24 Declassified: Head Shot (2009) (26 page)

danger that the container vessels, the grenades, had weakened through corrosion and might be susceptible to leakage.
They were given a top priority for immediate destruction in an incinerator specifically designed to handle CWs.

“This particular facility is in Texas. Somehow, somewhere along the way, a crate of BZ weapons was stolen from the consignment. Army CID is still investigating how it was done and by whom. Whoever commissioned the theft has a very thorough and murderous organization behind them because all the suspects in the theft were eliminated early on, killed in such a way as to look like fatal accidents or suicide.”

Jack said, “Well, Doc, it looks like your wandering boys have come home.” Norbert looked vaguely embarrassed. He said, “Ahem. Er, yes.”

Garcia said, “We followed up on your suggestion that Red Notch be investigated for traces of CWs, Jack. The compound itself, cabins and sheds and so forth, came up clean. But bloodstains at the site tested positive for the presence of an unknown molecular complex that was subsequently identified as BZ.”

Norbert said, “The BZ in the gas grenades was designed to have an extremely short life once released. Exposure to the oxygen in open air breaks down the BZ compound, rendering it inert and harmless within approximately ten minutes. When ingested by humans who’ve breathed the gas, traces of the compound remain for a time in the blood and tissues.”

Jack stirred uneasily. “I’ve been exposed. Where does that leave me?” Norbert h
eld his hands palms out with fi
ngers spread in a placating gesture. “Not to worry. The antidote you were given neutralized the drug’s effects. The molecular remnants are inert, harmless. They’ll be broken down naturally by your body processes within forty-eight to seventy-two hours.”

Jack said, “So there’s no danger of a recurrence, Doctor?”

“No. Absolutely not.”

“Good. I’m not eager for any flashbacks of that experience.”

“Remember the gas in those grenades is close to forty years old. Apparently it’s lost a great deal of its potency over time. Otherwise even your minimal exposure to it would have had much more deleterious consequences.”

“I’ll tell you this, Doc: it still packs a hell of a punch.”

Garcia said, “You might be interested to know that the hermit Lobo tested negative for the presence of BZ. He hadn’t been exposed to the gas. The same applies to the bodies of ATF agents Dean and O’Hara. Whatever happened to them happened before the gas grenades were used. Their skulls showed indications of blunt force trauma. My guess is that they were taken at gunpoint, knocked out, and taken away to be disposed of later.

“If not for the BZ traces in the bloodstains, we wouldn’t have known what we were dealing with. Our forensic pathologists didn’t know what they were looking for but were able to identify the molecular complex by computer analysis. I never heard of BZ myself, and they had to tell me what it was. References to it in the reports we filed with headquarters were flagged at Langley and sent up a red flag on the seventh floor. They contacted Army Intelligence, who contacted me. Dr. Norbert and his staff and mobile lab arrived here a few hours ago.” Jack said, “You were unaware of the missing crate of BZ grenades?”

“I was until earlier today.” Garcia’s face hardened into stubborn lines and he glared out of the corner of his eye at Norbert.

Norbert said, “Naturally the Army isn’t eager to advertise the loss of a dangerous psycho-chemical weapon for fear of triggering a mass panic.”

“Oh, naturally.”

The doctor ignored Garcia’s sarcasm and said quickly, “What’s important is that it has been found. Or at least a lead to it, the only one we’ve had since it went missing. We’ll be working closely with CTU to locate the rest of it.”

Jack said, “Did your investigators turn up any links between Prewitt’s group and the stolen BZ grenades?”

“Frankly our investigation hit a blank wall. But the Zealots never surfaced in any of it, not a hint. If it had, we’d have been all over them.”

“How does a crackpot cult turn up in the middle of a plot involving death squads and exotic psycho-chemical weapons?”

Garcia shrugged massive shoulders. “You tell me.”

Jack said, “I hope to do just that.” He hopped down off the examining table, reached for his clothes, which were hanging on a wall hook, and pulled on his pants.

Garcia stood up, nearly overturning the metal stool. “What do you think you’re doing, Jack?”

“Putting on my pants.”

“I can see that. But what have you got in mind?”

“I’m going back to work. I’ve got things to do.”

Garcia shook his head. “Oh no. You’re in no condition to go back on duty— ”

Jack said, “What do you say, Doc? Any reason why I can’t get back in harness?”

“Considering what you’ve been through, a few days’ rest is highly advised—”

“Come on. You yourself said that the drug has been neutralized in my system and that there’s no danger of a recurrence.”

“That’s true, but the antidote is a powerful depressant.”

“And offset by the stimulant you gave me which you said counteracts the antidote’s effects. So I’m good to go.”

“I wouldn’t put it that way.”

“You don’t have to. I did.” Jack reached for his shirt, made a face. “Whew! I’m going to need to round up some clean clothes. Where can I get some around here?”

Garcia said, “You won’t be needing them. You’re not going anywhere, Agent Bauer—except maybe back to L.A. You’ve done your part here and more. Now let the rest of us do our jobs.”

Jack said, “You won’t be rid of me that easily. I bought a ticket for this ride and I’m not getting off before the last stop.”

“Your last stop is right here.”

Norbert edged toward the door. “I’ll just step outside for a moment to give you gentlemen some privacy.”

Jack said, “Stick around, Doc, this concerns you, too. You want your stolen BZ back, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course.”

“I’m the best chance you’ve got of getting it back.” Garcia scoffed, “You better sit down and take a rest. That BZ is going to your head.”

Jack said, “Let’s get real. If I wanted to, I could go to Chappelle. He’s got enough of a legitimate stake in this mission to go to Langley for a directive to keep me on assignment here.”

