Abruptly, a young airman appeared between two mounds of electronic equipment. He halted in surprise when he saw them.

"Dr. Sable, Dr. Alvarez... Dr. Reed's been asking for you," he said.

"Yeah, well, Tony and I were just grabbing some cable," Dr. Sable replied, tucking a coil of thick, insulated wire under his arm.

"That's right," grunted Tony, grabbing another bundle and looping it over his shoulder. "Some of those old generator wires are frayed. Better to replace them all."

"Maybe I can help," the airman offered. The earnest young man grabbed two coils, each representing several hundred feet of wire - more than they would ever need. Spinning on his polished heels, the airman headed back to the hangar door.

Sable grinned, shot Tony a conspiratorial wink. Then he dropped his own coil and, whistling tunelessly, followed the soldier to the exit.

Meanwhile, Tony shouldered his own burden, while he pondered how he was going to get hold of Sable's cell phone in the next several hours, without the man knowing about it.

1:32:05 p.m. PDT Babylon Hotel and Casino, Las Vegas "This suite is certainly impressive." Sherry Palmer ran her hand across the sleek steel frame of an ultramodern armchair.

Senator Palmer appraised the stark sandstone walls, gla.s.s part.i.tions, black leather furnishings, and splashes of primary-colored pop art.

"It's nice," he said with a raised eyebrow. "But I still prefer the Venetian."

Sherry crossed the floor and threw open the balcony's gla.s.s doors. A blast of hot desert air filled the room - but only for a moment, until the suite's computer brain increased the air conditioning by forty percent.

"Just think, David. The last time we were in Las Vegas this place hadn't even been built yet."

"Casinos grow like weeds out here."

"You can't deny the view is impressive. The hotel's Hanging Gardens start right below us. I can smell the honeysuckle all the way up here..."

The senator had already removed his jacket. Now he rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt, loosened his tie, and placed his hands on his hips. "The view is magnificent, no doubt about it. From forty stories up, even Las Vegas is a handsome city..."

"But you disapprove," Sherry observed from the edge of the balcony. "Because you really are a Puritan."

David smiled. "I prefer to think of myself as a Boy Scout."

Sherry laughed, walked back to her husband. "You're tense," she said, reaching up to ma.s.sage his broad shoulders. "Are you still fretting about your performance downstairs? Well, don't. You were wonderful, David! Your words, your answers... they set just the right tone."

Senator Palmer shook his head.

"You didn't let Larry Bell get under your skin?" Sherry pressed. "I know he's a conniving dog, but you should be used to that..."

"It's nothing, Sherry, really," David replied, wrapping her in his arms.

"I know you too well," Sherry said, returning his embrace. "You're holding something back."

But Palmer refused to respond to her question. Instead, he changed the subject. "This is nice," he whispered, nuzzling his wife's hair. Sherry closed her eyes and leaned closer.

A gentle knock interrupted them.

"Ignore it," Sherry whispered, pulling him closer. But David Palmer frowned and stepped back.

"I... can't," he told her. His tone and his expression were br.i.m.m.i.n.g with regret.

Sherry nodded. "Now I know what's been bothering you. You're not only here for the drug conference... You've got some kind of committee business going on." Her expression shifted suddenly, from suspicion to alarm. "You're not doing something that would jeopardize your bid for the White House?"

"I can't discuss this right now," he replied.

"You don't have to. I know I'm right."

The knock came again. They stared at one another for a moment.

"You know that you can't shut me out... not even from policy decisions. When everything's said and done, I'm your only ally, David," Sherry said, then turned to call loudly towards the door. "Let yourself in, Lev! You have a keycard!"

The door opened. "Hey." Lev's gaze nervously darted between Sherry and David.

"Sherry was just leaving," the senator said.

"That's right, I'm leaving," Sherry repeated coolly. She s.n.a.t.c.hed her bag from the gla.s.s and steel table. "I have a full schedule, too."

As she pa.s.sed Lev Cohen, their eyes met. "I'll see you later," Sherry promised softly before closing the door behind her.

"Come in, sit down, Lev." Palmer sank into the leather couch and stretched his long legs. Cohen sat in the steel framed chair across from him.

"Before we begin, Senator, I want to apologize for what happened in the lobby. I... I should have been on top of that."

David raised his hand. "No apologies, Lev, or I'll have to apologize, too, for my initial reaction. My impatience was out of line, so let's just drop the subject."

Lev Cohen nodded, visibly relieved.

"Now, about this other matter," Palmer prodded.

"All the arrangements have been made, Senator. A representative from the Air Force Systems Command will arrive in..." Cohen checked his watch. "...a little less than two hours."

Palmer nodded, his expression a thousand miles away.

"Senator?"

He blinked. "Sorry, Lev. I guess I zoned out for a minute there."

"Yes, well, as I was saying... Your escort will be a Colonel Vincent DeBlasio, accompanied by a security staff. He's bringing a car that will take you to the airport."

Palmer sighed. "Thank you, Lev."

"Since I won't be going with you, I thought I'd a.s.sist Sherry with her afternoon schedule. She's meeting the Mayor's wife at four, then there's..."

