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

SAC Garcia had been quite specific: “Those are CTU dead out there. This matter is going to remain in our hands until the perpetrators are found and brought to justice.”

Vanaheim was not without other auxiliary support to draw on. The U.S. Army had become involved due to certain features of the Red Notch incident. Army Intelligence officers who had a close working relationship with the CIA, CTU’s parent organization, had been called in to help. They were able to supply much-needed manpower required to secure and properly investigate Silvertop.

Shadow Valley had been cordoned off. Its sole entrance where the canyon opened on Dixon Cutoff was closed and guarded by an Army Military Police detachment. The MPs were dressed in civilian clothes but their weapons were Army- issue M–16s, M–4s and sidearms. The Army, too, wanted to minimize its footprint in the affair where possible.
The entrance was also guarded by a covert fifty- caliber machine gun nest, a precaution prompted by the unknown enemy’s use of heavy firepower.
MPs in Humvees patrolled the valleys to the east and west of the canyon to contain and detain unauthorized personnel.

The Sky Mount area had been declared a no-fly zone for the duration of the conference.
Now Shadow Valley and environs had been added to the restricted list.
Any snoopy reporters who somehow got wind that something big was cooking at Silvertop would be unable to overfly the site to satisfy their curiosity.

The south face of the bluff swarmed with activity. Teams of forensics experts and special investigators went about their business of methodically cataloging the carnage. The criminalistics crews included CTU/DENV agents working in conjunction with their opposite numbers from the MP’s Criminal Investigation Division, CID. They took photographs, diagrammed the disposition of bodies on the slopes, made plaster moulages of tire tracks left by vehicles at the scene, and collected a wide variety of evidence, all of which were properly sealed and labeled in protective envelopes. It was too early yet for the bodies to be bagged, tagged, and taken away, but that, too, would eventually be part of the process.

Vanaheim was also able to draw on the resources of the Denver field office of the ATF.
They had a dog in this fight, too. ATF agents Dean and O’Hara had been among the first casualties of the Red Notch incident. Vanaheim was working closely with ATF Inspector Cullen, now also present at the site. The two were much of a type: grim, hard, sour- faced man hunters.

They were on top of the bluff, where investigatory efforts also continued. The mass casualties on the south face had absorbed the lion’s share of resources, but important activities also continued on the summit. Holtz’s corpse was being examined by several specialists while a second group was covering the blue bus.

A handful of persons stood clustered around the mouth of the air shaft near the collapsed shed. They included Vanaheim, Cullen, and several of their administrative aides. They stood close to the edge—but not too close. A thin film of brown dust rose steadily from the hole.

Some hardy souls had already stretched prone on the ground to peer over the rim. They’d reported that the bottom of the pit was heaped with fresh mounds of dirt and rock that bore every sign of having been brought down by an explosive blast.

Vanaheim said, “Our last report from Armstrong and her team reported that they were going to enter the mine in order to investigate the shaft to see if it’d been used as a body dump. It had to have been blown up after that to block the inquiry.”

Cullen said, “The rubble will have to be cleared and the pit examined. A big job. We’ll have to get a crane hoist out here. They’ll need an earthmoving bucket and enough heavy duty cable to reach to the bottom. It’ll have to be cleared one bucketful at a time.
”

“
An order’s already been put in for one but it’ll be hours before it gets here.”

“And hours more before the pit is cleared.”

Vanaheim shrugged. “What can you do? That’s the way of it.” He knew Cullen hated delay as much as he did.

Cullen scowled. “This Prewitt character is shaping up like another Jim Jones.” He was referring to the infamous leader of the People’s Temple cult who’d orchestrated a mass suicide of the nine hundred believers who’d followed him to the hellhole colony of Jonestown in South America. Those who’d refused to drink the poisoned Kool-Aid that the guru had prescribed for the mass self-extinction orgy had been murdered.

Vanaheim said, “Jones mostly killed his own. Prewitt’s killing mine and yours.”

Cullen said, “Jones had his death squads, too. They eliminated defectors and mass- murdered a congressman and his entourage and some reporters who went down to Guyana to investigate the cult.”

“Looks like Prewitt has his own death squads as well. They’re no pushovers, either. They outshot my tac squad, and they were all top men.”

“At least they went down fighting. My guys Dean and O’Hara never knew what hit them. For that matter, neither do I.”

One of Vanaheim’s aides appeared, jogging across an open space toward the pit. He spotted his chief and changed direction, coming toward him. Vanaheim turned to face him. “What’s up, Murphy?”

The aide said, “Message for you from Pike’s Ford, sir.”

“What is it?

Murphy glanced at Cullen standing nearby. Vanaheim said, “It’s all right, he’s with us. Shoot.”

“Sir, they’ve found Jack Bauer.”

There was a new addition to the Pike’s Ford command post complex. It was a recreational vehicle that had been turned into a mobile laboratory and clinic. Nothing in its exterior coloring, design, or identification numbers indicated that its true owner was the United States Army. Its driver and crew wore civilian garments. It had arrived at Pike’s Ford a few hours earlier that afternoon.

Its forward section housed the clinic, its rear the infirmary, and its open center space served as a kind of informal office/day room. It was hooked up to a portable generator that powered its lights, air conditioner, and various appliances and equipment.

The center space held a workstation and several chairs that folded out from the side walls. It was occupied by CTU/DENV head Orlando Garcia and Dr. Fenton Norbert.

Garcia was heavyset with salt-and-pepper hair, a craggy face, thick dark eyebrows, and a neatly trimmed mustache. He said, “How soon can I see him, Doctor?”

