24 Declassified: 08 - Collateral Damage

by Marc Cerasini

  “Why did they stop at the stadium?” Jack asked Morris.

  “Did they plant explosives there before they left?”

  “Unlikely. The New Jersey State Police and the bomb-sniffing dogs have been going over every inch of the C O L L AT E R A L D A M A G E 193

  Meadowlands Sports Center. They’re still looking,” Morris answered. “But so far they’ve found nothing.”

  “Why would the terrorists hole up in a parking lot?”

  Jack wondered aloud. “Could they be on some kind of schedule?”

  “I’ve no idea,” Morris replied. “But we’ve got this vehicle locked. I’m watching a live satellite feed of the truck right now. You’re practically on top of it, Jack-o.”

  Jack gazed at the river of headlights below. “Can you guess where they’re going?”

  “Into the Lincoln Tunnel,” said Morris.

  Jack instantly pictured thousands of commuters, driving under the Hudson, rolling into the heart of Manhattan.

  He flashed on midtown, Broadway, Times Square, theaters, restaurants, all jammed with tourists, office workers, families—innocent targets.

  Jack’s jaw clenched. “I need to stop that truck before it gets to the tunnel.”

  “You? ” said Morris. “Jack, listen to me. I can have a local SWAT team at the tunnel exit in ten minutes—”

  “No. The men in that truck know they’re hunted. They’ll react like trapped animals at any sign of the authorities.

  And there’s a risk of collateral damage if the police respond recklessly.”

  “Jack, let the authorities handle it.”

  “What if that vehicle is a truck bomb they plan to detonate inside the tunnel? It will be Oklahoma City times ten.”

  Captain Fogarty called to Jack from the cockpit. “What do you want to do, Bauer?”

  194

  2 4 D E C L A S S I F I E D

  “Where’s the truck now?” Jack asked.

  “It’s two hundred feet under us. I’m watching it with our belly camera right now,” the pilot replied.

  “Good. I can make a fast-rope descent. If I can get on the back of the trailer, I can—”

  “Fast-rope out of a moving chopper?” Fogarty cut in.

  “You’re nuts, Bauer—”

  “I’ve done it before,” Jack insisted. “Get me down to an altitude of fifty feet. All I need is a wide open space, a short stretch of highway without high tension wires or an overpass.”

  Fogarty shook his head. “I don’t like it, but if you’re serious, I can put you over the ramp.”

  “What ramp?”

  “The Jersey interstate ends in a long, curved downhill ramp that leads to the tollbooths. There are no overpasses, no electric lines or telephone cables, either. Traffic may even slow a little as it backs up at the toll plaza. Even then, we won’t be hovering. We’ll be moving at forty or fifty miles per hour.”

  Jack had learned helicopter assault tactics in the Army, and he’d used those skills on many Delta Force missions.

  Swinging on a fast-rope wasn’t a problem for him, though he knew it would be a lot tougher from a moving aircraft.

  “Listen, Fogarty, I can do this.” Jack’s tone was sure.

  “Your job is to get me over that truck.”

  “Weehawken is two minutes ahead. After that it’s the ramp and the tunnel,” Fogarty’s copilot warned.

  Fogarty grunted. “Okay, Bauer, you win. Get ready to move when I give the signal. We’ll reach the ramp in C O L L AT E R A L D A M A G E 195

  approximately two minutes. After that, you’ll have about a minute to make your descent before we’ll have to pull up.”

  Bauer nodded. “Do it.”

  Adrenaline feeding his veins, Jack slipped a new clip into the Glock, then tucked the weapon into its holster.

  The few doubts he had burned away as he focused on the details, inspecting the fast-rope on the chopper. Because it wasn’t anchored to the ground, the fast-rope had to be thick, heavy, and long to prevent it from being jerked around by the tremendous down draft from the rotors.

  This rope looked good. It was at least fifty millimeters in diameter and it was more than one hundred feet long—

  more than sufficient for a descent.

  Gloves were essential in a descent like this, otherwise friction could strip his palms raw. Fortunately there were gloves and knee pads among the chopper’s stores, though Jack could find no helmet—not even a hockey-style head protector like the ones he’d worn in Delta.

  “Bauer, we’re beyond the last overpass and dropping now. Get ready to move,” Captain Fogarty warned in Jack’s ear.

  Jack inhaled, his heartbeat slowing as he took control of his breathing and his impatience, focused on his actions.

  The chopper’s sudden descent made his stomach lurch. He ignored the discomfort, clipped a deadweight to the end of the rope, and tossed it through the open door. The cord quickly unspooled to a length of sixty feet. He locked the winch, slipped the gloves over his hands, and seized the thick cable.

  196

  2 4 D E C L A S S I F I E D

  Jack could see the truck now, its shape outlined by four dim lights on top of the trailer.

  “Go! Go now,” Fogarty cried.

  Still clinging to the rope, Jack stepped out of the helicopter. He dangled for a moment, the rotor blades throbbing above, the traffic roaring below, the pilot’s voice lost in the howling maelstrom.

  Buffeted by the merciless downdraft, Jack waited for the chopper to line up over the vehicle. Then the rope began to spin. Without hooks or a safety harness, there was nothing to hold Jack to that lifeline but the strength of his grip. Now the wild movement threatened to throw him off. And the spinning would only get worse the longer he hung there.

  Captain Fogarty swooped low and positioned the chopper directly over the speeding truck. Still twisting in the wind, Jack aimed his feet at the swaying silver trailer far beneath the soles of his boots.

  Finally, Jack eased his grip on the rope and began the descent . . .

