Vanishing Point Part 11

The Senator glanced at Megan Reed, who watched as the cages were carefully unloaded by a group of airmen. Under Beverly Chang's supervision, the cages were placed inside an invisible box bordered by four yellow poles pounded into the ground, about seventy-five yards away from the microwave tower.

"I wasn't aware lab animals would be used in this demonstration," Palmer said, unable to mask his distaste.

"I believe it's necessary, Senator Palmer," Dr. Reed replied. "In order to truly understand the power of this weapon, you must witness the Malignant Wave's effect on actual brains and central nervous systems. I don't believe a print-out of a microwave graph would be sufficient."

Palmer frowned. "I defer to your expertise, Dr. Reed."

5:56:40 p.m. PDT The Cha-Cha Lounge, Las Vegas Morris...o...b..ian led Jack Bauer to the sub bas.e.m.e.nt storage room. Hands quaking, the little man unlocked the steel door, pushed it open, switched on the overhead light.

"Over there, Jack," Morris croaked, averting his eyes.

Jack stepped over two canvas bags filled with dusty Christmas decorations, moved around a row of unused roulette tables. The corpse was there, where Morris had pointed. Face down on the concrete floor, blood had oozed from the stab wound after death, staining the floor black.

"Who is it, Jack?"

Bauer crouched over the dead man, carefully turned the corpse onto its side. The skin was already spotted with purple blotches, limbs stiffening but not yet frozen by rigor mortis, so the man had been dead for several hours.

Jack used his pen flashlight to probe the floor around the body. Not enough blood on the ground, so Jack knew he didn't die here. He tossed the corpse, fis.h.i.+ng through the man's pockets, under his belt, under the s.h.i.+rt and inside his pants. He'd already made a positive identification, so Jack wasn't trying to find out who the dead man was. He just wanted to see what he found - a wallet, keys, loose change, a pack of matches and a couple of chips from Circus, Circus.

"It's Ray Perry," Jack replied.

Morris swallowed loudly. "That explains why he's been missing. I guess we know it wasn't Ray who killed Max Farrow in his cell, then."

Jack lowered the corpse to the ground. "He's been stabbed a couple of times, but the neck wound finished him. I think Perry was killed in the security room, before or after Max Farrow was murdered. His blood mingled with Farrow's. I should have figured out that there was too much blood." Bauer's expression darkened. "In a scene like that, there always seems to be too much blood..."

Bauer stood, tucked the dead man's wallet into the back pocket of his black Levi's. "Why were you down here, Morris?"

"Blew a bank of cameras on the northeast side of the gaming room. I wanted to check the circuit breakers..." Morris pointed to the opposite wall. "That's the box, over there. I found the problem, corrected it. Then, as I was leaving, I saw... him."

"Did you tell anyone?"

Morris stared at the dead man, shook his head. "I was looking for Curtis... Found you instead."

"Who else has a key to this room?" Jack demanded.

Morris shrugged. "Too many people, Jack. Curtis... Don Driscoll... Chick Hoffman. That guy Manny... what's his name... The guy who works the night s.h.i.+ft. I think the bartender has a copy, too."

"How well was the body hidden?" Jack asked, his mind categorizing the likelihood of each man's guilt.

"I wouldn't have found Ray, except that I was taking a peek at those roulette tables over there." Morris scratched his chin. "Saw his feet sticking out from behind the canvas bags."

"n.o.body comes down here much, anyway," Jack said, thinking out loud. "Whoever stashed the corpse here knew it was only a matter of time before Perry was found. Which means the killer only needed to buy a few hours, maybe less..."

"What's that mean, Jack?"

Bauer's eyes narrowed as he stared down at the dead man. "It means our traitor is going to make his move very soon... and we have to be ready."

7

THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 6 P.M. AND 7 7 P.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME P.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME.

6:01:34 p.m. PDT Hangar Six, Experimental Weapons Testing Range Groom Lake Air Force Base Megan Reed led Palmer to the tent erected less than fifty feet from the microwave tower. As soon as he entered, he felt a cool blast of air, heard the whine of a cooling unit. While he watched, the tent flaps were lowered, completely blocking the sun's rays. Palmer's eyes were immediately drawn to a bank of six high definition screens. One screen focused on the microwave tower. Four other screens displayed close up, real time images of the animals inside their cages. The last screen projected four fluctuating lines resembling the scribbles made on paper by a seismograph.

"Those are the electroencephalograms of the male and female Rhesus Macaque," Dr. Reed explained.

Dr. Toth jumped into the conversation, sounding like a college professor. "You see, Senator, the resulting EEG will allow us to gross correlate brain activity. Through the electrodes implanted in the monkeys skulls, we can detect changes in electrical activity in the brain very accurately - on a millisecond level, in fact."

