Running behind Taj, Jack glanced over his shoulder to see a tidal wave of foaming black water engulfing the horde of rats and following them down the length of the tunnel.
“Here!” Taj cried, “the ladder.”
Jack saw the Afghani scramble up iron rungs embedded in the stone. His fingers closed on the cold metal a split second later, just as the foam washed over his feet, his ankles, his legs.
The FBI received an urgent electronic message from the Centers for Disease Control. The memo informed the Bureau that the long-planned transfer of disease cultures to Paxton Pharmaceuticals in New York City was taking place as scheduled. A flight plan was included in the memo, providing the FBI with the radio frequencies the pilots would use, the airplane’s flight path, altitude, and cruising speed, departure and arrival times and destinations, files on all personnel involved in the transfer.
Signed by Dr. Henry Johnston Garnett, Director of the Centers for Disease Control, the directive urged the FBI to contact all pertinent agencies and alert them to the transfer of the potentially deadly cargo. Immediately, the FBI analyst in charge of intelligence redistribution alerted state and federal law enforcement officials in Atlanta and New York City about the potential biohazard threat coming their way.
Because of the Frank Hensley accusations about Jack Bauer, however, FBI Headquarters in New York City instituted a Bureau-wide intelligence blackout with CTU. Beyond the routine security alert issued eight hours before, no one at the Counter Terrorist Unit was notified about the chartered CDC flight, or the deadly cargo it contains.
Dennis Spain, a bundle of nervous energy in a stocky, compact form, entered the Senate office precisely on time. As Chief of Staff to Senator William S. Cheever of New York, Spain felt his duty to be sleek, smart, and imperially efficient was surpassed only by his obligation to appear that way. Today’s ensemble was one of Spain’s favorites, a lightweight Italian suit and Bruno Magli loafers. The impression, he felt, was “chic competence,” but the finely tailored clothes also left Spain feeling crisp and comfortable, no easy feat during the muggy summer months of the glorified swamp that was Washington, D.C.
After picking up his own mail, Spain’s next stop was his boss’s in-box, where his daily routine of browbeating the staff began. “These letters are all dated three days ago,” he said, shaking a blue folder at a quaking intern sitting behind her desk. The young woman pulled a lock of long, dark, stringy hair away from her face.
“I…I know, Mr. Spain. But the Senator was away on a junket and he couldn’t sign them until today.”
Spain read the names and addresses on the letters. “None of these people matter one bit. Why didn’t you use the signature machine?”
The young woman — an undergraduate at Columbia University and daughter of a rather large donor to the Senator’s last campaign — seemed to shrink in her chair as she avoided his angry stare.
“The…the Senator…Senator Cheever…He said he didn’t want me to do that anymore. Said it was too impersonal.”
“Well, Senator Cheever certainly can’t sign these. They’re as stale as old fish.” He tossed the folder on her desk. “Do the letters over with today’s date, then give them to the Senator to sign. Let’s hope he can find a pen around here.”
“Yes sir, Mr. Spain. Right away.”
Her reply was barely heard and certainly not acknowledged. Dennis Spain had already entered his office. He closed the door behind him, dropped into his leather chair, and brushed back his blond-streaked brown hair, exposing a broad forehead over thin eyebrows and narrowly set eyes with a constantly critical gaze that made him appear shrewd. That’s the word his friends used — shrewd. His opponents preferred shifty.
Like everyone in Washington, Dennis Spain had enemies, more than his share considering he’d never run for or been elected to a political office. He’d served only as the Senator’s campaign manager and then his Chief of Staff. Not quite out of his thirties, he occupied a powerful position that had been well earned in Spain’s own estimation.
Five years before, Senator William S. Cheever had been a political dinosaur, an endangered species — just another fading Northeast politician with a penchant for bloated government programs even his constituents no longer favored. His chances for reelection were so bleak that his own party endorsed his rival in the primary campaign. After that blow came, Senator Cheever did the first smart thing he’d done in a decade — he fired his old campaign manager and put Dennis Spain in charge of his reelection.
As a political strategist, Spain was magic. While still in college, he’d ingratiated himself with New Jersey state politicos and key members of the tristate media. From his decade aiding then running local election campaigns — in New Jersey, then New York— Spain had learned all the simple but effective tricks, and in Cheever’s senatorial race he used every one of them with ruthless precision.
Most effective were the Sunday morning press conferences Spain had instituted. In the campaign manager’s deft hands, they became a forum to announce programs and initiatives, to spotlight “problems and concerns,” to highlight studies by think tanks that supported his political stands. Whether, in the end, anything truly useful came out of Cheever’s announced agendas was beside the point. The press conferences became a way for Senator Cheever to showcase himself. On a slow news day like Sunday, Senator Cheever always got his mug on the evening news, complete with a pithy sound bite penned by his campaign consultants. Constituents would be left with the impression of the Senator’s diligence and effectiveness, which would be the basis for his next reelection campaign — because, of course, when it came to politics, impressions were always, always more important than results.
It was Dennis Spain who taught Cheever how to cozy up to the policemen’s union and the professional class of political malcontents and activists at the same time, using the very same tactics with both. “Just tell them all what they want to hear,” Spain advised his boss — and it worked. Within six months of Spain’s coming aboard, with a handpicked advance team, speech writer, and key media contacts, major magazines and newspapers were all publishing stories about “the new Senator Cheever.”
Under Spain’s tutelage, the former lame duck breezed through the primary and won reelection with a handy two-to-one margin over his rival. Since that time, Dennis Spain had guided Cheever’s political activities as well. Spain drafted legislation for the Senator to propose, wrote policy speeches for the Senator to deliver. More importantly, Spain used the Senator’s years of senatorial service as clout. Using Cheever’s seniority, Spain muscled him onto several important committees and steering commissions. One of them was the newly minted Air Transportation and Travel Committee, established to recommend ways in which the deregulated airline industry could more efficiently operate in a climate of rising oil prices and falling revenues.
It was a powerful committee, and one that immediately attracted the attention of lobbyists for the airline industry, and through them, the top airline CEOs themselves.
Dennis Spain reached for his telephone. He would begin today’s frantic schedule by phoning the CEOs of those very airlines, to remind them of a critical video conference on the future of the American airline industry, hosted by Senator William S. Cheever, Chairman of the Air Transportation and Travel Committee, scheduled for four-forty-five p.m. that very afternoon.