24 Declassified: Vanishing Point

2. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 1 P.M. AND 2 P.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME

“Lev,” Senator David Palmer whispered through gritted teeth, “what is all this?”

The hotel lobby was crowded with reporters, all of whom obviously had anticipated the senator’s arrival. But David Palmer had been given no notice of this instant public appearance. He was tired, his throat was parched, and the long flight West had left him unkempt and irritable. To top it off, the limo’s air conditioner had been on the fritz, so there were perspiration stains under the arms of his wrinkled white button-down.

Still, Palmer knew the power of the photo op; and, inside of fifteen seconds, his initial expression of surprise, then extreme annoyance, vanished. In its place came the well-rehearsed campaign smile. His grin was so firmly set that his lips barely moved when he quietly asked his chief of staff what the hell was going on.

Lev Cohen’s fleshy face flushed under his red beard.

“Sorry, David. I didn’t know about any event,” he replied. “It must be something Congressman Bell’s people set up—”

“You should have known about it.” Senator Palmer’s voice was an irritated rumble.

Sherry Palmer suddenly appeared at her husband’s side, tucked her hand under his arm. “You’ve made this trip to raise your national profile before our run for the Presidency, David,” she reminded him softly.

Palmer arched an eyebrow. “Our run?”

Sherry didn’t miss a beat. “Yes, David,” she purred, her eyes scanning the crowd for familiar media faces. “And I’ll be right there beside you the whole way.”

The crowd had assembled inside the immense sandstone and glass atrium of the ultra-modern Babylon Hotel and Casino, an architectural showplace that was the latest addition to the Las Vegas skyline. A huge banner hung from a balcony, proclaiming this hotel as the venue for the Pan-Latin Anti-Drug Conference. Flags of a dozen North, Central and South American nations dangled from the high ceiling.

David Palmer hardly noticed the décor. The brace of reporters was what concerned him, along with the cheering group of spectators, who’d suddenly recognized their choice for the next presidential election.

Palmer studied the throng uncertainly. His race for the U.S. Senate had involved local Maryland press, of course, but the glare of national media interest, now that he was about to announce his presidential run, was nothing like he’d ever before experienced.

Sherry touched his arm. “Wave, David,” she urged through a tight smile.

Palmer waved.

“Now slip on your jacket,” she whispered. “It’ll cover those nasty sweat-stains.” Sherry released the grip on her husband long enough for him to cover his wrinkled dress shirt with the blue suit coat draped over his arm.

“Look,” she continued quietly, “I know you don’t like to talk off the cuff, but it’s time you practiced. Just say a few words. Keep things light and cheerful and don’t let the press steer the conversation.”

“They’re the ones who ask the questions.”

“Politics 101, David. Do I have to remind you? They ask. That doesn’t mean you have to answer,” Sherry Palmer said through a stiff smile.

The Senator glanced down at his wife and his grin became more genuine. “What would I do without you?”

“I shudder to think,” Sherry shot back. Then she gestured with her expressive brown eyes. “Look, there’s Larry. Go greet your old teammate and make nice with the people who came out to see you.”

Palmer looked up, saw Larry Bell approaching. He moved forward to greet him. Photographers flashed and spectators applauded as the famous Congressman and even more famous Senator clasped hands.

Both ex-basketball players were taller than everyone around them. But Larry Bell was lanky with gangly arms and legs. Broad-shouldered Palmer was built more like a linebacker than the former Big East Conference Defensive Player of the Year and NCAA All-American; and though both men had a full head of hair, Bell’s closely trimmed Afro was peppered with gray.

Almost at once, the pair was surrounded by cameras and proffered microphones.

“Really great to see you, David.” Bell’s smile was warm, but his eyes remained fixed on the press.

“An impressive welcome, Larry,” Palmer replied without a hint of rancor.

Bell faced his colleague eye to eye. “Nothing but the best for the guy who consistently passed me the ball in the greatest game of my career.” Bell slapped Palmer’s arm. “Even when he didn’t have to.“

Palmer shook his head. “I wasn’t there to make you look good, Larry. I was there to win — and since you scored every time you got near the basket, I just thought I’d hand the ball off to you.”

“We made a great team—” Congressman Bell faced the cameras, his voice rising. “And we’ll make a great team again. Only this time we’ll be doing more than winning the NCAA championship.”

There was a smattering of applause, then a Washington Post reporter fired the opening salvo. “My question is for Senator Palmer. What brings you to Las Vegas, sir?”

