TIME
When Kenneth Wu, head of the CIA’s Department of Foreign Intelligence, arrived in his office, he found a thick Fed Ex envelope on his desk. When he read the return address — DIAMID, LLC — Director Wu set his Starbucks coffee and breakfast pastry aside. The package had come from a mole inside the Los Angeles Consulate of the People’s Republic of China.
It took Director Wu ten minutes to peruse the documents, which outlined every detail of the attack on Groom Lake, including the names and dossiers of the leaders of the mission. When he was finished, the Director reached for his phone and called his boss, who promptly notified the President of the United States.
Captain Hsu saluted.
“Everything we loaded onto the plane was lost with the airliner, Jong Lee. The blast also cost four men. Commandos Sahn, Suh, Bah, and Shi-uhr,“ he said, rattling off their code numbers. Their names were unimportant.
“An accident?” Jong Lee asked.
Hsu face remained impassive. “Possible, but unlikely.”
“Then we have an enemy among us. One of the scientists, perhaps—”
“More likely a soldier,” Hsu interrupted. “A member of the Air Force Special Operations Command. Or a particularly determined airman.”
“In either case, we have a larger problem than our losses,” Lee said with a frown. “I want your men to spread out across the base, find me this…
“But what about the hostages? We will be stretched so thin. Who will guard them?”
Jong glanced at the Americans lying about on the hangar floor. Most of them were sleeping. One young woman was sobbing quietly, a captured airman comforting her. “Three guards will be sufficient to keep them in check. Use the Cubans. They are less disciplined than our men, but this is one job they can handle.”
Jong Lee glanced over his shoulder. “Yizi!” he cried.
The woman appeared at his side, AK–47 slung over her slim shoulder.
“Go to the flight tower and use the radio to send a coded message on the emergency frequency. Tell our reinforcements in Mexico that they will have to come get us,” Lee commanded.
“That’s absurd, the American military will shoot down any aircraft that invades its airspace,” Pizarro Rojas cried. He was slumped on a stack of boxes near the doors. Stella Hawk, who had been sleeping with her head in his lap, awoke at the man’s outburst.
Sneering, Carlos Boca spoke. “Even if your rescuers manage to reach this place, how can we fly out again without being detected? We’ve lost the stealth system in the explosion, and the Yankees will never let us get out of here alive.”
Jong Lee smiled. “You forget our guests, Cuban.”
Lee dipped his head in the direction of the hostages. “We will exploit our prisoners as human shields. When they try to stop us, we will tell the Americans we will free our prisoners once we cross the border, otherwise they will die. The United States government will agree to our demands. They must.”
The hastily assembled teleconference with the President of the United States had just begun. Sitting around the table in CTU’s briefing room were Ryan Chappelle, Alberta Green, Richard Walsh, and Christopher Henderson. In Washington, the President was joined by the Secretary of State and his own Chief of Staff.
The President was already in a foul mood when he appeared on CTU’s digital monitor. This was his third conference of the morning and none of them had gone well. The first had been with his CIA director, the second with the Joint Chiefs of Staff.
He’d been scheduled to sign a new funding bill in the Rose Garden today, the crowning achievement of the President’s second term. But between the terrorist attack in Las Vegas and the raid on Groom Lake, his public relations event had been shot to hell.
“You tell me you have assets in the vicinity of this raid,” the President said without preamble.
“That’s correct, Mr. President,” Henderson replied before Chappelle had a chance to speak. “I have an agent working undercover at Groom Lake. He’s the one who destroyed the aircraft the strike team planned to use in their escape. My man is still active, though there’s only so much a single agent can do against a small army.”
“What other actions has your agency initiated?” asked the Secretary of State.
“We’ve mobilized our strike team, Madam Secretary,” Ryan Chappelle replied. “They’ll reach Las Vegas within the hour.”
“Too little, too late,” scoffed the President.
“You’re correct. It’s not enough, Mr. President,” Henderson said. “I also have three other agents in Las Vegas. Unfortunately, due to an ill-advised operational review—” Henderson glanced in Alberta Green’s direction. “—those field assets have been deactivated pending a judicial review.”
“That’s ridiculous,” roared the Chief of Staff. “Have them reinstated immediately.”
Ryan Chappelle nodded to Alberta Green. “Could you take care of that?”
“Of course,” the woman replied.
“He said immediately,” Henderson said with undisguised contempt.
Eyes downcast, Alberta Green rose, gathered up her papers and left the conference room.
“The Chinese must be mad. This is an act of war,” the President declared. “How can I end this crisis without bloodshed. My Joint Chiefs want to bomb Groom Lake, level the base. They claim that’s a better option than the dissemination of top secret technology and I tend to agree.”
“Give us a little time,” Richard Walsh said. “With our assets in place, we can move against these commandos at once—”
“I have another suggestion,” Christopher Henderson interrupted. “While we formulate a military solution, I think I know another way to influence the Chinese government. A little economic pressure may convince them to see the light.”
Hope dawned in the President’s eyes. “What do you suggest?” Henderson rose and adjusted his tie. He leaned over the table to stare into the monitor.
“With your permission, Mr. President, I’m going to ask a close friend of mine to place an informal phone call to Zeng Ju, Premier of the State Council of the People’s Republic of China…”
20. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 7 A.M. AND 8 A.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME
Samuel L. Wexler, President and CEO of Omnicron International, was ready to tee off when he got an unexpected cell phone call from his old college roommate, Christopher Henderson. Wexler was immediately suspicious. In his capacity as head of a major defense contractor, Wexler seldom received a social call before ten AM, and never one from a departmental director at the Counter Terrorist Unit.
Henderson explained the situation at Groom Lake to Wexler, who immediately knew what he had to do to protect his company’s interests. After the call ended, Wexler excused himself, tipped his caddy and drove his golf cart back to the club house. The CEO retreated to one of the plush lounges and used the country club’s land line to place an international call.
It was early evening in Beijing, the work day ending, but Zeng Ju, Premier of the State Council, accepted the