"Power levels?" Dr. Bas...o...b..called from behind his control station.

"Stabilized on maximum output," Tony replied.

"Then we're ready," Bas...o...b..announced. "Prepare for two, one-second bursts at the count of ten."

"Should I brace myself or something?" Senator Palmer asked, eyeing the canvas walls nervously. "This tent isn't exactly a bomb shelter."

Megan Reed chuckled. "The microwaves are invisible, so there's nothing to feel or hear. And the beams are directed to strike the animal cages within the target perimeter." She tapped the screen with a manicured fingernail. "Only the ground inside that staked out square will be affected. Within these yellow markers you see here..."

Palmer watched Bas...o...b..grip a switch. "Burst one," he cried, flipping the switch, then immediately turning it again.

"Second burst in ten seconds," Bas...o...b..warned. At the count of ten he flipped the switch again - on, then off.

"Power down," Bas...o...b..commanded. "Demonstration concluded at eighteen hundred hours, four minutes..."

Tony tapped the keys on his laptop and disengaged the power generator from the microwave emitter. Steve Sable pulled a tent flap aside and disconnected the power coupler - a move that was like throwing the safety on a handgun. There was no way the microwave emitter could discharge now - even accidentally.

The Senator only realized the demonstration was over when he found himself in the middle of a sudden crush, as everyone inside the cramped tent moved forward to peer at the images on the high definition screens. Palmer got a good look at one of the display screens - a close up shot of a Rhesus monkey. The creature's eyes were wide, but seemed unfocused - almost cross-eyed. When the primate shook its head to clear its vision, violent tremors wracked its body. Breathing became rapid, then erratic. Foam flecked the ape's pink lips and drool rolled down the side of its mouth.

Megan Reed stepped in front of the display. Blocking his view, she directed Palmer's attention to the waves running horizontally across the EEG monitor.

"You can see that the Gamma rays are off the chart," the woman said over the excited voices of her staff members. "We're seeing sharp waves, spikes... The female is especially affected. She's exhibiting the same spike-and-wave complexes we observe in cases of human epilepsy. Both primates are completely immobilized. Released from their bonds, they would be unable to stand or even sit up without support."

"What exactly happened?" Palmer asked.

"It's very simple to put in laymen's terms," Dr. Toth said. "The motor cortex is a general term that describes several regions of the cerebral cortex. The motor cortex is that part of our brains involved in the planning, control and execution of voluntary motor functions."

"Yes," Bas...o...b..said, nodding. "The primary motor cortex is responsible for generating neural impulses that control movement. Then there's the premotor cortex and the supplementary motor area..."

"Too technical, Phillip," Toth protested. "In laymen's terms, we know that electrical impulses generated by the motor cortex control voluntary movement. What the Malignant Wave device does is scramble those electronic signals, throwing the entire brain into chaos..."

"You see, the Malignant Wave induces a kind of instantaneous multiple sclerosis in those exposed to its waves, but without the multiple scars - or scleroses - found on the myelin sheaths of the victims," Dr. Reed declared. "In fact, there is no visible physical trauma caused by the wave device, even on a microscopic level. Only the electrical functions are scrambled."

Palmer glanced at another monitor, this one displaying the pigs in their cage. The creatures twitched and rolled in their own feces. When they attempted to stand, their flanks twitched and their limbs shook violently.

"The pigs have fouled their cages," Palmer noted.

Dr. Reed nodded, smiling. "Bowel and bladder control is voluntary, voluntary, Senator. The animals have lost the ability control those functions." Senator. The animals have lost the ability control those functions."

Dr. Toth lifted a tent flap and gestured to a pair of men in spotless white lab coats. As one, the duo moved toward the cages. Palmer noticed the technicians were carrying hypodermic injector guns.

"Those two men?" he asked. "Are they going to administer some sort of sedative, or perhaps the antidote? When do the waves' effects wear off?"

Dr. Bas...o...b..looked away. Dr. Reed cleared her throat, then spoke. "Senator, those men are going to euthanize the animals. There is no antidote to the Malignant Wave effect, nor does it wear off."

Palmer turned away from the ghastly scene, faced the woman. He seemed to tremble with barely contained anger. When he spoke, Palmer's voice was a low, threatening rumble.

"Malignant Wave is supposed to be a non-lethal weapon system, Dr. Reed. That's what the committee was promised."

"Yes... Well," she stammered. "As I said, there is no physical trauma induced by the waves... Only..."

"Only you render the victim helpless. Unable to control its most basic bodily functions - forever."

Megan Reed blinked. "Of course, Senator. Think of the disruption to the enemy's ranks on the battlefield, as medics try to administer care to hundreds, perhaps thousands of soldiers so afflicted. The drain on the enemy's resources would be catastrophic. In the end, they would be forced to resort to euthanasia, if only to be merciful. The enemy would have to kill their own troops! Think of the effect such dire measures would have on their morale. "

Senator Palmer shook his head.