David Palmer grinned. “Well, as Larry said, this time it’s not the NCAA championship. In fact—”

“How about the presidency?” a woman from the Los Angeles Times shouted. “Are you here to raise your national profile, Senator Palmer? Is it true that you’re planning a run for the White House next November?”

Palmer waited patiently for the battery of questions to end. “I’m in Nevada for only one reason,” he told them. “I’m here to participate in a vital and important program that may someday end the scourge of illegal narcotics, not just in the United States, but throughout all of North, Central and South America…” Palmer paused, gestured to his colleague.

“Of course, Congressman Bell and I both know that solving this massive problem will require international cooperation — which is exactly what the Pan-Latin Anti-Drug Conference exists to promote…”

Though shunted to the sidelines by her own staff and the press of reporters, Sherry Palmer’s gaze never left her husband — even when Lev Cohen touched her shoulder and spoke softly into her ear.

“I just spoke to Bell’s chief of staff, Doug Healy—”

“And?”

“Congressman Bell’s going to make the introduction himself. Later this afternoon. I have all the information…”

Sherry frowned. “Oh, you have all the information? Then you must know why we weren’t notified about this press conference in advance. This was no spontaneous event, Lev.”

Cohen bit his lower lip. “Healy claimed it was an oversight. Someone in his office didn’t make a call—”

Sherry cut him off. “That’s bull and we both know it. Larry Bell is jealous. Back in the day he thought he was a better basketball player than David, and now he thinks he’s a better politician, too.”

Sherry finally shifted her gaze away from her husband, to focus on his chief of staff. “Bell probably believes he should be running for president instead of David, too. But that will never happen because David has the one thing that Larry Bell will never have.”

Lev blinked. “Actually David has three things, or did you forget our campaign slogan? Competence, charisma, and experience…”

Sherry smirked. David Palmer possesses all those qualities, it’s true, she thought. But he’s only going to be President for one reason. Because he has me.

CTU Agent Tony Almeida entered the hangar through a little used side door, pausing for a moment so his eyes could adjust to the building’s dim interior. Outside, in the desert’s afternoon glare, most members of Dr. Reed’s research team were running diagnostic tests on the massive sensor array. By now, the apparatus was sitting on top of the tower, and the huge crane that had hoisted it here had crawled back to its holding area on clanking steel tracks.

After Tony finished running his own diagnostics— on the shielded generator unit that would power the microwave emitting device — he noticed the entire team wasn’t present. Slipping away, he headed back to Hangar Six to track down the missing person.

Tony circled the building, moving off the pavement into the soft sand. With each step of his steel-toed work boot he kicked up red brown desert dust. No one had used this path for some time. Tony knew because some sign of foot tracks would have been visible, and there was nothing in the sand beyond the swirling tracks of a long-gone rattlesnake.

Near the rear of the structure, Tony climbed three steel steps that led to the side door. He knew the door was unlocked — Tony had made sure of that before the researcher team even rolled out of the hangar. Now he entered a darkened storage area just off the main floor of the hangar, well out of sight of anyone inside.

With the overhead lights powered down, what little illumination came through grimy windows set high in the walls. Most of the high-roofed interior was shrouded in shadows. When his eyes finally got used to the gloom, Tony cautiously stepped around a pile of empty wooden packing crates which formed a makeshift wall.

Suddenly he froze. A hushed voice was speaking in an urgent tone.

“I told you I can’t come now… The project is on a lock down, that’s why… That means nobody can leave, no matter what… I’m stuck here until the demonstration is over.”

Though the echoing interior of the hangar distorted some of the words, Tony recognized the speaker at once. He was the missing scientist, Dr. Steve Sable. Tony trailed the sound, moving quietly from one dark patch to another, carefully approaching the caller.

“Look, I’ll try to get there soon, but I can’t promise anything,” Sable said. “I—”

The man’s excuses were cut short by the person on the other end of the line. Sable tried to stammer a few words in his own defense, but they were apparently ignored. Patiently following the sound, Tony finally located the cyber-engineer behind an idle tow tractor. Sable was there, leaning against a dented workbench covered with wires, chips and motherboards. His back to Tony, Sable was whispering into a slim silver cell phone.

