24 Declassified: Vanishing Point 2d-5
24 Declassified: Vanishing Point
( 24 Declassified - 5 )
Marc A. Cerasini
Area 51: America's top-secret advanced military testing ground, hidden away in the Nevada desert, where the awesome weapons of tomorrow are being developed. But a mole inside the impregnable facility has been leaking highly advanced killing technology to America's worst enemies… who intend to turn its destructive power on an unsuspecting nation before the day is out.
Agent Jack Bauer has a mere twenty-four hours to derail a horrific plot, as a deadly endgame takes shape in the neon glare of nearby Las Vegas. But to do so, the rogue CTU operative will have to lead an impossible assault on Area 51 itself — and expose a lethal string of betrayal and corruption that leads from the terrorists to the underworld and all the way into the heart of the U.S. government.
Marc A. Cerasini
24 Declassified: Vanishing Point
To Chuck Hoffman and Bob Langer, who were instrumental in the creation of this novel. And to my brother, Vance, who helped me out of a couple of technical dilemmas I’d written myself into. But most of all to my wife, Alice Alfonsi, who helped immeasurably with the preparation of this complex and difficult manuscript.
After the 1993 World Trade Center attack, a division of the Central Intelligence Agency established a domestic unit tasked with protecting America from the threat of terrorism. Headquartered in Washington, DC, the Counter Terrorist Unit established field offices in several American cities. From its inception, CTU faced hostility and skepticism from other Federal law enforcement agencies. Despite bureaucratic resistance, within a few years CTU had become a major force in the war against terror. After the events of 9/11, a number of early CTU missions were declassified. The following is one of them.
PROLOGUE
CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles Four months ago
The door opened without a knock. Jack Bauer looked up from the daily threat assessment file to find his former boss standing over his desk.
“Busy, Jack?”
Christopher Henderson hadn’t been on this coast in over a year, not since he’d become CTU’s Director of Covert Operations. The promotion required a temporary move east, to CIA headquarters in Virginia.
Jack rose and shook the man’s hand. “Christopher. How are things at Langley?”
His old mentor had arrived sans jacket. The sleeves of his starched white shirt were rolled up to expose sinewy biceps. A platinum Rolex glittered on his knobby wrist.
Outwardly the man hadn’t changed much since being cast into Washington’s bureaucratic vortex. Still tall and lanky with dead gray eyes, he’d obviously staved off an administrator’s bulge by making use of the Company’s gym. Then again, his early years in the Agency had earned him the nickname “Preying Mantis”—although that had as much to do with his rangy physique as his ability to convert vulnerable hard targets into Agency assets.
“I read about the biological threat you neutralized in New York,” Henderson said. “Exposing a renegade FBI agent didn’t endear you with the boys in the Bureau.”
Jack tensed, still chafing over the lack of follow up on his recommendations. “Frank Hensley was more than a renegade. He was a mole with ties to—”
“I’m not here to talk about Operation Hell Gate or Hensley’s Middle Eastern puppet master — although the official assessment is that your conclusions are shaky at best, your theories unsubstantiated.”
“Unsubstantiated? But the evidence we gathered—”
Henderson raised a hand. “I came here on another matter. I have a critical situation down in Colombia, and I need a favor…”
Jack’s momentary defensiveness dissolved into curiosity. He studied Henderson’s expression, even though there wasn’t much to read beyond a relaxed confidence, which was typical Henderson.
“Go on,” Jack said, settling back behind his desk.
Henderson pulled up a chair. “Three days ago, one of my agents, Gordon Harrow y Guiterrez, went missing. For the past six months, he’s been posing as a gadget guy for the Rojas brothers.”
The Rojas family — a father and three sons — ran cocaine out of South America. They were a successful and ruthless gang, but not yet the top of the food chain among Colombia’s many drug cartels.
“I don’t understand,” Jack said. “Guiterrez didn’t call in a code red? Request emergency extraction?”