"No," he declared. "I refuse to consider your logic. It is too terrible to contemplate. Malignant Wave is not non-lethal technology, despite what you say, Dr. Reed. In truth your team's invention is one of the most vile and hateful methods of execution I've ever witnessed."

Dr. Bas...o...b..rose, faced the Senator. "But, surely you see the value of such technology?"

"Value! In this, this... abomination?" Palmer cried. "We asked for a new type of non-lethal technology. Instead, you've invented nothing more than a diabolical new weapon of ma.s.s destruction. Can you imagine this weapon in enemy hands? If we allowed this program to go forward to deployment, we would unleash a new arms race."

Once again, Senator Palmer shook his head. "If you think I or anyone on my committee will endorse such a weapon, you are sorely mistaken."

Palmer spied Corporal Stratowski lurking in a corner. "Corporal, I need to get back to Las Vegas at once. Take me to the airfield," he commanded.

"Right away, Senator. The Hummer is parked outside."

As Palmer crossed the tent, Megan Reed caught his arm.

"Senator, please let me accompany you back to the city," she pleaded. "I'm sure you've gotten the wrong impression of our work here. I think I can change your mind... Convince you to see things our way..."

Palmer glanced at the high definition screens a final time. He watched a man injecting one of the monkeys with poison, looked away immediately.

"Don't bother, Dr. Reed," Palmer replied. "Nothing you say could ever change my mind. As of this moment, consider the Malignant Wave Project cancelled."

6:23:41 p.m. PDT Las Vegas Boulevard At the corner of Tropicana Avenue The Las Vegas Strip From behind mirrored sungla.s.ses, Pizarro Rojas placidly observed the Las Vegas strip as it rolled past his winds.h.i.+eld. The MGM lion blazed rose gold in the fading light, the sun a radiant ball of fire in the fast purpling sky.

In the seat beside him, his twin brother Balboa snored quietly. But Balboa had been in America for months now. The Las Vegas strip was nothing new to him. In fact, his brother showed very little appreciation of America, or perhaps he merely missed his wife and family back in Colombia.

For Pizarro this place was astonis.h.i.+ng, a revelation. Though he'd heard about such luxury, never in his wildest imaginings did he envision the spectacle.

Pizarro Rojas reclined his seat, stretched his short, powerful legs. The middle row of the sports utility vehicle was roomy and comfortable, the air conditioner flooded the compartment with cool filtered air, enough to stir his long, curly hair. In all respects, he decided this was a much better ride than the steel box he and his two bodyguards had ridden in across the U.S./Mexican border.

"What do you think, Carlos?" Pizarro called to the driver. "Does this vulgar display of capitalistic excess offend your socialist sensibilities?"

Carlos Boca, an ex-Cuban special forces commando, glanced at his young boss's reflection in the rear view mirror.

"What offends me is that Fidel was such an a.s.s," Boca replied with a sneer. "After the Revolution, in 1960, casinos like this... All this money... It could have belonged to Cuba. If Castro had nationalized the resorts, modernized them, then he could have used the jobs and the influx of foreign capital to benefit the Cuban people."

"If he catered to foreign economic interests, then our beloved Fidel would have been no different than that pig Batista." As he spoke, Roland Arrias ran his fingers along the jagged scar that ripped a ca.n.a.l down the right side of his face. Like the driver, Roland had a powerful build, thick neck and a shaved head.

"You are wrong, my brother," Carlos replied. "Vietnam and China are models for the future. Not the economic cesspool Cuba has become."

Pizarro Rojas knew the two men were as close as brothers - with their powerful physiques and army haircuts, they even resembled one another. Only Roland's grotesque scar set the men apart. The pair bickered constantly, usually over Cuban politics. Somewhere along the line, Carlos had lost faith in his Supreme Leader and the Communist Revolution, while his fellow Cuban remained a committed ideologue. The pair looked to be in their forties, but Pizarro didn't know which was older, which the younger. All he cared about was the fact that both men were ex-Cuban Special Forces and trustworthy allies.

Back at Big Dean's Truck Farm, the Cubans had traded their dusty denims and work boots for dark suits and black silk s.h.i.+rts. Under the jackets, in shoulder holsters, each man carried a Russian-made Makarov PM. Carlos also had a long Spanish steel stiletto strapped to his leg. Stashed in a secret compartment hidden under the floor mats were their AK-47s, along with hundreds of rounds of ammunition. Somewhere along this route, another SUV with six other military trained Cuban expatriates was moving toward the same rendezvous - Bix Automotive.