The doctor had good reason to hide his activity in what he thought was a deserted hangar. Using a personal phone anywhere inside the confines of the Groom Lake Experimental facility was a flagrant violation of Air Force security protocols. At the very least, Sable could lose his clearance and face dismissal if he were caught in possession of a cell phone, even if he weren’t using it.

“Threats won’t help either of us,” Sable said with a hint of irritation. “I know how important this is.”

Tony couldn’t read the man’s expression because he faced Sable’s back. Risking discovery, Tony used the cover of packing crates and electronic gear to circle the man. All the while he strained to hear the voice on the other end of the line. Unfortunately, Tony was just too far away.

“Yeah, I know it’s a problem,” Sable said, his tone exasperated. “Money is always a problem, but the delay can’t be helped. I’m not dodging my responsibility. It’s just bad timing, that’s all.“

Suddenly another voice echoed inside the hangar. “Dr. Sable… Are you in here?”

Surprised by the call, Sable quickly slipped the phone into his lab coat and spun around — to come face-to-face with Tony.

“Jesus, Alvarez, you scared the hell out of me!” he cried.

Hearing their voices, the young airman standing near the hangar entrance called out again. Only then did Sable realize Tony’s wasn’t the voice he’d heard call out his name. A split second later it dawned on Sable that Tony had most likely seen the phone, and was maybe even eavesdropping on the conversation.

“Listen, Tony,” Sable said in a whispered hiss. “You won’t tell anybody about the cell, will you?”

Tony moved out of the shadows to face the man. Sable stepped closer, leaned into his ear.

“See, I got this girl in Vegas,” he said. “She’s a showgirl. A real hottie. But she kind of takes advantage, you know? This morning she totaled the tranny in her new Mercedes convertible and expects me to pay for a new one.”

Sable flashed Tony a conspiratorial wink. “’Course, I’ll ante up and she knows it. I mean, I’m not married, divorced, or responsible for any brats — that I know of, anyway. So what else am I gonna spend my money on, right?”

Abruptly, a young airman appeared between two mounds of electronic equipment. He halted in surprise when he saw them.

“Dr. Sable, Dr. Alvarez… Dr. Reed’s been asking for you,” he said.

“Yeah, well, Tony and I were just grabbing some cable,” Dr. Sable replied, tucking a coil of thick, insulated wire under his arm.

“That’s right,” grunted Tony, grabbing another bundle and looping it over his shoulder. “Some of those old generator wires are frayed. Better to replace them all.”

“Maybe I can help,” the airman offered. The earnest young man grabbed two coils, each representing several hundred feet of wire — more than they would ever need. Spinning on his polished heels, the airman headed back to the hangar door.

Sable grinned, shot Tony a conspiratorial wink. Then he dropped his own coil and, whistling tunelessly, followed the soldier to the exit.

Meanwhile, Tony shouldered his own burden, while he pondered how he was going to get hold of Sable’s cell phone in the next several hours, without the man knowing about it.

“This suite is certainly impressive.” Sherry Palmer ran her hand across the sleek steel frame of an ultramodern armchair.

Senator Palmer appraised the stark sandstone walls, glass partitions, black leather furnishings, and splashes of primary-colored pop art.

“It’s nice,” he said with a raised eyebrow. “But I still prefer the Venetian.”

Sherry crossed the floor and threw open the balcony’s glass doors. A blast of hot desert air filled the room — but only for a moment, until the suite’s computer brain increased the air conditioning by forty percent.

“Just think, David. The last time we were in Las Vegas this place hadn’t even been built yet.”

“Casinos grow like weeds out here.”

“You can’t deny the view is impressive. The hotel’s Hanging Gardens start right below us. I can smell the honeysuckle all the way up here…”

The senator had already removed his jacket. Now he rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt, loosened his tie, and placed his hands on his hips. “The view is magnificent, no doubt about it. From forty stories up, even Las Vegas is a handsome city…”

“But you disapprove,” Sherry observed from the edge of the balcony. “Because you really are a Puritan.”

David smiled. “I prefer to think of myself as a Boy Scout.”

Sherry laughed, walked back to her husband. “You’re tense,” she said, reaching up to massage his broad shoulders. “Are you still fretting about your performance downstairs? Well, don’t. You were wonderful, David! Your words, your answers… they set just the right tone.”

Senator Palmer shook his head.

“You didn’t let Larry Bell get under your skin?” Sherry pressed. “I know he’s a conniving dog, but you should be used to that—”

“It’s nothing, Sherry, really,” David replied, wrapping her in his arms.