Henderson shook his head. “He just vanished. Went black without warning, ditching the false identity Central Cover created for him. We only learned he’d gone missing through intercepts. From what we gleaned eavesdropping on cartel chatter, Guiterrez had stolen something the Rojas family feared he would sell on the black market.”
Jack’s eyes narrowed. “And is that what really happened?”
“I wasn’t sure at first. Within twenty-four hours, all chatter ceased inside the cartel. Even the loquacious Señora Rojas stopped calling her mother in Bogotá, so we knew something was up. After forty-eight hours, Guiterrez still hadn’t made an appearance at the CTU safe house in Cartegena. So we assumed the worst.”
“Was Guiterrez executed?”
“He’s alive and for a very good reason. He knew something we didn’t. The Cartegena safe house had been compromised. Yesterday it was attacked.”
Jack frowned. “I saw the alert on that. Six dead, one wounded…. but Intel said the attack was a reprisal for a raid on a cartel factory last month.”
“A cover story. The raid was staged by the Rojas family. They knew about our safe house, how many agents and staffers worked out of the facility, the daily schedule… the works.”
“I see.” Jack exhaled, knowing the implications for a hit like that. “I assume the attack compromised more of the Agency’s operations in Colombia?”
Henderson nodded. “You’ll see the reports soon enough.”
“Reports of…?”
“The hits, Jack.” Henderson’s easygoing mask momentarily slipped. “CIA and DEA operations in Cartegena, in Medellin, in Cali and in Barranquilla… They’ve all been quietly taken out in the past several hours,” he said.
Jack took a few seconds to process this. He leaned forward, resting his forearms over the threat assessment file. “Christopher, that can’t be the work of the Rojas gang. They’re too small time to hold sway in Cali, Bogotá, or Barranquilla. They couldn’t act on rival turf without cooperation. A deal of some kind must have been made…”
Henderson nodded but hesitated before saying more.
“What do you know?” Jack pressed. “I need all the facts before I can help. Are the Rojas consolidating power? Going national? International? Is this a political situation?”
Henderson moved to the edge of his chair. “The target of these raids was my agent. The Rojas family and its rivals are desperate to find him. They’re trying to recover what Gordon stole from them.”
“But you don’t know what he has,” Jack assumed.
“That’s not… precisely… true.” Henderson stared at Jack, unblinking. The mask was back. “Guiterrez contacted me again last night, through a… back channel connection.”
Jack didn’t care for Henderson’s sudden vagueness of wording. It smacked of legalese. “What kind of ‘back channel’ connection?”
Henderson lowered his voice. “He called me on a sat phone I maintain privately.”
Jack didn’t know why Henderson was sidestepping Agency monitoring, but he didn’t ask. If anyone understood the occasional need to violate protocol, Jack did.
“Gordon told me what he’d grabbed, and I understood why he had to get out, and take it with him. He snatched a prototype of a portable electronics device that can render
an airplane virtually invisible to conventional radar.”
Jack blinked. “Is that possible? I thought an aircraft’s stealthy characteristics came from its shape… along with the composite materials used in its construction?”
Jack knew all about the Hopeless Diamond configuration of the F–117 Stealth fighter, and the flat-surfaces, angular design and non-reflective fuselage of the Raptor. The shape and materials of both aircraft were engineered to deflect radar, rendering them practically invisible.
Henderson nodded. “Our advanced fighters do rely on materials and shape, but they also have electronic sub-systems that can generate a field around the aircraft. This field effectively absorbs, deflects, or dissipates radar waves. Guiterrez claims the prototype he snatched can make any aircraft appear to vanish— even one without the stealthy materials or shape.”
“My god…” Jack rubbed his neck as he considered the possible uses of a handy little package like that one. “If smugglers can use this technology to fly across America’s borders undetected, then so can terrorists. Only they’ll be delivering weapons of mass destruction, not nose candy.”
“That’s affirmative.”
“No cartel could have invented something like that.” Jack stared at Henderson, waiting for him to say more, but he simply shrugged. “Where did it come from, Christopher? The Pentagon? A foreign defense lab?”
