Authors: John Whitman
Jack didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
“Then do it.” Barnes hung up the phone.
7:15
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. PST Lackland Air Force Base, San Antonio, Texas
Bob Lundquist swung his flight helmet jauntily in his right hand. One more day, he thought. Then two weeks of leave, and a new baby.
The F-16C loomed large in front of him, a fierce silhouette against the landing strip’s night lights. She was his second love, the F-16, though soon she would get bumped to third. His wife came first, and when his baby arrived... well, he knew the jet would forgive him. A lot of his colleagues had fallen under the spell of the sleek F-117 Stealth fighter, or gone for the newness of the F-22, but Lundquist could see that the grass wasn’t always greener. His F-16 had kept him in the sky over Iraq when the enemy’s planes went down in flames. As far as he was concerned, they were mates for life.
Lundquist’s wife was scheduled to have her labor induced in three days. They had timed it perfectly. He had plenty of leave saved up, and he had just come back from a six-month tour overseas, which meant that, barring a new war, he’d remain stateside for a full year. One whole year to watch his new baby grow.
Lundquist reached the F-16 just as one of the flight crew ran up to him. “Get in there. Hurry!” the man yelled.
Lundquist checked his watch. He wasn’t late. What was the guy’s problem? Still, the airman wouldn’t leave him alone, so he hustled up the ladder and dropped himself into the pilot’s seat. He slid his helmet into place, sealed the canopy, and plugged into the Thunderbird’s communication system. Immediately, the box started squawking at him.
“Mustang 1-9, Mustang 1-9, emergency flight check and you are go for takeoff,” the control tower shouted at him.
“Tower, this is Mustang 1-9. Did I miss a flight change? I’m scheduled for practice nighttime takeoffs and landings. What’s the hurry?”
“Mustang 1-9, you are being scrambled for immediate takeoff against hostile targets. This is not a drill.”
“Holy shit!” Lundquist yelled. He threw the starter switch to warm his engines.
7:18
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. PST CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles
Jamey Farrell and her team worked frantically, routing every erg of power their network had to draw information into CTU. Miles above their heads, satellites hanging in the vacuum of space shifted ever so slightly in their orbits, and onboard telescopic cameras rotated their lenses to scan the middle portion of continent far below. From Lubbock, Texas, to Lansing, Michigan, every civilian and military radar station went on high alert.
Ryan Chappelle hung up the phone. He licked his thin lips nervously. “Well, this is no longer a clandestine little operation. We just got Homeland Security to ground every airplane in Kansas, and every plane flying over Kansas just got rerouted.”
Kelly pulled the phone away from his ear to say, “Lackland Air Force base just scrambled fighters. They’ll be over Kansas in half an hour.”
“Lackland?” Jack asked. “Isn’t that in Texas? Don’t we have any Air Force bases in Kansas?”
Kelly shook his head. “Not unless you count the 137th Air Refueling Wing, but I don’t think they’ll be shooting anyone down.”
7:24
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. PST 40,000 Feet Above Oklahoma
Lundquist raced across the night sky, with the wide flat expanse of Texas and then Oklahoma sliding away beneath him. Patches of glowing light looked like pools reflecting the stars above. To his left and slightly behind, he saw the silhouette and wing lights of his wingman, Sam Amato.
God, he loved this. He was jockeying one of the most powerful machines ever designed by man, flying at the speed of sound.
“Tower, this is Mustang 1-9, leveling off at forty-five thousand feet, speed mach 1.1. Heading zero-onezero. Over.”
“Roger, Mustang. Continue on your present course. ETA to Kansas City approximately twenty-three minutes. Over.”
“Roger, Tower,” Lundquist said. He checked his guns and missiles. He’d fired on enemy combatants before. But his combat had taken place eight thousand miles away over the desert. This was Kansas! He gritted his teeth. “Just tell me what to shoot.”
