“I have one more job to do,” Tony replied.
He ended the conversation, went downstairs to the kitchen, shoved the stove away from the wall, exposing the natural gas pipe, which he broke open with several kicks of his booted foot.
When he heard the hiss of leaking gas, Tony grabbed a cloth sack full of computer disks, paper files — any piece of intelligence he thought might be useful — and headed for the front door. He paused in the living room just long enough to set a paper fire in front of the television.
Tony Almeida was behind the wheel of his van and halfway down the block when the place blew, shattering the quiet evening. His rearview reflected tongues of crimson vainly trying to burn the sky.
18. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 10 P.M. AND 11 P.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME
The command was Jack’s now. After Captain Stone’s disastrous assault, and after word reached the Mayor, Governor, and Director of Homeland Security that CTU’s computer capabilities had been fully restored, the Captain was quietly relieved.
Jack’s first act as operations commander was to make things right with Stone. He vowed to utilize the man’s resources as soon as a new plan was finalized. Until that time, he positioned the Captain and the rest of his SWAT team to a forward position, where they could assist the National Guard in securing the perimeter.
Before Jack contacted CTU, he called Teri’s cousin.
He was relieved to hear that Kim had fallen asleep waiting for the Silver Screen Awards show to resume. Like the rest of the nation, Teri’s cousin believed the downtown blackout had caused the cancellation of the rest of the show. Jack didn’t enlighten her. He simply explained that Teri would be delayed and asked if Kim could spend the night. He thanked the woman, ended the call, then it was back to business.
He phoned Ryan Chappelle. Chet Blackburn’s tactical team had arrived at the staging area, but Jack requested that one of CTU’s own mobile command units be dispatched to the scene as well.
Chappelle agreed. “I’ll send one immediately. Milo will join the team coming out to you. I’ll keep Jamey here to coordinate things.”
“Have Milo pick up a computer from my car. The vehicle’s a few blocks from here. I’ve activated the GPS chip so he’ll have no trouble finding it.”
“What computer?” Chappelle asked. “Where did it come from?”
“The Valerie Dodge Modeling Agency. Ms. Dodge was responsible for staffing the auditorium with ushers, seat fillers, celebrity escorts. I have reason to believe she was duped by an employee into sending terrorists to the auditorium instead. There are plans and schematics of the Chamberlain Auditorium in the computer hard drive. I want Milo to review all the data as soon as possible.”
At the communications console, a young police technician clutched his headset, looked up.
“Special Agent Bauer!” he called. “I have someone on the outside line. He claims to be the leader of the hostage takers. He demands to speak to the person in charge.”
“Put him on speakerphone. Record the call for digital analysis,” Jack commanded. The technician activated the recorder, switched lines, nodded.
“This is Jack Bauer, Special Agent in Charge of the Counter Terrorist Unit, Los Angeles. You wanted to speak to me.”
“You have seen what we can do. Your dead litter the street. Another attempt to assault this place will result in the deaths of a hundred hostages.” The voice was flat, emotionless.
“Who do you represent? What are your demands?”
“For now, our demands are simple. Restoration of broadcast capabilities in the next fifteen minutes—”
“That might be difficult,” Jack interrupted. “There’s a blackout in progress. We have no power in the downtown area—”
“Find a way. If we are not permitted to make a statement to the world in the next thirty minutes, we will begin to kill the hostages. One life will be taken every five minutes until you comply.”
“Wait—”
But the line was dead. Jack faced the communications technician. “Send the recording to CTU for voice analysis.”
Evans spoke up. “We can’t let them use America’s airwaves as a soapbox.”
“No. we can’t,” said Jack. “But if we look like we’re acceding to his demand, it will buy us some time to formulate a new plan of attack.” Jack massaged his forehead. His headache was returning with a vengeance. “There must be a way we can fool them into believing they are getting their message out.”
Everything was ready, thanks to the work of broadcast technicians culled from rival networks on the scene to cover the Silver Screen Awards.
At Jack Bauer’s request they had cooperated to accomplish the impossible. In under twenty-five minutes, these experts in their fields had managed to locate the fiber optic cables under the street and tap into them — the first step toward controlling the images the terrorists saw on their television screens inside the auditorium.
CTU knew there were dozens of monitors hooked up to cable inside the Chamberlain. The terrorists would surely be watching to see their own broadcast on the local channels, or perhaps on the 24-hour cable news nets. That meant those channels and only those channels would have to be jammed and replaced with bogus broadcasts. It seemed an impossible task, but the technicians assured Jack they could accomplish it.
“Trust us,” said one producer. “We’re in the illusion business. We can make the audience believe anything, for a little while at least.”
“I hope a little while is all we’ll need,” Jack replied.
Now the cameras were in position. The brilliantly lit auditorium had been carefully framed as a backdrop. As Christina Hong awaited her cue, her makeup was perfected by a feature film stylist, her hair was sprayed stiff by a famous anchorwoman’s personal assistant. Her entire segment had been put together by an Emmy Award-winning producer. It was about to be directed by a veteran of one of the national networks. The whole thing was something of a dream come true for a girl seen three times a week on a local station in Seattle.
“I’m about to give the performance of my television career,” she muttered, “and no one but a bunch of psycho terrorists will ever see it.” Half-exhilarated and half-terrified of the consequences should she fail to pull it off, Christina cleared her throat and squared her shoulders.
The makeup artist and personal assistant stepped back as the director loudly counted down. On the final three seconds, his voice disappeared. Three fingers were up, then two. He pointed—
“This is Christina Hong, broadcasting live from the Chamberlain Auditorium in Los Angeles. We’re interrupting your regularly scheduled programming with this breaking news. Unknown terrorists have taken control of the annual Silver Screen Awards ceremony and are holding hundreds of people hostage, among them many well known celebrities…”
Inside the command center, Jack watched a monitor. Ms. Hong was certainly convincing enough. From the logo on the lower right hand corner of his screen, Jack appeared to be watching Los Angeles News Channel One. He changed the channel. On Fox News he saw the same image of Christina Hong — now framed by the familiar Fox News logo.
“Officials of the United States government currently on the scene say they are awaiting an imminent statement from the unknown terrorist group, scheduled to begin in under a minute.”
Christina Hong’s image vanished, replaced by a man swathed head to toe in black, an ebony head-scarf obscuring his features. Only his eyes were visible. He clutched an Agram 2000 in the crook of his elbow. Jack winced when he recognized the green and black flag of the United Liberation Front for a Free Chechnya, an ultra violent splinter group of indeterminate size.