“We’ll know more once we get hold of the device. We can take it apart, analyze its components, reverse engineer the little sucker if necessary—”
Jack considered pressing harder, but instead took another tack. “Do you know where Gordon Guiterrez is now?”
Henderson shook his head. “On the run, somewhere in Colombia… I had to come up with an extraction plan on the fly. Guiterrez is paranoid — not that I blame him — but he gave me less than five minutes before he broke off communication and went dark, this time for good.”
“A rural extraction would be best,” Jack noted. “Far away from the urban areas a strike team could move without detection. We wouldn’t need much.
A Delta squad, a Pave Low helicopter, a Little Bird, maybe a reconnaissance team on the ground to secure the perimeter—”
Henderson waved aside Jack’s suggestions. “No can do. Security all over Colombia has been compromised. Half our agents are dead or on the run, the rest we can’t trust for fear they’re under surveillance — or on the cartel’s payroll.”
Jack released a breath. He wanted to help his old mentor, but… “This is a job for Delta, Christopher.”
“If we send a big team into Colombia — or anywhere down there for that matter — word will get out in a minute. Anyway, Guiterrez isn’t prepared to hump the boonies like you and me. He spent his childhood in Colombia, but he was educated at Princeton before coming to us. Nineteen years ago he won a collegiate fencing title, and he’s had our standard weapons training, but that’s the extent of his martial arts skills. In other words, Gordon Harrow y Guiterrez wouldn’t last two days in the jungle.”
“What did you tell him?”
“He claimed he had a safe way to get out of Colombia, so I told him to go to Nicaragua, to the capital. There’s a construction site on the corner of Bolivar Avenue and Calle De Verde in Managua. The site is managed by Fuqua Construction, which is really a CIA shell company.”
“Why Nicaragua?”
“It’s a quiet assignment since the Sandinistas were tossed out of office in 1990. I doubt the Colombian cartels have a reach long enough to touch someone in Managua.” Henderson paused, leveled his gaze. “I want you to go down there and bring Guiterrez back. I’ve already cleared it with Walsh.”
Nodding, Jack reached toward the keyboard of his computer. “I’ll assemble a team immediately—”
“No team. I told you, a large group will attract unwanted attention. Take one agent besides yourself— someone you trust. But don’t mention the stealth device. Let your partner think your mission is a simple extraction from hostile territory.”
“What do I tell the case officers in Managua?”
“Concoct some cover story as the reason for your visit. You’ll think of something. But, again, I can’t stress this enough. Don’t mention the device — not even to other Agency personnel. It’s small enough to hide in a suitcase or backpack. Chances are nobody will even notice Guiterrez has it with him when you bring him in.”
Managua, Nicaragua Three days later
Even before he opened the dented cab’s squeaking door, Gordon Harrow y Guiterrez sensed he was being watched. He clutched the attaché case just a little bit tighter. Under the sweat-stained band of a worn baseball cap, perspiration painted his forehead.
More than anything, Guiterrez wanted to shift his gaze and check his six. That would, of course, be a fatal error. If he really was being tailed, turning around would alert his pursuers that he was on to them— which would no doubt force their hand. They’d take him out right then and there, before he had a chance to get near the CIA safe house.
Feigning indifference, the undercover agent paid the driver with a fistful of córdobas, exited the vehicle and melted into a loud and festive lunchtime crowd. Among the throng of Nicaraguan office workers, Guiterrez began to wonder.
Am I really being tailed?
His senses were jangling from the amphetamines he’d been swallowing like candy for far too many days, and Guiterrez realized he could no longer trust his judgment. Lifting his bloodshot eyes, he squinted at the hazy blue sky. Strong sunlight shimmered above the ten- and twelve-story structures that flanked this commercial street. Almost all of Managua had been rebuilt since the mid ’70s, after an earthquake killed tens of thousands and leveled ninety percent of the Nicaraguan capital. Unfortunately, the graceful precolonial buildings were replaced by boxy, utilitarian structures that made much of the city resemble a particularly decrepit American strip mall.