Lev's voice petered out when he realized David Palmer was, once again, distracted by something. He cleared his throat and the Senator looked up.

"You're a wise man, Lev," Palmer said. "I trust your counsel as much as I trust anyone's."

"Thank you sir..."

"You know I'd take you with me today... if I could."

This time it was Lev who raised his hand. "What you're doing today is cla.s.sified, sir. Part of your duty as the chairman of the Senate Special Defense Appropriations Committee. It's obviously beyond my security clearance level, and I completely understand."

Palmer offered his chief of staff a half smile. "Nicely put. Still, I could use some of your sage advice. I'm forced to make a very difficult decision today. It's a decision I'll make alone, and it's weighing heavily."

Lev nodded sympathetically. "The burden of command, David. It will only get heavier after you get to the White House."

Palmer's grin was genuine. "If I get there, you mean." I get there, you mean."

Lev shook his head. "Oh, you'll get there, Senator. You have what it takes and this country needs you."

"I appreciate your endors.e.m.e.nt, but I'm afraid we'll have to leave it up to the voters."

Both men chuckled. Then the chief of staff rose. "You'd better get some rest, Senator. It's going to be a long day."

1:56:43 p.m. PDT Big Dean's Truck Farm Two miles southeast of Route 582 Outside of Henderson, Nevada A billowing cloud of powdery dust followed the lumbering semi as it crawled up the slight incline. With each pit and b.u.mp of the rough, unpaved road, the trailer the truck hauled shuddered and boomed hollowly, rocking back and forth so violently it seemed poised to tip over at any moment. At the top of the hillock, the narrow path ended at a pair of eight-foot wooden doors adorned with curls of rusty barbed wire. Above the weathered gate the faded BIG DEAN'S sign was topped by a crudely rendered image of smiling cowboy tipping his broad brimmed hat.

The driver hardly slackened his pace as he approached the barrier. Instead, the truck's roar shook a pair of sun-browned workers in greasy overalls out of a dilapidated, sun-bleached shed. They loped to the gates, one lifting the latch, the other swinging the rickety doors open. Within a moment, the truck roared through the opening, followed by its cloud of grit and grime.

With a high-pitched squeal the semi braked, sand and gravel crunching under sixteen wheels. The vehicle ground to a halt in the middle of a dusty expanse occupied by the shack, and a battered mobile home with cracked windows resting on gray concrete bricks. The mobile home's dented sides were flecked with peeling yellow paint.

The driver popped his door just as the persistent plume of dust finally overtook his vehicle. Coughing once, the coyote hopped to the ground and disdainfully kicked the Nevada sand with a booted foot. Tall and rail thin, wearing faded jeans and a red bandana around his throat, the young man had dark hair that stuck out from under the brim of a sweat-stained cowboy hat. Brown face impa.s.sive, the human smuggler sauntered to the rear of the vehicle.

As he began to unlock the trailer's door, three Hispanic men emerged from the dilapidated mobile home on the opposite end of the enclosed lot. The trio were clad in dusty denim and heavy work boots. The two men on either end were well over six feet tall, muscular, with thick necks and shaven heads, dotted with stubble. The man in the middle was shorter than the others, and had a full head of brown, curly hair. Mirrored sungla.s.ses covered his eyes. Each man cradled an AK-47 in the crook of his arm.

If the presence of automatic weapons troubled the coyote, he didn't show it. With an air of tedious routine, the man unlatched the steel door on the back of the trailer and swung it open. Eyes to the ground, he stepped back to allow the newcomers un.o.bstructed access to the cargo inside.

Five men emerged from inside the cavernous trailer, blinking against the harsh desert sun. They wore worn work clothes and were armed like the others, their a.s.sault rifles slung over their shoulders, next to heavy backpacks. Joints stuff, muscles sore, the men slowly and silently climbed down from the trailer. Only one man out of the group approached the armed trio. Without preamble he hugged the man in the middle, muttering quietly in Spanish. The two stood in the sun, arms looped around each other's necks, heads bowed, foreheads together like boxers who'd just finished a grueling match.

While the reunion took place, the coyote crossed the enclosure to a rusty faucet sticking out of the ground next to the ramshackle hut. He slipped a canteen from his belt, turned on the tap, and filled the aluminum container. Moving quietly past the others, he jumped into the dark trailer.

"Where is he going?" the man with the sungla.s.ses asked, finally breaking the embrace.

"We were not alone," the other man replied. "There are more people inside the truck. A banker, his wife, and their child. He's a businessman... former former businessman... fleeing a financial scandal in Mexico City." businessman... fleeing a financial scandal in Mexico City."

The man with the sungla.s.ses moved between the others, to peer into the darkened trailer. He saw a man in a tailored suit, now dirty and travel worn. The man's eyes were large and nervous, his tie loose around a flabby neck. He squatted on the metal floor, a prominent gut hanging over his belt. A woman rested on her knees beside him. With the hem of her dress, the woman was brushing dirt off the pudgy face of a five-year-old girl, still sluggish from sleep. The man and wife viewed the armed men warily, while pretending indifference.