Roland Arrias snorted. "You are the fool, my friend. Russia lost the courage of their convictions, turned to Western-style democracy - which there is no such thing. Now the Russian people live in a gangster state."

Listening to these men, Pizarro was reminded of the conversations he and Balboa shared with their youngest brother, Francesco. Little Franco never cared for politics. He loved music and women. Always a hothead, Francesco was beloved by their mother and doted on by their father. As leader of the cartel's. .h.i.t team, Francesco was also respected by the men under his command, some much older than he was. And young women could not resist his charms, either. When he was gunned down by an unknown American agent in Nicaragua, Francesco left two b.a.s.t.a.r.d children behind, from two separate mothers. At least his children would live on, under the care of their paternal grandparents.

It was those same American agents that stole back the technology his family had paid dearly for - in money and and blood. The loss of prestige they suffered at the hands of these Americans shook the foundations of the Rojas' once-powerful drug empire, made them appear weak and vulnerable to friends and enemies alike. blood. The loss of prestige they suffered at the hands of these Americans shook the foundations of the Rojas' once-powerful drug empire, made them appear weak and vulnerable to friends and enemies alike.

Behind his sungla.s.ses, Pizarro's expression darkened. Ahead of them stood the many tiered tower of the Babylon Hotel and Casino. A banner fluttered from the building's mammoth portico, proclaiming the resort as the site of the Pan-Latin Anti-Drug Conference. The Cubans also fell silent as they pa.s.sed the target of their impending operation.

In just a few hours Pizarro Rojas would return, along with his brother Balboa, and his team of Cuban a.s.sa.s.sins. He would return to this majestic place to exact a measure of vengeance for the crimes committed against his family - not just vengeance against America, but against other Latin American governmerits and law enforcement agencies who dared to oppose the Rojas cartel.

After the daring a.s.sault and the multiple a.s.sa.s.sinations to come, the defeats of the past would be forgotten. With their honor and respect fully restored, the other cartels would clamor to join a new alliance forged and ruled by the Rojas clan. Soon his family would control all of the cocaine production and distribution in the Northern Hemisphere, just as the Saudi Arabian sheiks controlled the oil flowing out of the Middle East. Even America, with all of her military might, would be paralyzed with the dread of another cartel attack. Their leaders would make speeches, promise to wage yet another war against drugs, while sitting on their pristine, perfectly-manicured hands and doing nothing...

6:48:17 p.m. PDT Tunney and Sons Quality Tool and Die Browne End Road, Las Vegas For nearly an hour, Curtis Manning saw no one enter or leave the multiple-block compound of Bix Automotive, though the mysterious activity inside the garage clearly continued. Occasionally Curtis would see the flash of a welder's torch visible behind the garage's oily windows, or someone would step outside for a smoke or a breath of fresh air, only to be ordered back into the enormous garage by Roman Vine, Bix's strong-arm man. Manning noted that today Vine was carrying an illegal sawed-off shotgun, and he wasn't shy about flas.h.i.+ng it.

Curtis was about to report in when he observed a Saturn minivan roll up to the garage door. Roman Vine spied the car and waved it forward. Curtis quickly counted four men inside the car before they drove into the garage. He didn't get a good look at the faces, though he did notice that one man wore reflecting sungla.s.ses. Curtis noticed this because the man stared directly at the abandoned Tool and Die factory as if he were looking right at Curtis.

Dutifully, Curtis snapped a digital image of the men with his PDA, then forwarded it to Morris...o...b..ian at the Cha-Cha Lounge. While he performed that task, another SUV - this one a Chrysler - pulled onto the Bix lot. Curtis had no time to snap digital pictures of the men inside that vehicle. They all appeared to be Hispanic males in their late twenties or early thirties. Curtis counted six men in the car.

Curtis had just pulled the cell phone out of his pocket when his PDA sounded. He checked the display and discovered his data drop to Morris had not gone through.

Suddenly alarmed, Curtis then checked his cell phone and found he could not get a signal, no matter how hard he tried. That should have been impossible, because he'd used the cell phone when he last checked in with Morris, less than thirty minutes before.

Someone was jamming the signals in the area, which meant that Bix or his men probably suspected someone was in the vicinity, spying on them. Curtis tucked the devices into his pocket, then reached for his jacket. It was time to go...

6:55:57 p.m. PDT Bix Automotive Center Browne End Road, Las Vegas Carlos Boca looked up from the liquid crystal display screen. "You were correct, Pizarro. There was someone in that building across the street. I believe they are still there."

Pizarro stood in the middle of the crowded garage. Hugo Bix had come down from his tattered office to greet the Colombian brothers and their Cuban allies, only to be silenced by an angry Pizarro Rojas. Chewing his lip, Pizarro waited for the results of Boca's transmission scan.