“I know you too well,” Sherry said, returning his embrace. “You’re holding something back.”

But Palmer refused to respond to her question. Instead, he changed the subject. “This is nice,” he whispered, nuzzling his wife’s hair. Sherry closed her eyes and leaned closer.

A gentle knock interrupted them.

“Ignore it,” Sherry whispered, pulling him closer. But David Palmer frowned and stepped back.

“I… can’t,” he told her. His tone and his expression were brimming with regret.

Sherry nodded. “Now I know what’s been bothering you. You’re not only here for the drug conference… You’ve got some kind of committee business going on.” Her expression shifted suddenly, from suspicion to alarm. “You’re not doing something that would jeopardize your bid for the White House?”

“I can’t discuss this right now,” he replied.

“You don’t have to. I know I’m right.”

The knock came again. They stared at one another for a moment.

“You know that you can’t shut me out… not even from policy decisions. When everything’s said and done, I’m your only ally, David,” Sherry said, then turned to call loudly towards the door. “Let yourself in, Lev! You have a keycard!”

The door opened. “Hey.” Lev’s gaze nervously darted between Sherry and David.

“Sherry was just leaving,” the senator said.

“That’s right, I’m leaving,” Sherry repeated coolly. She snatched her bag from the glass and steel table. “I have a full schedule, too.”

As she passed Lev Cohen, their eyes met. “I’ll see you later,” Sherry promised softly before closing the door behind her.

“Come in, sit down, Lev.” Palmer sank into the leather couch and stretched his long legs. Cohen sat in the steel framed chair across from him.

“Before we begin, Senator, I want to apologize for what happened in the lobby. I… I should have been on top of that.”

David raised his hand. “No apologies, Lev, or I’ll have to apologize, too, for my initial reaction. My impatience was out of line, so let’s just drop the subject.”

Lev Cohen nodded, visibly relieved.

“Now, about this other matter,” Palmer prodded.

“All the arrangements have been made, Senator. A representative from the Air Force Systems Command will arrive in—” Cohen checked his watch. “—a little less than two hours.”

Palmer nodded, his expression a thousand miles away.

“Senator?”

He blinked. “Sorry, Lev. I guess I zoned out for a minute there.”

“Yes, well, as I was saying… Your escort will be a Colonel Vincent DeBlasio, accompanied by a security staff. He’s bringing a car that will take you to the airport.”

Palmer sighed. “Thank you, Lev.”

“Since I won’t be going with you, I thought I’d assist Sherry with her afternoon schedule. She’s meeting the Mayor’s wife at four, then there’s…”

Lev’s voice petered out when he realized David Palmer was, once again, distracted by something. He cleared his throat and the Senator looked up.

“You’re a wise man, Lev,” Palmer said. “I trust your counsel as much as I trust anyone’s.”

“Thank you sir…”

“You know I’d take you with me today… if I could.”

This time it was Lev who raised his hand. “What you’re doing today is classified, sir. Part of your duty as the chairman of the Senate Special Defense Appropriations Committee. It’s obviously beyond my security clearance level, and I completely understand.”

Palmer offered his chief of staff a half smile. “Nicely put. Still, I could use some of your sage advice. I’m forced to make a very difficult decision today. It’s a decision I’ll make alone, and it’s weighing heavily.”

Lev nodded sympathetically. “The burden of command, David. It will only get heavier after you get to the White House.”

Palmer’s grin was genuine. “If I get there, you mean.”

Lev shook his head. “Oh, you’ll get there, Senator. You have what it takes and this country needs you.”

“I appreciate your endorsement, but I’m afraid we’ll have to leave it up to the voters.”

Both men chuckled. Then the chief of staff rose. “You’d better get some rest, Senator. It’s going to be a long day.”

A billowing cloud of powdery dust followed the lumbering semi as it crawled up the slight incline. With each pit and bump of the rough, unpaved road, the trailer the truck hauled shuddered and boomed hollowly, rocking back and forth so violently it seemed poised to tip over at any moment. At the top of the hillock, the narrow path ended at a pair of eight-foot wooden doors adorned with curls of rusty barbed wire. Above the weathered gate the faded BIG DEAN’S sign was topped by a crudely rendered image of smiling cowboy tipping his broad brimmed hat.

