powerful American business tycoon’s call. He was instantly sorry he did, because Samuel L. Wexler read the Chinese bureaucrat what the Yankees called “the riot act.”
“Your man Jong Lee instigated an international incident that will have dire ramifications in the future relationship between our two nations,” Wexler cautioned. “Beside the fact that you’ve committed an act of war, half the stuff your pirates are stealing is patented to my company. Now you don’t think Omnicron International is going to sit idly by and let that happen, do you?”
“Why would the state of your patents matter to China, Mr. Wexler?” Zeng Ju asked, rather disingenuously, the CEO thought. It was time to slap the bureaucrat down.
“My company employs a hundred thousand workers in Hong Kong,” Wexler replied. “Another quarter million factory workers on the mainland are employed by our subsidiary companies. Your nation relies on our contracts for work. That could all end today if you don’t call off your raid.”
“But—”
“I’m serious, Ju. I could idle half the factories in Shen Zhen with a memo.”
“Mr. Wexler, please be reasonable. We have no control over the actions of the People’s Liberation Army —”
“I don’t want to hear excuses, Chairman. We will pull our contracts out of China if this invasion doesn’t stop.”
“But surely we can work out an agreeable solution to this crisis. You need us the same way we need—”
“Taiwan can do the work. Or maybe we’ll just build a few factories in the USA. And it doesn’t end there,” Wexler warned. “I also have friends in Bentonville, Arkansas. If those folks decide to cancel their contracts, the Chinese economic boom will come to an abrupt and permanent end…”
It had taken Jack Bauer over an hour, but in the end he managed to cut through the red tape and commandeer an MH–6J “Little Bird” helicopter. This particular model was being used for desert reconnaissance by the Immigration and Naturalization Ser vices, so it didn’t have all the bells and whistles to which Jack had become accustomed.
The Little Birds he flew in his Delta Force days had a FLIR passive imaging system, and two 7.62mm mini- guns mounted on the sides, along with a pair of 7-shot, 2.75-inch rocket pods — features he could have put to good use on his present mission. Fortunately the MH–6J was nimble and quick, and capable of flying nap of the earth over varying terrain and weather conditions. Best of all, because the Bird was so compact, the craft presented a low profile on radar — though not low enough to completely avoid detection.
As soon as he lifted off, Jack Bauer contacted Tony Almeida on the man’s stolen cell phone. Tony was hiding somewhere inside of Groom Lake Air Force base, trying to figure out a way to rescue the hostages. Jack and Tony established a time and place for a rendezvous, well aware that the chances for either of them to make that connection was probably negligible.
In the middle of the conversation, Tony’s call abruptly ceased. Jack tried and failed to reach him again, and deduced the base was being jammed, either by the Chinese or by the United States military. Jack could not raise Nina, Curtis, or Morris, either.
Thirty minutes into his gut-wrenching, low-level flight, Jack slowed his aircraft and tested the GPS system. Like the radios and cell phones, the satellite signal was being jammed. Cursing, he glanced over at the area map displayed on his monitor. Jack determined he was less than fifteen miles from the base, and approaching out of the sun. Bauer hoped the blazing orange ball rising on the eastern horizon would be enough to mask his arrival.
The vehicle slammed through another ragged ditch. Sand filled the open compartment and Morris pitched forward. Seat belts straining, he was yanked backwards again as the sandrail climbed out of the hole. The little man had been jolted so badly he nearly lost the electronic device he’d been fumbling with.
“Dear God, woman. Would you please slow down!”
Morris was yelling. Not because he was angry, but because it was the only way his voice could be heard over the ear-splitting roar of the rear mounted engine.
Nina Myers shifted into low gear. In a cloud of choking dust they climbed back to level ground. “I can’t slow down,” she cried. “I’m already going too slow. The ground is rougher than this map indicates.”
“That what you get for listening to a pair of brain-dead hippies,” Morris shot back.
Sixty-five minutes ago, Nina, Curtis, and Morris had “acquired a pair of sandrails — not “dune buggies,” as the men who owned the machines were quick to point out. Dune buggies were converted vehicles, usually Volkswagen Beetles because of their rear-engine design. Sandrails, or simply “rails,” were far superior. “The Cadillac of all terrain recreational vehicles” were built from scratch using steel pipes for frames. Rails were heavier and much more rugged than buggies. They were wider and had a lower center of gravity. And sandrails also had more powerful engines.
The CTU agents obtained this pair from Your Desert Experience, a establishment on the outskirts of town that catered to tourists. Brad Wheeler and his brother Damon, the “longhairs in charge” as Morris put it, were happy to provide maps and suggest routes. They were happy because Nina had used her CTU credit card to pay them more money than the vehicles were worth “to rent them for an unspecified length of time.” The smiling twins had even loaded the rails onto trailers and drove everyone to a site in the desert where they could get a head start.
Nina glanced over her shoulder, saw a cloud of dust trailing her six. That was Curtis, at the wheel of his own machine. He had no trouble keeping up with her, despite the blasted landscape.
“Can you raise anyone?” she asked her passenger.
Morris shook the radio in his hand. “Someone is jamming us pretty thoroughly,” he shouted. “Either the Chinese, or our own military.”
Nina came over a rise too fast to see the boulder, so there was no avoiding it. Not even the independent suspension system could deal with a strike like that. The front tire bounced off the rock, the sandrail leaped into the air, only to crash to the ground again. Morris’ head banged against the roll bar before he was slammed back down in his inadequately-cushioned seat.
Morris adjusted the helmet, too large for his bald head, and moaned. “Mummy, are we there yet?”
Nina glanced at the terrain map taped to the dashboard.
“Not even close,” she replied.
Jack had just maneuvered over the top of the low mountain range. Now he put the Little Bird into a sharp dive. Descending into the valley, he spotted a plume of smoke in the distance. Jack knew he was over the base now, and fast approaching the edge of the runway, though it was still a mile or more away.
Peering through his mini-binoculars, Jack realized the smoke rose from the smoldering wreckage of the Boeing 737 sprawled across the scorched and pitted runway. Beyond the hazy curtain he could see the hangars.
Jack lowered the binoculars in time to see movement out of the corner of his eye. He immediately dropped the chopper lower, so he was skimming the desert at less than fifty feet. He glanced over his shoulder, spied the object streaking toward his aircraft on a plume of white smoke.
He waited until the last possible moment before he twisted the controls and spun the helicopter out of the path of the Stinger hand-held ground-to-air missile. Jack had timed his dodge just right — the sudden turn came too late and too fast for the missile’s homing system to compensate. The Stinger struck the desert in a yellow flash.
Then Jack saw another plume of smoke ahead of him, two more to either side. He found himself pinned in the middle of a three pronged missile attack. No matter which way Jack turned, the Little Bird would be blown out of the sky.
The only way to go was down.
Jack cut power, pushed the chopper into a dive. At fifty feet, it took less than a second for the chopper to strike the sand. The impact bent the landing struts, and the helicopter teetered precariously on shattered legs. Jack spit blood, then released his safety belt.
Before the Little Bird tumbled onto its side, Jack dived out of the cockpit. Landing feet first, he sprinted for any cover he could find. Legs pumping, he did not look over his shoulder, even when he heard the chopper’s whirling
