resources.

While Jack watched Director Henderson bring those who were just now joining the operation up to speed with past events, Jack realized he was once again working for his old boss — and his feelings about that were mixed.

“Though explosives in the briefcase destroyed the device that Guiterrez had stolen, our team in Nicaragua managed to recover enough of its components to determine the origins of the cloaking device,” Henderson explained. “So if you look at it from a certain perspective, then the Nicaragua mission was a success…”

Tell that to Gordon Guiterrez, Jack thought with self-disgust. From the expression on Tony Almeida’s face, Jack knew he felt the same.

Sleeves rolled, tie tossed over his shoulder, Henderson paced the front of the glass-enclosed conference room. On the opposite side of the window, Jack spotted Ryan Chappelle and George Mason huddled in conversation. Both surreptitiously glanced at the conference in progress. Both wore sour expressions.

Chappelle’s out of the loop, Jack realized, a little surprised Henderson had the clout to stonewall CTU’s Regional Director.

“Through the use of advanced cybernetic forensics techniques, Morris O’Brian gave us our first break.” Henderson focused his expressionless gray eyes on the British-born cyber-technician.

O’Brian’s round face gave a little nod. He adjusted the cuffs of his Joseph Abboud sport coat, then glanced at the open file on the table.

“It’s clear we’re dealing with advanced technology. Classified technology,” he said, the Cockney lilt still evident in his voice. “I was able to trace a partial serial number from the remains of a silicon chip, and the lot number from a tiny data compressor. Both were manufactured by a Japanese firm and imported for use by the United States Air Force. But our big break came when a piece of the motherboard was found at Santa Theresa Hospital in Managua—”

Nina Myers, Jack’s second in command at CTU, cocked her head. “Found where?”

“During an autopsy of one bomb victim, a nine centimeter bundle of silicon and copper wire was found embedded in the corpse…” Morris paused, flipped a page and squinted as he read. “Through a close examination of this component, I surmised that the board was manufactured by Systemantics, a division of the defense contractor Omnicron International.”

Morris closed the file and looked up. “By hacking into Omnicron’s database, I discovered that the motherboard was purchased by and delivered to the Technology Acquisition Department of the Experimental Testing Range at Groom Lake Air Force Base in Nevada, exactly twenty-three months ago.”

Morris raised an eyebrow, his fleshy cheeks lifted in an elfin grin. “To UFO buffs and conspiracy theorists, Groom Lake is known by another name. It’s called Area 51—”

Henderson interrupted him. “Okay, O’Brian, let’s skip the little green men and focus on reality, shall we? Groom Lake is a top secret advanced research facility managed by the United States Air Force. The entire compound, including the runways, testing range and bombing range, is larger than the state of Delaware. The facility, located in the middle of the desert, just fifty miles outside the Las Vegas city limits, is both remote and well guarded…”

Tony Almeida shook his head. “Sounds like this is a problem for Air Force security.”

“If only that were true,” Henderson replied. “Unfortunately, Air Force Intelligence denies it has a problem. Claims this particular motherboard was incinerated six months ago. They have the paperwork to back up that claim, too.”

Agent Almeida shifted in his chair. “But we have the motherboard, which means somebody’s lying — or covering their asses.”

“Once again, Agent Almeida has cut to the chase,” Henderson said with a humorless grin. “And as it turns out, this isn’t the only time the folks at Groom Lake have misplaced classified technology.”

The Director of Covert Operations dropped a sealed Mylar evidence bag in the middle of the conference table. Inside was a black box the size of a cigarette pack, connected to what appeared to be a gold wedding band by a single, thread-thin insulated wire thirty inches long.

“This handy gadget was seized by the Las Vegas police six weeks ago, on the gambling floor at the Babylon Casino Hotel,” Henderson declared. “The wedding band — made of copper, incidentally, with insulation inside to protect the wearer — is worn on the finger. The wire runs to the black box, which contains a classified Air Force digital scrambling chip.”

“And this does what?” Jamey Farrell asked.

“The wearer tries his hand at the slots,” Henderson said, mimicking the movements he was describing. “Our con man puts a coin into the slot, while placing his left hand on the side of the machine, like this. Electronic impulses are sent through the ring, into the slot machine. These impulses override the digital randomizer inside the slot’s software. Suddenly you’re winning one out of every five pulls instead of one in ten thousand—”

“Enough to cheat your way to a luxurious lifestyle. if you’re playing fifty or hundred dollar slots and didn’t get