The driver hardly slackened his pace as he approached the barrier. Instead, the truck’s roar shook a pair of sun-browned workers in greasy overalls out of a dilapidated, sun-bleached shed. They loped to the gates, one lifting the latch, the other swinging the rickety doors open. Within a moment, the truck roared through the opening, followed by its cloud of grit and grime.

With a high-pitched squeal the semi braked, sand and gravel crunching under sixteen wheels. The vehicle ground to a halt in the middle of a dusty expanse occupied by the shack, and a battered mobile home with cracked windows resting on gray concrete bricks. The mobile home’s dented sides were flecked with peeling yellow paint.

The driver popped his door just as the persistent plume of dust finally overtook his vehicle. Coughing once, the coyote hopped to the ground and disdainfully kicked the Nevada sand with a booted foot. Tall and rail thin, wearing faded jeans and a red bandana around his throat, the young man had dark hair that stuck out from under the brim of a sweat-stained cowboy hat. Brown face impassive, the human smuggler sauntered to the rear of the vehicle.

As he began to unlock the trailer’s door, three Hispanic men emerged from the dilapidated mobile home on the opposite end of the enclosed lot. The trio were clad in dusty denim and heavy work boots. The two men on either end were well over six feet tall, muscular, with thick necks and shaven heads, dotted with stubble. The man in the middle was shorter than the others, and had a full head of brown, curly hair. Mirrored sunglasses covered his eyes. Each man cradled an AK–47 in the crook of his arm.

If the presence of automatic weapons troubled the coyote, he didn’t show it. With an air of tedious routine, the man unlatched the steel door on the back of the trailer and swung it open. Eyes to the ground, he stepped back to allow the newcomers unobstructed access to the cargo inside.

Five men emerged from inside the cavernous trailer, blinking against the harsh desert sun. They wore worn work clothes and were armed like the others, their assault rifles slung over their shoulders, next to heavy backpacks. Joints stuff, muscles sore, the men slowly and silently climbed down from the trailer. Only one man out of the group approached the armed trio. Without preamble he hugged the man in the middle, muttering quietly in Spanish. The two stood in the sun, arms looped around each other’s necks, heads bowed, foreheads together like boxers who’d just finished a grueling match.

While the reunion took place, the coyote crossed the enclosure to a rusty faucet sticking out of the ground next to the ramshackle hut. He slipped a canteen from his belt, turned on the tap, and filled the aluminum container. Moving quietly past the others, he jumped into the dark trailer.

“Where is he going?” the man with the sunglasses asked, finally breaking the embrace.

“We were not alone,” the other man replied. “There are more people inside the truck. A banker, his wife, and their child. He’s a businessman… former businessman… fleeing a financial scandal in Mexico City.”

The man with the sunglasses moved between the others, to peer into the darkened trailer. He saw a man in a tailored suit, now dirty and travel worn. The man’s eyes were large and nervous, his tie loose around a flabby neck. He squatted on the metal floor, a prominent gut hanging over his belt. A woman rested on her knees beside him. With the hem of her dress, the woman was brushing dirt off the pudgy face of a five-year-old girl, still sluggish from sleep. The man and wife viewed the armed men warily, while pretending indifference.

While the man with the sunglasses watched, the coyote offered the family his canteen. The businessman waved it away, still staring at the strangers through the open door. The woman took a few sips, then helped the little girl quench her thirst.

Sunglasses sneered. “This flesh smuggler had specific instructions. He was very well compensated to ferry you and your men across the border. Only you and your men.”

The other nodded once. “He told me this… this banker paid more money than we did. He said if he was leaving anyone behind, it was us. In any case, it was too late to haggle. I thought it best to deal with the problem on this end…”

“And so we shall,” Sunglasses said. Stepping back, he raised his right hand and gestured the two bodyguards forward.

“Use your weapons. Deal with them,” he commanded.

Before anyone could register shock, the two men raised their AK–47s and threw the safeties. The woman inside the trailer jumped at the sound. The coyote whirled to face them.

The quiet desert suddenly erupted with the chattering bark of twin assault rifles. The long, sustained sound seemed magnified by the trailer’s hollow interior, echoing back at the shooters in waves of booming sound. Only when the banana-shaped clips were empty did the men stop firing. The abrupt silence was nearly as jarring as the explosion of noise that preceded it.

The man with the sunglasses turned his back on the carnage, focused his mirrored stare on one of the men who’d opened the gate.

“Bury them in the desert,” he said.

Then the man with the sunglasses turned and led the newcomers to the dusty mobile home.