24 Declassified: Vanishing Point

22. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 9 A.M. AND 10 A.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME

Nina and Morris circled back when they noticed Curtis was no longer following. They found him squatting on the sand next to his vehicle, which was tipped on its side. The sandrail had broken an axle and flipped over.

“It’s finished,” said Curtis, gesturing to a front wheel that was hanging askew, like a broken wing on a chicken.

“What do we—” Morris was interrupted by an electronic crackle and ran for the radio. “Come in CTU. We hear you,” he replied.

There was a pause while the transmission was scrambled. Then they listened with mounting anxiety as Jamey Farrell explained they had only three hours to liberate the base or get out of the way of the bombers. “Be advised that contact with CTU will end in two minutes, when the signal jamming resumes,” Jamey told them.

“If we’re being jammed, how do we let you know we’ve liberated the base?” Morris asked.

“At eleven fifty-seven, the jamming will cease. The B–52s will release their payload three minutes later, unless you made a radio call, identify yourself, and deliver the code word.”

Morris threw up his hands. “Code word! What’s the bloody code word?”

“Coronet Blue,” Jamey replied.

Morris shook his head. “Bleeding ridiculous spy games.”

Nina took the radio from Morris. “Have you heard from Tony?”

“Ryan is talking to him now, over a cell phone that is not secure,” Jamey replied.

“But they’re giving him the code word, no doubt!” Morris bellowed. “Some secret that is.”

“What about Jack?”

There was a pause. “We’re trying to reach him, but so far we’ve got nothing,” Jamey replied.

“What are we going to do now?” Morris said after the radio call ended.

“Is this a vote?” Curtis asked. “Then I say we go.”

Morris crossed his arms. “And I say we don’t.”

“We’re going,” Nina declared.

Curtis cleared his throat. “We have a problem, then. There are only two seats in your rail, and no room to squeeze in a third person.”

Nina pulled the safety helmet over her ebony hair. “Morris doesn’t want to go. We’ll leave him here.” “In the middle of the desert? I could perish out here,” Morris protested.

“You’ll be safe,” Curtis said. “You’re probably out of range of the bombs should they fall. And if all goes well, we’ll send someone back to get you.”

Morris watched them drive away. When they faded from view and the dust in their wake settled, he slumped down in the sand under the dubious shade of the ruined sandrail. The desert was getting hotter by the minute. Morris glanced up at the burning sun.

“Oh, what a bloody fine mess this turned out to be,” he moaned.

After the sun rose, the morning began to heat up. Dr. Reed decided to ask permission for the hangar door to be closed, the air conditioning turned on. A Cuban guard pretended not to understand her, but she persisted. Finally he took her by the arm and led her to the hangar door, where the man in charge sat on a steel chair staring out at the desert.

“Why do you need air conditioning?” Carlos Boca demanded in a surly tone. He turned then, and openly appraised her from head to toe, until Dr. Reed felt naked in her sweat-stained pink teddy and flip-flops.

“You look comfortable enough, doctor. Request denied.” Boca turned away, signaling her time was over.

The guard led her back to the hostages, but threw her down in a different spot. Because they were not allowed to move around, Megan could only make eye contact with Dani Welles, but could not speak to her.

“I tried asking for the air conditioning an hour ago,” a young woman in dirty overalls said. The white label on her breast patch had the word CONSUELO penned in bold black letters.

“Are you from the terminal crew?” Megan whispered.

The woman nodded. “After the plane landed and the shooting started, I hid in Hangar 18. Some of the soldiers found me and brought me here.”

“At least they didn’t shoot you,” Megan replied.

“Give them time. I’ve been listening,” the woman said, her dark eyes staring at the floor. “These guys are Cubans, soldiers or former soldiers, I think. I know they consider us the walking dead. They’re only waiting for orders to pull the trigger and finish the job.”

For the first time since she was captured, Megan was glad she didn’t understand what the men had been saying. It would only have made the ordeal worse.

She counted her captors. There were three men guarding them, all Spanish-speakers. She watched as the man called Carlos called to one of his men and issued instructions. The man turned his back on his commander and walked to the rear of the hangar, to disappear among the crates and machinery.

“What did he say? Where is that man going?” Megan asked.

“He said Manuel has slept long enough, and that it was time for the other man to wake him,” Consuelo replied.

She breathed a sigh of relief. At least that Carlos guy didn’t order them all to be lined up and shot… Not yet, anyway. Searching her memory, Megan recalled that there had been four guards, and that one of them had wandered off and never came back.

Tony heard the man coming and ducked between two stacks of wooden boxes. He was armed with the Makarov, and a two-foot long, straight cutting blade he’d unscrewed from the industrial strength wire slicer. It looked like a samurai sword, but lacked a pointed tip. Nevertheless, Tony found a use for it.

The guard passed so close Tony could have tapped him on the shoulder. Instead, he waited until the newcomer approached the dead man in the chair. Then Tony crept up behind the man and slipped the noose over his head.

When the guard was dead, Tony slipped the AK–47 off his shoulder, fished through his pockets and belt. This time he came up empty. One clip of ammunition for the assault rifle was not enough to do squat, not against upwards of thirty men.

