24 Declassified: Trojan Horse

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.

Though it was a menace to peace and stability within the region it operated, Jack Bauer had never regarded the United Liberation Front as a threat to national security, nor did he believe they had the intelligence or the resources to pull off a masterful takeover like this one — not without help.

Meanwhile Christina Hong’s impromptu voiceover continued. “Perhaps we will learn what these people want, and what cause they represent, and what drove them to such a desperate act. Here is their statement, coming to you live…”

After a pause, the masked man began to speak. He issued a long list of impossible demands — Russia was to end its presence in Chechnya, release all political prisoners, pay restitution to the victims of its occupation.

Jack noted that the masked terrorist claimed to be holding Russian First Lady and the U.S. Vice President’s wife hostage — lies, and Jack knew it. He’d briefly spoken with Craig Auburn in the sub-basement under the Chamberlain before the broadcast began, and they were still secure in their hiding place. This told Jack that he was facing a man willing to bluff his way through a difficult position.

Near the end of the masked Chechen’s twenty-minute tirade, Jack’s cell rang. It was Nina Myers.

“Jack, we have a positive voice match on the terrorist leader.”

“Great!”

“The first phone conversation you sent us was inconclusive, but this broadcast provided us with all the voice samples the audio lab needed to make a positive match—”

“How positive?”

“Our audio people and the voice analysts are ninety-eight percent sure the man speaking right now is Bastian Grost, forty-four years old, a former associate of Victor Drazen and a member of his secret police force the Black Dogs.”

“Damn,” muttered Jack. “Drazen again.”

“You know Drazen?”

“I’ve…read a few files,” Jack replied.

“Bastian Grost is wanted by the United Nations War Crimes Tribunal,” Nina continued. “He fled arrest, vanished. Interpol suspected he’d been hired to train terrorist groups in Chechnya.”

“I can believe Grost is training terrorists,” said Jack. “But this type of suicide assault, it doesn’t fit his profile. Drazen’s legions were made up of political opportunists. They’re survivors not suicidal fanatics willing to die for a cause.”

“Unless Grost was brainwashed,” Nina replied, “like Ibn al Farad and Richard Lesser.”

Jack nodded. “Brainwashed by Hasan.”