Steve Owen answered the call, and Alicia's voice came through: "Mr. Owen, I'm calling to inform you that my client, Mr. Jack Bauer, has just been formally taken into custody. The hearing is in two days."
"How? I saw Jack at the White House yesterday. To deal with the airport crisis, the White House temporarily reinstated him."
"That's true, but the White House's handling was a bit shortsighted. Someone photographed Jack entering and leaving the White House yesterday, and there's already public outcry questioning why a suspect can still perform government duties. The White House likely sped up the process to limit the fallout. The court just issued the summons—hearing in two days."
No wonder Steve couldn't get Jack on the phone. But how could it happen this fast? Back when he was a cop, Steve had dealt with lawyers and prosecutors plenty; they weren't usually this efficient.
As if reading his mind, Alicia added, "This is fast, yes, but you shouldn't be too surprised. It's how this works. Next year is an election year. If President Palmer wants to preserve his votes, he has to resolve this quickly and minimize the damage. Whether it's accelerating my client's case or pressing your counterterror unit to catch Makarov as soon as possible—it all comes down to that: resolve it quickly, reduce the impact, restore credibility, win reelection."
Alicia's take was spot on. Steve saw the light. No wonder she was a lawyer—she cut straight to the essence. In a sense, their thinking isn't far from that of politicians: not right or wrong, but costs and benefits.
Steve hung up, simmering. The White House had thrown Jack under the bus—again. He felt it was unfair to Jack. He wanted to walk away—forget Makarov, forget World War III. What did any of that have to do with him? Let the White House handle it.
But once he'd cooled off, he dropped the idea. The White House was merely refusing to help; if Omega downed tools, it could backfire. And their families were in the U.S. If America were hit by nerve-gas missiles, that wouldn't help them at all.
They'd already reported the intel they'd extracted to the White House and the Pentagon. Now they had to wait—wait for other agencies to pinpoint the exact location of the oil rig.
Omega didn't need to run that part. Plenty of outfits were better suited: CIA, NSA, every alphabet-soup intel shop.
Irritated, Steve holed up in his office and called Monica. She didn't know he'd been hurt, and he didn't intend to tell her.
They were in the middle of a long call when Silly Sweetie jogged upstairs. Seeing him in the office, she knocked.
"Sorry, I wouldn't have interrupted, but the White House couldn't reach you—they called me."
"What is it?"
"We have the rig's location. It's in British waters. The President's office just notified me that the military aircraft are ready—we can launch at any time. We'll be working with the SAS."
"Got it. Tell them to gear up. Ten minutes, muster."
Steve wrapped up with Monica and sprinted downstairs to the armory. His wounds were only superficial; after a quick treatment, he was fine.
America's intel capabilities really were something. With everyone at full tilt, they quickly triangulated the rig's position from a mess of indicators.
At the airfield, they boarded.
In flight, Silly Sweetie laid out the basics.
"Guys, the target is in British territorial waters. The Pentagon's plan has us dividing responsibilities with the SAS. In about an hour you'll land at a Royal Navy base and link up with them.
"We still don't know how many nerve-gas missiles they have, or whether they're fully deployed. Intel indicates the rig's original workers are all hostages now. The UK wants us to prioritize their safety. And most importantly, this could be another Makarov trap. Be careful."
The plane was quiet. Everyone was used to this rhythm; no nerves. After they had the basics, they shut their eyes and rested.
An hour later, the transport touched down at Plymouth Naval Base.
They filed off and were led by a sailor into a building. He pulled open a door and gestured them in. Looked like the briefing room.
In front of a big whiteboard, three men in camo were talking. When Omega came in, they turned. SAS operators. Oddly, a man in a suit was also standing beside them.
Before Steve, the team lead, even spoke, Ghost had already dropped his kit bag and strode forward with a grin. The three Brits did the same, arms open.
"Ghost!"
"Captain Price, Soap, Sanderson!"
The four of them hugged tightly. Steve then remembered Ghost had been SAS. No wonder they knew each other—probably from the same squad once upon a time.
While the four traded war stories, the man in the suit walked up to Steve—not for a hug, but to hand over a card. "Captain Owen? Hello. Stanley Gussby, FBI San Francisco—chemical weapons specialist."
"Chemical weapons specialist?"
"Yes. I'm here for VX gas specifically. The Pentagon sent me to give you all a quick brief…"
Steve nodded. The four on the other side finished embracing. Ghost made quick introductions, and everyone took their seats.
"I'll start with VX. It's a nerve agent. A teaspoon of VX on the ground, and within a hundred feet, anything alive is dead. If a teaspoon disperses in the air, there won't be a living thing within eight blocks."
Gussby explained VX in plain language. Steve and Ghost already knew most of it—they'd been on Flight 343, which had transported VX. Some of the others were newer and hadn't seen that op.
Once everyone had the basics, Gussby moved on to the missile construction. "Broadly speaking, nerve-gas warheads are configured as rear-bursters and front-bursters. Rear-burster works by… I don't know where this batch was sourced. If it's Ukrainian, their manufacturing differs from ours and may use…"
By the time he finished a string of technical terms, most eyes had glazed over. Steve roughly understood, but that didn't help much. By Gussby's account, gas warheads differ between U.S. and Russian designs, with completely different initiation principles—and national variations add further wrinkles. There was no way Steve could master that in a short time.
He exchanged a look with Price. They both got it. Steve stood and cut in. "Uh… Gussby, I think it's best if you come along with us."
"What? No way. I'm not a combatant. I don't go into the field…"
"Doctor Gussby, that's an order. The situation is exceptional. You're the only one here who can reliably identify and disarm these warheads. You're coming. Where do you live?"
"Uh… my home? San Francisco…"
He didn't know why Steve asked and answered reflexively.
"San Francisco is within their range. And given Makarov's style, do you think he'd spare a densely populated city like San Francisco?"
"Uh…"
"It's settled. Captain Price, let's go over the tactical plan…"
Gussby was left speechless—and thus conscripted. The two teams began hashing out the plan. This was a joint op. Makarov's crimes spanned the globe; he'd hit a London train station. He'd been on the UK's wanted list for years.
The SAS's combat power is no joke—reputation aside, Ghost's skills spoke volumes. Steve had no problem syncing with a strong partner. The key was dividing targets cleanly.
This time, neither team was lead; it was a partnership. The rig had five levels. The nerve-gas missiles could be anywhere—or split among decks. Steve and Price quickly agreed: Omega would infiltrate from below and take the bottom two levels; the SAS would insert from above and cover the top three.
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