Norbert said, “Just another couple of minutes. My nurse is finishing up the last of his treatment.” He was tall and slightly built, with a few strands of dark hair combed over his shiny scalp. He wore an open white lab coat over a white shirt, tie, and trousers. He was an active duty colonel in the Army with high-level connections with military and civilian intelligence. He had a black security rating, allowing him access to all but the most stratospheric levels of top secret material.

Garcia’s brown eyes were so dark that they seemed to blend in with the pupils, giving the impression of a pair of large black dots. They were intent and intense as they fastened on the medic. “He needs to be able to talk, Doctor. That’s vital.”

Norbert’s hazel eyes, deceptively mild, did not flinch from Garcia’s gaze. “He will.”

“But will he be making sense?”

“Yes. I gave him a Thorazine derivative that neutralizes the effects of the drug, as well as a stimulant to counteract the sedative.”

“Good. I need to know what he knows.”

“As do I.”

A narrow passage along the driver’s side wall connected with the clinic, which was partitioned off. A door opened on the right and a nurse emerged, brown-haired, round- faced,
and solidly built. She carried a clipboard with some documents attached.
She was Army, too, and her security classification was almost as high as Norbert’s.

She went into the center space. “All through, Doctor.”

“Thank you, Nurse.”

She stood to one side to let Norbert and Garcia pass, then sat down at the workstation and began processing the documents. Norbert and Garcia had to proceed single file through the passage, Norbert leading. He opened the door, and he and Garcia entered the clinic.

It was a windowless rectangular cubicle lit by overhead fluorescent lights and smelling sharply of alcohol and disinfectants. Its design maximized the available space much in RV style but with a medical slant. A foldout examining table stood lengthwise along the vehicle’s passenger side wall. The rear wall had a stainless steel sink with a cabinet above it. A locked glass-fronted cabinet stood in the corner between the rear and driver’s side wall. It contained rows of glass shelves stacked with medical instruments and supplies.

Jack Bauer sat on the examining table facing the door with his legs hanging over the sides. He was stripped down to his shorts. His athletic form was mottled with a variety of bruises and abrasions, the worst of which were covered with taped gauze patches. The left side of his face was still swollen where Trooper Fisk had hit him with the flat of the pistol. His face was scratched and cut in a number of places and pasted with adhesive bandages in several places. His glittering eyes were calm and clear.

The two men came in, Norbert closing the door behind them. A lock clicked into place. He and Garcia had to do some careful jockeying to avoid bumping into each other i
n the cramped confi
nes. Norbert indicated a round-seated metal stool with tubular legs in the corner between the sink and the glass-fronted cabinet. “Why don’t you sit there while I attend to my patient?”

Garcia said, “I thought you were through with him.”

“A doctor’s work is never done.” Norbert gestured toward the chair. “Please.”

Garcia, wide-bodied and thick-armed, sidestepped between table and wall and seated himself on the stool. He sat leaning forward with thick forearms resting on meaty thighs. He said, “I never expected to see you again, Jack.”

Jack said, “For a while I had some doubts on that score myself.”

Norbert said, “How do you feel, Jack?”

“I feel fine—all things considered.”

Norbert took a silvery pen flashlight and shone it into Jack’s eyes. “The pupils are dilating normally. That’s good. It means that the drug’s effects have been neutralized.”

Jack said, “What drug is that? You said you had some answers for me, Doctor.”

Garcia thrust his head forward aggressively. “I’ve got some questions I’d like answered myself. What happened out there on Silvertop? What happened to you and why are you the only one of the team to come back alive?”

Jack’s face fell. “None of the others made it?”

“Only you.”

“That’s a damned shame. I’m sorry.”

Garcia pressed, “Time won’t wait. I need answers now. The doctor can answer your questions when you’re done.” His manner was surly, skeptical, and suspicious. Jack didn’t blame him. He’d have been the same way himself had their positions been reversed.

Jack said, “You sure you want the doctor to hear all this?”

“Dr. Norbert is U.S. Army Colonel Norbert. He’s not only a medic, he’s Army Intelligence. The Army is working hand in glove with CTU on this.”

Jack said, “Okay.” Norbert stood leaning against the forward wall with arms folded against his chest. Garcia said, “Just give the highlights that I can use for immediate action. You’ll be fully debriefed later.”

Jack summarized the team’s actions on Silvertop after going into the mine. He told of finding the mass grave at the bottom of the shaft.

Garcia said, “How many did you say there were?”

Jack replied, “I’d say at least twenty, maybe more.”

“How can you be sure of that?”

“I can’t, not totally. It’s an estimate. The killers didn’t bother covering them up with too much dirt.
I’ve seen mass killings—too many—out in the field before, in the Balkans, Darfur, Iraq . . . You know the litany.
I’ve got the experience to make a pretty accurate guess.”

Garcia looked disturbed, dubious. “But that would be pretty much all of the Red Notch cadre!”

Jack said, “Yes. I find that to be particularly significant, don’t you?”

“If true. Maybe they weren’t all Zealots.”

Jack shrugged. “I suppose one- half of the cadre could have killed the other and then thrown in some other folks they didn’t like, but that’s not how I’d bet it.”

Garcia demanded, “What about Prewitt? Was he one of the dead? Or Ingrid Thaler?”

“I didn’t see them.
But conditions at the bottom of the shaft weren’t conducive to making any positive identifications.”

“So either one or both could still be alive.”

“It’s possible. You’ll know for sure when you dig them up and haul them into the light of day.”

Garcia shook his head like a bull tossing its horns. “That won’t be for some considerable time. That dynamite blast brought a lot of the shaft down on top of them.”

Jack said, “Which was the purpose of the exercise.”

“Eh? How so?”

“To delay identification of the bodies until the Round Table is over.” Garcia challenged, “Who’d want to do that and why?
”

“
Who, I don’t know. Why—because that delay is key to someone’s plans.”