Even worse, this time of year Managua’s air was hot and sticky under a scorching sun. Moving through the crush of office workers, food vendors and street merchants was painfully slow — made worse by blue-gray puffs of car exhaust fumes, and clouds of charcoal smoke, redolent with the scent of charred meat.
On busy Bolivar Avenue, a long thoroughfare between Lake Managua and the muddy Ticapa Lagoon, the humidity was especially thick and uncomfortable. Buffeted by the crowd that hemmed him in, Guiterrez had trouble catching his breath. His grimy, unshaven neck itched, and the cotton shirt clung to sweat that trickled down the small of his back. Perspiration dampened his scalp as well, but Guiterrez dared not take off his cap.
His Anglo features had helped him with the Rojas family. They’d more willingly bought his cover story — that he was a pissed off software engineer who’d gotten sick of his American company passing him over for promotion. But he was on the run now, and his shock of light blond hair would stick out in this homogenous crowd like a sabana in a Mexican prison. At least his deep tan disguised his fair skin and helped him blend with the environment.
Sun glare blazed off a shop window. Guiterrez’s eyebrow twitched uncontrollably. The simmering heat, his lack of sleep, the drugs, days of constant movement and ceaseless vigilance were finally taking their toll on the overweight agent. Even worse, the amphetamines no longer kept Guiterrez alert or focused — only twitchy and paranoid
But at least he’d gotten out of Colombia, with the device intact. Now that he’d reached Managua, the odyssey was nearly over. Guiterrez was almost home. Five days ago he’d stolen a pleasure boat in the Colombian seaport town of Barranquilla and sailed up the Atlantic to the shores of Panama. He scuttled the engine and sunk the boat in a lagoon, then hiked to Panama City where he hot wired a car. Guiterrez drove north, across the Costa Rican border, all the way to Nicaragua.
The car died outside the town of Upala, so he ditched it and paid off some farm workers to stow away in a vegetable truck. Guiterrez bailed at Galpa, a tiny Nicaraguan fishing community transformed into a housing development for middle-class government wor
kers. There the agent mingled with the workers’ morning rush hour to board a rusty commuter ferry, which crossed Lake Managua.
Once in the capital, Guiterrez lingered near the harbor until lunchtime, waiting for the streets to be filled with traffic so his movements would be less noticeable. When lunch hour rolled around and the sidewalks were jammed, he hailed a cab and asked the driver to take him to Bolivar Street.
The car deposited him a block from the CIA safe house. Over the heads of the crowd, Guiterrez could see the steel-girded skeleton of a building, a large white sign halfway up that read Constructores De Fuqua in black block letters. Guiterrez’s grip tightened on the briefcase — a movement that sent pain signals up his arm and caused his shoulder muscles to ache. The agent shrugged off the discomfort, increased his pace. Just a few more minutes and his sleepless nights and days of running would be over.
Guiterrez limped down Bolivar until he was just across the street from the construction site. Near the corner, the door to a small bistro opened, blocking his path. Two women emerged, laughing and talking. Guiterrez paused as the giggling young women stepped around him. One flashed Guiterrez a smile, but the agent didn’t notice. His eyes were locked on the glass door, at its reflection of the crowded street and the sidewalk directly behind him.
In the instant before the door closed, Guiterrez spied a familiar face — Francesco Rojas, the youngest member of the crime family he’d betrayed. Rojas was the cartel’s enforcer and murderer, and he never missed his target. The assassin was standing behind him, not twenty feet away, his eyes black pools focused on Guiterrez’s back.
Instinctively, the agent’s free hand reached for the weapon he no longer possessed — he’d been forced to ditch the handgun he carried at the border crossing at Costa Rica or risk arrest. Now his futile gesture, made out of fear, surprise and exhaustion, had been spotted by Rojas. The cartel enforcer reached into his jacket and drew an Uzi. In one smooth motion, Rojas dropped to one knee and opened fire.