7:26
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. PST Kansas International Airport (MCI), Kansas City, Missouri
Barry Wynn dragged his ass back toward the news van. His feet hurt and his back ached, but mostly his ego had been hurt. He’d been on his feet all day, doing a live report on a police chase at 5 P.M., then following his camera crew out to the airport to film a segment on airport security. Barry had done so many of these scare-based stories that he had begun to narrate his own life using the larger-than-life, be-veryafraid promo lines that his station used; things like: “Airport Security: Is It Making You Safer?” He reached the news van and started to climb in. It was almost seven-thirty. Too late to kiss the kids good night, but just on time for one of Angie’s patented chewing-out sessions. “Barry’s Home Life: The Show You Don’t Want to Miss!”
His cell phone rang. He checked the screen and saw that it was Wendy, the executive producer. He was tempted not to answer it. He’d just learned that morning that he’d been passed over for the anchor job (“Is Your Boss Planning to Fire You?”) and was in no mood to kowtow. He nearly dropped the phone back into his pocket. At the last minute, he chickened out (“The Inside Story on Human Doormats, Next Time On Barry’s Life”).
“Barry,” he said wearily.
“Bare, it’s Wendy. Are you still at the airport?” she asked breathlessly. “Please tell me you’re still at the damned airport!”
“I’m at the damned airport,” he said, dragging himself into the van.
“Good. Stay there. There’s something big going on.”
“What?” he said, resisting the urge to get excited. (“Falling for the Same Old Song and Dance? Watch ‘You’ll Never Learn’ Tonight at Eleven!”)
“That’s what I want you to find out. You’re a reporter, remember? All we know is they just grounded every airplane over in Kansas!”
7:31
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. PST CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles
Half the computer screens at CTU headquarters were now proxies for radar screens across the Midwest.
Radar over Kansas showed a few remaining blips, but each of them had been identified by the FAA, and all of them had been contacted and ordered to ground. They were dropping from sight one by one. Soon the sky would be clear.
Jack kept one eye on the screens and both ears on the speaker box. He and Kelly were on the phone with Major Scott Wilcox, United States Air Force, who worked as a military liaison between the DOD and the CIA. The word had come down quickly from higher up that they should contact him and keep him informed. The Department of Defense didn’t like being ordered around by the CIA, or its bastard child CTU.
“Listen,” Wilcox said. “We’ve got fighters scrambled. They’ll be flying air cover over Kansas City in a couple of minutes. But I’ve got a problem with your theory.” Wilcox had been briefed on the EMP device and the terrorists.
“It’s more than a theory, Major,” Jack replied.
“Whatever it is, it’s got a big hole in it,” the Air Force officer shot back. “Do you guys have any idea how high nineteen miles is? Your terrorists don’t have any way of getting a plane that high. We don’t even have any planes that go that high!”
Wilcox couldn’t have stopped Jack Bauer in his tracks more suddenly if he’d slapped him across the face. “Nineteen miles, well, they ...I mean, they stole the fucking thing, they’ve got to have a plan . . .” He trailed off, furious with himself. He must be getting tired. He hadn’t even thought of that.
Sharpton filled the silence. “Something must go that high.”
“Sure,” Wilcox answered sarcastically. “The Space Shuttle. Rockets. ICBMs go that high. The theory you’re referring to, this whole Kansas idea, originally comes from the idea of bursting a nuclear missile over Kansas. Nuclear missiles go a lot higher than airplanes.”
“A rocket, then,” Sharpton said.
“Okay,” Wilcox said condescendingly. “So your guys who just stole an EMP device now plan to fly to Kansas and steal a rocket?”
It sounded unbelievable, of course. Only the military had access to high-altitude rockets, and breaking into a military base would be a major terrorist activity in itself.
“It doesn’t have to be a rocket.”
Jack practically leaped at Brett Marks, who was standing in the door way. “What are you doing here. Get out!”
“They released me, Jack,” Marks said. He was dressed in a pair of gray sweats and sweat shirt with the generic “FLETC” across the front. “That was the deal.”
“Letting you eavesdrop on our conversations sure as hell wasn’t!” Jack glared at the uniformed guard behind Marks. “Get him out of here!”
Brett stepped back toward the guard, offering no resistance. “I’m gone, Jack. But it doesn’t have to be a rocket. You ever heard of the X Prize?!” The security guard led him away.