On top of that, Tony knew this guard was sent to wake the first man he’d killed. Soon the Cubans in charge would be wondering where he went, too.

Tony would have to strike quickly. He wanted to finish off the last two guards before they could raise the alarm, then secure the hangar. With the help of the hostages, they could probably hold out for an hour or so, even if the commandos attempted a counterattack to retake the position.

In any case, Tony knew there was a time limit now. Ryan Chappelle had warned him about the bombing. Tony also knew Jack Bauer was coming — they’d established a rendezvous point and a time during their telephone conversation ninety minutes ago. All Tony had to do was hold out until the cavalry arrived, or until the bombs fell.

Either way, the siege of Area 51 would end in the next couple of hours.

Megan Reed’s stomach rumbled and she shifted uncomfortably. She was hungry, thirsty and she needed to go to the bathroom. They’d had no water since six AM, around the same time they were last allowed to go to the restroom. More than a third of the prisoners were still asleep, and Megan admired those who managed to find peace despite the tension and discomfort.

They must be shock, or suffering from some type of stress reaction, she deduced, wishing she could

sidle over to Dr. Toth and ask his professional opinion. Only then did she notice that the physician was sleeping, too.

Unfortunately her bladder was too full for her to sleep. She had to go, and soon. At first Megan decided to wait for the other guards to return before making the embarrassing request. Then she mentally kicked herself.

What the hell is wrong with me? Do I have Stockholm Syndrome or something? I’m the victim here. Why make it easy on them?

Megan raised her hand. “Hey there. You. Hello!”

Boca and the other guard glanced in her direction. “I don’t know about these other people, but I need to use the ladies’ room pronto.”

Sneering, Carlos looked away.

“Hey, buddy,” Megan cried. “I’m talking to you.”

Face curled into a cruel sneer, Carlos Boca stood up, faced her. He slung his rifle over his shoulder and slowly approached the woman. Megan could tell he was angry. The closer he got, the more pissed the Cuban looked. The other guard watched from the sidelines, snickering. The prisoners around her grew uncomfortable, upset she was rocking the boat. But Megan didn’t care.

They’re going to kill me anyway, she thought. At least I’ll die with an empty bladder.

Tony had been observing the hostages for a few minutes. The guards were so far apart, Tony couldn’t see how he was going to neutralize them without firing a shot. But then, thanks to the reliably annoying Dr. Reed, he got his best opening yet.

While Boca loomed threateningly over the defiant Dr. Reed, Tony gripped the cutting blade with both hands, raised it over his head and burst from hiding. With a powerful downward thrust, Tony split the snickering guard’s skull from crown to jaw. The dead man dropped without a sound, blood pooling around Tony’s sneakers. Unfortunately, the guard dragged the blade down with him — it had wedged so deeply in the Cuban’s torso, Tony could not yank it free.

Carlos Boca was still a few feet away. Turning, the Cuban tried to drag the AK–47 off his shoulder to fire. But Megan Reed grabbed the assault rifle and hung on with both hands like a tenacious pit bull. With the strap tugging at his arm, Boca had no choice but to release the weapon. Still, the Cuban commando was not unarmed. Boca drew a long stiletto out of his high boot and lunged at Tony.

The man was an experienced knife fighter, so fast Tony did not completely sidestep the blow. The razor thin blade raked his ribcage. Tony howled. Shutting out the pain, he locked Boca’s knife arm under his own and stepped around the helpless man. A quick jerk, and Tony felt the bone snap in Boca’s arm. Tony used his elbow to strike the man three times. The first blow smashed Boca’s nose. The second shattered his jaw. The third strike killed him.

He stepped back and the dead man pitched to the floor. Tony reeled as blood streamed down his flanks. Megan was instantly on her feet to steady him.

“Antonio? Is that you?” she cried, recognizing him despite the layers of grit and grease. Tony took in the woman’s pink Meow, Meow Kitty teddy and matching panties. “That’s a new look for you, isn’t it Doc?” he grunted.

“You’ve been wounded!”

By now, the hostages were starting to rise. “Get down, stay in your places. At least until I close the hangar door.”

Tony limped to the control panel and hit the switch. It took a minute for the door to come down. When it did, he visibly relaxed but did not slow down.

Tony tossed Boca’s assault rifle to a young airman with dark hair and Hispanic features.

“Go stand in that doorway—” Tony pointed to a narrow door adjacent to the blast-proof steel gate. “—pretend you’re a guard. The longer the bad guys think they’ve got us, the longer they’ll leave us alone.”

Dr. Reed kept her arms wrapped around Tony while he moved across the hangar. She clung so tightly Tony wasn’t sure who was supporting whom. Tony opened the idle generator and reached under the hood. The Glock was right where he left it. With his fist around the familiar weapon, Tony felt complete.

Dr. Alvin Toth touched his arm. “You’re bleeding, young man.”

“I don’t have time to bleed,” Tony replied.

“I saw that movie, too,” Toth replied with a sly smile. “I also have a First Aid kit right here. Let me fix you up…”

Tony nodded and leaned against the generator. He lifted his arm while Toth smeared a disinfectant on the ragged gash. Tony winced, sucking air.

“Be careful, Dr. Toth! You’ll hurt him,” Megan cried, arms wrapped around Tony’s broad shoulders.