glanced over his shoulder. “Tell Dr. Bas-comb to lay down more suppressing fire,” he cried.
The airman frowned. “Bascomb was killed in the last attack. Lucky shot came right through the hole. I think Dr. Toth has the gun now.”
Tony was thrown by the loss. He’d liked the middle-aged, pony-tailed scientist from Berkeley. The irony was that man had protested the Vietnam War, only to die at the hands of a Communist enemy that had invaded his homeland. A ricochet snapped Tony back to reality.
“Tell Toth to start shooting,” he yelled.
Shots rang out, inside the hanger and out. Tony dropped to the ground, peeked around the door. One commando had straggled behind the others and Tony picked him off, only to retreat again when a hail of gunfire blasted through the door. Tony rolled to a sitting position, leaned against the wall. He scanned the frightened faces of the others, who were depending on him to save their lives.
The Blackfoot’s dual engines produced a ear-splitting roar that reverberated inside the massive hanger. The noise more resembled the whine of a high-performance jet fighter than the sound of a traditional rotor-bladed helicopter. The Blackfoot also flew faster and higher than any helicopter ever developed — so high the cockpit was pressurized and the pilots were required to wear pressure suits.
While gunfire exploded outside, the commandos who served as the ground crew had completed the final flight check. Now they scrambled to get out of the way.
Jong Lee stood at the bottom of the cockpit ladder, clad in a form fitting, silver-gray pressure suit, helmet in hand. Leaning close, he issued final instructions to Yizi.
“The old men in Beijing care more about commerce than they do about China,” Jong Lee said. “It is up to me to teach them a lesson, and force their hand.”
“What will you do?” Yizi asked.
“Before I fly to the base in Mexico, I shall fire the Malignant Wave at downtown Las Vegas. The act will most certainly provoke a war. But with a weapon as terrible as Malignant Wave in China’s possession, what can the Americans do but surrender?”
Lee frowned. “My strike will mean that when the Americans come, they will seek revenge for what happened to their city, their people. You must fight them to the death. No one must be taken alive. I expect you to deal with anyone who tries to surrender.”
“I understand, Jong Lee.” Yizi’s face was stony.
The man hesitated before boarding the aircraft. He wanted to say something more to this loyal and courageous young woman, but for the first time in his life, words failed him.
Meanwhile the figure of Captain Hsu emerged from the back of the hangar. He also wore a pressure suit, the featureless helmet and tinted visor covering his head, masking his features. Silently, the man stepped around Jong Lee and climbed the ladder.
Lee touched the woman’s arm. She raised her eyes to meet his gaze. “Yizi, I want to—”
“Stop him!” a pained voice interrupted.
The real Captain Hsu stumbled into the center of the hangar, blood trickling from his nose and mouth. He pointed to the figure climbing into the cockpit, then pitched to the floor, a stiletto sticking out of his back.
Lee raced up the ladder. On the way, the helmet slipped out of his grip. He abandoned it and dived for the hatch. Lee slipped through the automatic door before it closed.
Yizi raced for cover as the Blackfoot lifted off the ground. The stealth helicopter spun in a tight circle inside the hanger. When the helicopter’s nose was facing the door, it leaped forward like a race horse leaving the starting gate. The craft paused to hover over the runway, then it suddenly shot straight up, into the bright blue desert sky.
Yizi ran into the sunlight, watched the aircraft rise until it disappeared in the billowing clouds.
Nina sped along the concrete runway in a cloud of desert dust. She pushed the pedal to the metal, until the rail achieved top speed.
Ahead, commandos heard the sound of her engine. Some fired at the oncoming vehicle. Most scattered, running toward the open hangar.
When she was in range, Nina opened fire. Clutching the steering wheel with her left hand, she fired with her right. She and Curtis had removed the windshield before they left the tank farm in anticipation of this attack. She could aim better that way, and she didn’t have to shoot through the glass.
Firing from a moving car wasn’t easy, but it was something Nina Myers had learned at The Farm, and she felt a rush of professional satisfaction when two commandos dropped to the tarmac.
When she emptied her Glock, she tossed it into the empty seat beside her, grabbed Curtis’ gun and opened up again. There were fewer targets this time. Almost everyone had run into the open hangar for protection.
Nina raced past the enemy and skidded to a halt in front of Hangar Six. The blast doors were pitted and pockmarked, but no bullet had penetrated the thick armor. Tony Almeida, clutching an AK–47, limped through the hangar’s shattered doorway to greet her.
“You’re just in time,” Nina said, pointing to a second vehicle fast approaching.
The battered tanker truck could not keep up with Nina’s sandrail — not with a full tank of jet fuel, anyway. Curtis watched helplessly as Nina pulled ahead.
As their vehicles approached the runway, they both watched the high-tech helicopter blast out of the hangar and into sky. Though they were too late to stop someone from escaping, there were still hostages to rescue. By silent consent the CTU agents proceeded with their original plan.
Curtis smiled grimly when she saw Nina speed into the melee, saw dead men in her wake. Best of all, almost everyone ran to the hangar. Curtis aimed for the open door, lashed the steering wheel in place. Then he shifted a steel pipe waiting in the seat next to him.
The truck slowed a bit while Curtis positioned the pipe. Commandos in the hangar opened fire on the truck. When Curtis jammed the pipe between the seat and the accelerator, the truck surged forward.
Curtis popped the door and rolled out. He slammed against the concrete, felt his shoulder pop and cried out. He bounced, then rolled over once, twice, before landing on his back. Groaning, Curtis curled into a protective ball and closed his eyes. Shots pinged the concrete around him. He heard shouts, a crash — and then the explosion.
Flames filled the hangar’s interior, incinerating everything and everyone inside. A few howling forms tumbled out of the building. Wrapped in burning fuel, they didn’t scream for long.
The hostages burst out of the next hangar, guns ready. But there was no one left to fight. Yizi and the Chinese commandos were all dead.
With Jong Lee clawing at his helmet, Jack steered the Blackfoot out of the hangar, then blasted it into the sky. The aircraft’s flight characteristics reminded Jack of the Harrier’s, but the vortex technology that powered the Blackfoot were far more powerful than the engines on the British fighter jet.
He’d intended to fly away before the other man boarded the helicopter, but Jong Lee figured out the plot and leaped into the helicopter to stop him. The Asian was a skilled and savage fighter, and Jack Bauer would already be dead if he hadn’t been wearing the protective helmet.
Bauer knew he could not remain in control of the aircraft and fight for his life at the same time, so he threw the helicopter into vertical ascent and engaged the auto pilot. While the craft shot straight up, Jack unbuckled his safety harness and grappled with his enemy.
The two men wrestled on the floor of the tight compartment. Jack was larger than his opponent, but he was also exhausted and injured, his reactions not at their peak. But the CTU agent had two advantages — he wore a