“What’s the X Prize?” Sharpton said. “I think I’ve heard of that.”
“Oh.” It was Major Wilcox, his disembodied voice suddenly hesitant and thoughtful in the speaker box. “Hey, that’s possible.”
“What is?” Jack asked impatiently.
“The X Prize. It’s a prize being offered to any private company that can build a reusable spacecraft. It’s five or ten million dollars to the winner. A lot of private sector scientists are taking it seriously. There are some designs on the board that might work.”
“Could these guys build one?”
On his end of the phone, Wilcox hesitated. Jack stared at the speaker box, growing more frustrated by the moment. He felt like a dog chasing its tail. He was in charge of this operation, but he didn’t feel confident in it.
“It’s next to impossible,” Wilcox finally said. But the self-assured, acidic tone had disappeared from his voice.
7:40
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. PST CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles
The computer room at CTU was full of people, but it was silent as a graveyard. Programmers sat at every terminal, analyzing data. Field operatives watched and waited anxiously. Jack paced back and forth behind the lines of analysts studying their screens. He was missing something. There had to be something.
Chappelle was nearby, leaning over Jessi Bandison’s shoulder. “Why are there still blips on the radar screens?” he asked. “Isn’t all air traffic grounded?”
Jessi nodded. “We’re getting relays from Strategic Air Command, ground-based radar in Kansas, and AWAC radar planes over Kansas. Those two blips there are fighters out of Lackland. Those and those, the slow-moving ones, are high-flying flocks of birds. It’s spring. They’re all heading back north for the summer.”
7:45
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. PST 40,000 Feet Above Kansas
“Mustang 1-9, maintain your current pattern and wait for further instructions,” Lundquist heard in his earpiece. He was no longer talking to the controllers back at Lackland.
“Roger, Command,” he replied.
Lundquist made his second pass over Kansas City, so high that the entire metropolis was no bigger than the tip of a glowing cigar. His radar screen was empty. He hadn’t been briefed on the nature of his target, or its purpose. He didn’t need to know. He read everything necessary in the tense voices of his commanders back home. Something was amiss. There was some danger present in the prairie skies. Well, he knew his duty. No one was messing with his country, not before, and certainly not now that he had a baby on the way. Lundquist banked right and angled for his third pass.
7:58
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. PST CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles
“Maybe they’re not planning it yet,” Sharpton wondered aloud, back in the computer room with all the other watchers. “Maybe they need time to prepare.”
“Fine by me,” Jack said. He was wondering if they’d gotten lucky. If Kelly was right, the terrorists had lost the initiative. CTU could keep planes flying over the Midwest indefinitely, while ground teams tracked down their airplane and, eventually, the terrorists.
“Chappelle, do you think we should—” He looked around for Chappelle. The Director hadn’t left the computer screen. He watched it, his eyes barely blinking, while he chewed his thumbnail absentmindedly. When he heard Jack call his name, he glanced up and motioned Jack to come over.
“Look at that image,” the Director said. “It’s about the only one left in all of Kansas.”
The image was just a dot, moving with incredible slowness across the radar screen.
“Yeah?” Jack asked.
“It’s moving really slow,” Chappelle explained. “In fact, I’d say it’s not really moving at all. At least not left to right. But it is going—”
“Up,” Jack said in a horrified whisper.
Up. It was going straight up. Jack’s face turned as white as a sheet. “A balloon. A weather balloon. They put the bomb on a weather balloon.”
“What?” Kelly drawled, not yet comprehending.
“Patch Wilcox in here! Everybody be quiet!” Jack yelled. The crowd of analysts, so silent a moment before, now responded to his reaction with murmurs of confusion.
“He’s on,” Jamey Farrell said, tapping the speaker button on a nearby phone.
“Major, how high can a weather balloon fly?” Jack asked.
“Stand by,” the Air Force officer said.
Jack watched the tiny dot. “Not much time, Major.”
“I’ve got it here. Most weather balloons reach heights of about ninety thousand feet. Some can reach heights of 120,000 feet.”