While the man with the sungla.s.ses watched, the coyote offered the family his canteen. The businessman waved it away, still staring at the strangers through the open door. The woman took a few sips, then helped the little girl quench her thirst.

Sungla.s.ses sneered. "This flesh smuggler had specific instructions. He was very well compensated to ferry you and your men across the border. Only Only you and your men." you and your men."

The other nodded once. "He told me this... this banker paid more money than we did. He said if he was leaving anyone behind, it was us. In any case, it was too late to haggle. I thought it best to deal with the problem on this end..."

"And so we shall," Sungla.s.ses said. Stepping back, he raised his right hand and gestured the two bodyguards forward.

"Use your weapons. Deal with them," he commanded.

Before anyone could register shock, the two men raised their AK-47s and threw the safeties. The woman inside the trailer jumped at the sound. The coyote whirled to face them.

The quiet desert suddenly erupted with the chattering bark of twin a.s.sault rifles. The long, sustained sound seemed magnified by the trailer's hollow interior, echoing back at the shooters in waves of booming sound. Only when the banana-shaped clips were empty did the men stop firing. The abrupt silence was nearly as jarring as the explosion of noise that preceded it.

The man with the sungla.s.ses turned his back on the carnage, focused his mirrored stare on one of the men who'd opened the gate.

"Bury them in the desert," he said.

Then the man with the sungla.s.ses turned and led the newcomers to the dusty mobile home.

3

THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 2 P.M. AND 3 P.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME.

2:01:21 p.m. PDT The Cha-Cha Lounge, Las Vegas The woman beside him stirred. Jack Bauer opened his eyes, instantly alert. A dark cloud was spread across the pillow beside him; and then he remembered...

He'd drifted off, gazing at the ebony hair of Stella Hawk, but thinking - and dreaming - of his wife. It was a vision from a long time ago. He was surfing a shimmering aqua ocean, the sun-washed beach gleaming white. Teri sat on the sand, laughing with her art crowd friends around a small bonfire, her body taut in a wetsuit, waiting for Jack to give her that promised surf lesson. He did... and, later that night, they'd made love for the first time...

Jack lay motionless for a moment, clinging to the vanishing threads of his deeply satisfying dream - only to feel the memory slip away, along with the feeling of contentment it brought him.

He raised his left arm to check the time. In the dim light filtering through the shuttered blinds he almost believed he could still see the faded circle around the third finger of his left hand. Jack immediately shifted his gaze to the illuminated face of the MTM Spec Ops watch. It was just after two o'clock in the afternoon. Forty-two days and seven hours since he'd last been with his wife.

In the beginning, Jack believed this undercover a.s.signment would allow him time to visit his family - a weekend here and there, at the very least. Los Angeles was just a few hours away from Vegas by car, even quicker by plane. And Christopher Henderson agreed that an occasional visit would not jeopardize the success of the mission.

During the first two months, Jack had made several trips to see his family. But each homecoming proved more difficult than the last. There was a world of difference between Jack Bauer, loving husband and father, and the dangerous, violent double-life of Jaycee Jager. To his dismay, Jack discovered that he could not easily bridge that gap. After playing the role of Jager twenty-four hours a day, for weeks on end, shifting personas proved difficult. The last time he'd been home, Jack actually felt alienated from his own family. Instead of the respite it was supposed to be, life in his own home seemed to sap more of Jack's energy than his undercover existence at the Cha-Cha Lounge.

So Jack stopped going home, warning Teri that he would be "overseas" for an extended and as yet undetermined period of time. Of course, his wife accepted his explanation. She always did. Teri had learned to accept the nature of his work and no longer asked questions.

Jack secretly worried that if she knew the truth, she'd be as relieved to see him go as he was to be gone.

By his side, Jack felt Stella move again. She wrapped her warm, naked body around his. The woman's knee curled and he felt the platinum bells circling her ankle tickle his calf. Holding him close, she sighed and muttered something in her sleep. He noticed her bright pink lipstick was smeared from their quick, pa.s.sionate coupling.

He'd brought Stella up to the tiny suite of rooms that doubled as Jaycee Jager's home and his office. As soon as the door had closed behind them, she'd thrown herself at him, her physical demands insistent and unconstrained. He'd surrendered, knowing she would be more pliable to his questioning after their tryst.

Jack hadn't heard from Jaycee Jager's volatile girlfriend in over a week, but he was impressed with the woman's timing. Stella was connected to the underbelly of this city; and, thus far, her knowledge had proven accurate and useful. Now he was hoping she'd gotten wind of Hugo Bix's scheme to peddle cla.s.sified technology to lowlife gambling cheats. Why should she know? Because before Jaycee Jager had rolled in from , Stella Hawk had belonged to Bix.

Jack had already planned to grill the woman when their paths crossed again. If she hadn't shown up today, he would have sent Curtis over to the Babylon to fetch her. But she had shown up... and now that Stella had her "afternoon delight," as she put it, it was time to collect some answers.

Jack sat up and ran his hands through his hair. He pulled the sheets aside and slapped Stella's naked bottom. "Wake up, doll. I gotta get back to work."

The woman's eyes flew open and she squealed in protest.