“I’m told you’re the guy on the ground causing this crisis.”
“After the guys who are causing it, yes, sir.”
“Bauer, you understand the shit storm you are about to unleash with this? The kind of disruption this is about to cause. You’re clear on this, right?”
Jack swallowed. “Yes, sir.”
“You’re sure what you’re doing?”
“Sir, we know that the EMP was stolen, we know that eight—”
“Shut up, Bauer!” Barnes snapped. “Don’t play that bureaucratic shell game with me. I’m not asking you to give me evidence so I can decide. You look at the evidence and you decide. That’s what you get paid for. Is the risk worth the damage?” Barnes asked the last question slowly and clearly.
Jack didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
“Then do it.” Barnes hung up the phone.
Bob Lundquist swung his flight helmet jauntily in his right hand. One more day, he thought. Then two weeks of leave, and a new baby.
The F-16C loomed large in front of him, a fierce silhouette against the landing strip’s night lights. She was his second love, the F-16, though soon she would get bumped to third. His wife came first, and when his baby arrived… well, he knew the jet would forgive him. A lot of his colleagues had fallen under the spell of the sleek F-117 Stealth fighter, or gone for the newness of the F-22, but Lundquist could see that the grass wasn’t always greener. His F-16 had kept him in the sky over Iraq when the enemy’s planes went down in flames. As far as he was concerned, they were mates for life.
Lundquist’s wife was scheduled to have her labor induced in three days. They had timed it perfectly. He had plenty of leave saved up, and he had just come back from a six-month tour overseas, which meant that, barring a new war, he’d remain stateside for a full year. One whole year to watch his new baby grow.
Lundquist reached the F-16 just as one of the flight crew ran up to him. “Get in there. Hurry!” the man yelled.
Lundquist checked his watch. He wasn’t late. What was the guy’s problem? Still, the airman wouldn’t leave him alone, so he hustled up the ladder and dropped himself into the pilot’s seat. He slid his helmet into place, sealed the canopy, and plugged into the Thunderbird’s communication system. Immediately, the box started squawking at him.
“Mustang 1–9, Mustang 1–9, emergency flight check and you are go for takeoff,” the control tower shouted at him.
“Tower, this is Mustang 1–9. Did I miss a flight change? I’m scheduled for practice nighttime takeoffs and landings. What’s the hurry?”
“Mustang 1–9, you are being scrambled for immediate takeoff against hostile targets. This is not a drill.”
“Holy shit!” Lundquist yelled. He threw the starter switch to warm his engines.
Jamey Farrell and her team worked frantically, routing every erg of power their network had to draw information into CTU. Miles above their heads, satellites hanging in the vacuum of space shifted ever so slightly in their orbits, and onboard telescopic cameras rotated their lenses to scan the middle portion of continent far below. From Lubbock, Texas, to Lansing, Michigan, every civilian and military radar station went on high alert.
Ryan Chappelle hung up the phone. He licked his thin lips nervously. “Well, this is no longer a clandestine little operation. We just got Homeland Security to ground every airplane in Kansas, and every plane flying over Kansas just got rerouted.”
Kelly pulled the phone away from his ear to say, “Lackland Air Force base just scrambled fighters. They’ll be over Kansas in half an hour.”
“Lackland?” Jack asked. “Isn’t that in Texas? Don’t we have any Air Force bases in Kansas?”
Kelly shook his head. “Not unless you count the 137th Air Refueling Wing, but I don’t think they’ll be shooting anyone down.”
Lundquist raced across the night sky, with the wide flat expanse of Texas and then Oklahoma sliding away beneath him. Patches of glowing light looked like pools reflecting the stars above. To his left and slightly behind, he saw the silhouette and wing lights of his wingman, Sam Amato.
God, he loved this. He was jockeying one of the most powerful machines ever designed by man, flying at the speed of sound.
“Tower, this is Mustang 1–9, leveling off at forty-five thousand feet, speed mach 1.1. Heading zero-onezero. Over.”
“Roger, Mustang. Continue on your present course. ETA to Kansas City approximately twenty-three minutes. Over.”
“Roger, Tower,” Lundquist said. He checked his guns and missiles. He’d fired on enemy combatants before. But his combat had taken place eight thousand miles away over the desert. This was Kansas! He gritted his teeth. “Just tell me what to shoot.”
Barry Wynn dragged his ass back toward the news van. His feet hurt and his back ached, but mostly his ego had been hurt. He’d been on his feet all day, doing a live report on a police chase at 5 P.M., then following his camera crew out to the airport to film a segment on airport security. Barry had done so many of these scare-based stories that he had begun to narrate his own life using the larger-than-life, be-veryafraid promo lines that his station used; things like: “Airport Security: Is It Making You Safer?” He reached the news van and started to climb in. It was almost seven-thirty. Too late to kiss the kids good night, but just on time for one of Angie’s patented chewing-out sessions. “Barry’s Home Life: The Show You Don’t Want to Miss!”
His cell phone rang. He checked the screen and saw that it was Wendy, the executive producer. He was tempted not to answer it. He’d just learned that morning that he’d been passed over for the anchor job (“Is Your Boss Planning to Fire You?”) and was in no mood to kowtow. He nearly dropped the phone back into his pocket. At the last minute, he chickened out (“The Inside Story on Human Doormats, Next Time On Barry’s Life”).
“Barry,” he said wearily.
“Bare, it’s Wendy. Are you still at the airport?” she asked breathlessly. “Please tell me you’re still at the damned airport!”
“I’m at the damned airport,” he said, dragging himself into the van.
“Good. Stay there. There’s something big going on.”
“What?” he said, resisting the urge to get excited. (“Falling for the Same Old Song and Dance? Watch ‘You’ll Never Learn’ Tonight at Eleven!”)
“That’s what I want you to find out. You’re a reporter, remember? All we know is they just grounded every airplane over in Kansas!”
Half the computer screens at CTU headquarters were now proxies for radar screens across the Midwest.
Radar over Kansas showed a few remaining blips, but each of them had been identified by the FAA, and all of them had been contacted and ordered to ground. They were dropping from sight one by one. Soon the sky would be clear.
Jack kept one eye on the screens and both ears on the speaker box. He and Kelly were on the phone with Major Scott Wilcox, United States Air Force, who worked as a military liaison between the DOD and the CIA. The word had come down quickly from higher up that they should contact him and keep him informed. The Department of Defense didn’t like being ordered around by the CIA, or its bastard child CTU.
“Listen,” Wilcox said. “We’ve got fighters scrambled. They’ll be flying air cover over Kansas City in a couple of minutes. But I’ve got a problem with your theory.” Wilcox had been briefed on the EMP device and the terrorists.
“It’s more than a theory, Major,” Jack replied.
“Whatever it is, it’s got a big hole in it,” the Air Force officer shot back. “Do you guys have any idea how high nineteen miles is? Your terrorists don’t have any way of getting a plane that high. We don’t even have any planes