Garcia’s nostrils flared, whites showing around his black-bore eyes. “You think so, huh?
”

“
I don’t want to go crying to Chappelle. I’d prefer to convince you by the logic of my position.”

“That’ll take some doing.”

“Fact: I’m the only who’s seen the face of Reb the strike force leader and is still alive to put the finger on him.
Whoever’s behind him will know that, too. You need me around in a high-
profile position if only to serve as bait. The plotters know who I am but not how much I know. They’ll want to get rid of me, and to do that they’ll have to tip their hand, which gives us a chance of getting a hot lead.”

Norbert said thoughtfully, “He’s got a point.” Garcia snorted in disgust. “You’re as bad as he is!”

Jack said, “Tell me you’d do anything different if our positions were reversed and you were in my shoes.” Garcia fumed silently. Jack pressed, “Go on, tell me you’d quit in the middle of a mission.”

“I can’t. But all that means is that we’re both a pair of damned fools. Happy now?”

“I’m still in?”

“You’re in.”

“Great. Now where can I find some clean clothes? And my gun.”

THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 5 P.M. AND 6 P.M. MOUNTAIN DAYLIGHT TIME

Pike’s Ford, Colorado

Lila Gibbs said, “Is that your Reb?”

She and Jack Bauer were occupying a cubicle in a section of one of the mobile home trailers that housed CTU/DENV’s command post at Pike’s Ford. They sat side by side facing a flat-screen computer monitor that was set on a countertop.

Jack was freshly showered and wore a change of clothes that had been lent to him by an agent of similar height and build who had a spare set of garments in a locker in another trailer that served as a barracks for the on-site team.

He still wore his own gun and shoulder holster. Weapon and harness both had taken a lot of punishment lately but were still operable. The same could be said of Jack. He’d forgotten that he even had a gun during his BZ- induced fugue, but it had remained in his possession throughout the experience. He told himself it was a good thing he had forgotten it during his altered state because otherwise he might have been tempted to look down the barrel to see where the bullet comes out of or done some other thing that would have gotten his head blown off permanently.

He’d repeated the now-familiar routine of test-firing the gun at the outdoor range, this time to determine that it had suffered no internal damage when he’d tumbled down the ridge.
It checked out fine.
So did he. His eye was sharp, his hand steady, and his aim true. The shoulder harness was scratched and sweat-stained but unbroken. He stuck with it because he was used to it and didn’t want to risk breaking in a new rig whose unfamiliarity might slow down the speed of his draw.
Especially since he was going back out in the field to serve as live bait.

But not yet. There was still an important task to be carried out here at Pike’s Ford. That’s why he was now working with Lila Gibbs.

She was an expert in the use of facial morphology software for identification purposes. Her role was like that of the old-time police sketch artist who draws a suspect’s picture based on eyewitness testimony.
The software was essentially a twenty-first century update of the classic police Identi-Kit that uses a variety of facial features to create a composite image of the suspect’s likeness.

Jack had described Reb to her: “He’s between his mid-thirties and forty in age. Height about six-four; weight anywhere from 220 to 240 pounds. He’s all pumped up like a pro wrestler or bodybuilder, even his muscles have muscles. I’d say look for heavy steroid use in the profile because nobody can get that kind of build without getting on the juice.
Platinum-blond crew cut, a flattop.
That hair color isn’t found in nature and must have come out of a bottle. His left eyebrow is split by a diagonal scar a couple of inches long. Square- shaped face with a lot of jaw and chin. Clean-shaven. No identifying marks or scars that I could see, except for that scar over the left eye. He’s a mean- looking dude, too, if that’s any help.”

Lila Gibbs was in her forties, matronly, with curly brown hair, green eyes, and a heart-shaped face.
She worked the keyboard, inputting the specifications and searching the archives.
The computer was linked to the CTU data net, itself able to draw on a multiplicity of sources among law enforcement, intelligence, the military, and other governmental agencies.

She said, “The name Reb could be a help or hindrance depending on whether or not it’s a longtime alias or one that was recently assumed. If the latter, it may not be in the files or it could be a name he’s taken to deliberately mislead the authorities and hide his real identity. But we’ll include the alias with the first search. If it hits, so much the better, and if not, we can rule it out and proceed from there.”

Her fingers deftly manipulated the keyboard, calling up the data. Somewhere in an unknown location massive CIA supercomputers processed the request, winnowing through oceans of binary zeroes and ones to find the desired droplets in the cyber sea.

There were thousands of “Rebs” in the archived United States police, military, and national files, more in the international ones.
A hundred fit the general description; a dozen or so had facial scars in the vicinity of their left eye. Three of that twelve were described as having scars that split the left eyebrow.

Lila Gibbs pulled up their facial photos one at a time. Jack selected the third, said, “Try that one.”

The screen was filled with a police mug shot containing two views of the suspect, one full- facial and the other a profile. Jack said, “I didn’t see him in profile, just full-on.”

Gibbs minimized the profile and maximized the frontal. It depicted a man with shoulder- length dark hair and a full beard; a cold-eyed, glowering thug with a scar across his left eyebrow. “Is that your Reb?”

Jack said, “Could be. It could be. It’s hard to be sure with all that foliage covering the face, but definitely maybe.”

“I could search for other photos of the subject but this is the most recent one. There’s an easy way to get rid of that mess, though.”

She worked more keys and a mouse, and after a pause the subject’s image broke up only to be immediately reformatted. “This is how he’d look without the hair and beard.”

Jack said, “Bingo! That’s him. That’s Reb.” She did some more manipulations. “Just to be sure, that’s how he’d look with a crew cut.
”

“
That’s him all right.”

The subject was identified as one “Weld, Gordon Stuart; aka Reb, The Rebel, Gordy, Gordo,” and a number of other aliases that were mostly variations and combinations of his first and middle names.