  9:20:29 P.M. EDT

  Interstate 495, at the Weehawken Exit New Jersey

  Inside the rumbling trailer, the members of the Warriors of God cult heard the rotors beating over their heads. Farshid Amadani—the Hawk—felt three pairs of eyes watching him expectantly, waiting for him to issue a command.

  C O L L AT E R A L D A M A G E 197

  “Have they found us, Hawk?” one man asked, his voice trembling with emotion.

  “They found us at the stadium, my friend. It was only a matter of time before they tracked us down,” the former mujahideen replied, his tone resigned.

  The throbbing intensified as the helicopter descended upon the rumbling truck. Inside the trailer, the air was hot and suffocating, tinged with the chemical taint of explosives.

  “Turn out the lights,” the Hawk commanded.

  In a moment, the interior of the cavernous trailer was plunged into darkness. Amadani used a dim emergency flashlight pulled from his black utility vest to climb the stacked crates of C–4. He moved with caution, careful to avoid the crisscrossing detonation cords.

  In the dull glow of the crimson light, the Hawk unlocked the roof hatch and cracked it. The slipstream whooshed around his ears, filling the stuffy trailer with a blast of fresh air.

  Peering through the hatch, the Hawk saw the belly of the helicopter above him, a long rope dangling down. He frowned when he spied a single man in a blue battle suit hanging from the door. Amadani quickly closed the hatch before the other man spotted him.

  “We are about to be boarded,” the Hawk warned.

  The men cried out.

  “Remember we are warriors! Martyrs for the jihad!”

  Amadani bellowed, his fierce words drowning their laments.

  “I shall swat this flea,” the Hawk said. “You will follow 198

  2 4 D E C L A S S I F I E D

  the alternative plan and detonate this vehicle inside the Lincoln Tunnel.�
��

  The men nodded. Grim-faced, they began to arm the explosives.

  Still perched on the crates, the Hawk touched the pocket of his combat vest. He considered using his cell to inform Ibrahim Noor that they’d been discovered, that this truck would not be in position to destroy the Brooklyn Bridge at dawn and provide the necessary diversion for Noor’s final, devastating strike. But he didn’t make the call. Why should he? Noor and his foreign allies were monitoring the situation from a secure location, and they would know he and his men had failed. Any call he made now might be tapped and traced by their enemies.

  Better to keep the infidels fumbling in the dark, the Hawk decided as a sudden thump sounded above him.

  Clutching a USP Tactical in his scarred hand, the Hawk muttered a final prayer for himself and his warriors. Then he opened the hatch . . .

  9:22:53 P.M. EDT

  On the 495 ramp to the Lincoln Tunnel Jack Bauer landed with a bruising crash, facedown on the top of the speeding trailer. Battling the relentless slipstream, he hugged the ridged aluminum while he brought his legs up under him. He climbed to his feet the same way he used to mount a surfboard, using his arms for balance.

  But instead of smelling a cool ocean breeze, Jack choked C O L L AT E R A L D A M A G E 199

  on hot exhaust fumes belched by the cab’s twin stacks. He lurched forward, through the smog, toward the cab and the man behind the wheel. The roof had evenly spaced ridges, and they helped Jack maintain his balance as he stumbled to the front of the trailer.

  Meanwhile the truck rolled down the center lane at a good clip, cars, buses, and other trucks flowing around it.

  Over Jack’s head, the staccato beat of the whirling rotors intensified when Captain Fogarty pulled up and banked over the Hudson. In seconds, the helicopter was no more than a dark silhouette against the glistening skyline.

  Jack planned to smash his way into the passenger com-partment and take out the driver. Once he gained control of the vehicle, he could swerve away from the tunnel and its traffic, neutralize the other terrorists in a remote location—or simply drive the whole damned rig into the Hudson River if he had to.

  He’d almost reached the cab when Jack heard a clang.

  A roof hatch opened directly in front of him, and a figure emerged clutching a handgun. Jack recognized him immediately, from the surveillance photos Morris had forwarded to his PDA—Farshid Amadani, a.k.a. the Hawk.

  Before the terrorist could take aim, Jack launched himself at Amadani. The velocity of Jack’s charge carried them both over the edge of the trailer. They landed on top of the cab with a loud crash; a roof light shattered under the Hawk’s battered spine. Jack, who was cushioned from the fall by the other man’s body, heard Amadani gasp, smelled his sour breath.

  Jack groped for the weapon, his fingers closing on the 200

  2 4 D E C L A S S I F I E D

  man’s wrist. The Hawk fought, refusing to release his handgun. He sank his yellow teeth into Bauer’s shoulder and bit down. Jack howled and slammed his right fist into the man’s abdomen, his left still clutching the man’s wrist.

  Amadani cried out and pushed Jack aside. Together they rolled off the roof of the cab and slammed onto the engine’s hood.

  Still grappling, Jack was on the bottom now. The hot metal scorched his back. The noise battered his ears. Jack glimpsed the startled face of the driver, the USP Tactical waving at him through the windshield as the men struggled to control the weapon.

  Jack slammed his knee into Amadani’s groin—and the gun bucked in the man’s hand. The Hawk fired twice.

  Glass shattered, and Jack heard a howl. Still struggling, he glanced at the driver through the broken windshield. The man was clutching the steering wheel, crimson gore gush-ing from a ghastly head wound. Meanwhile the rig rolled on, increasing speed as it descended the incline.

  The Hawk saw the driver, too, and his eyes went wide.

  Jack used the opening to strike back. He brought up his knee again, to deal another punishing blow to his foe’s genitals. Then he used both legs to toss the Hawk aside.

  The man’s gun bounced off the hood, and tumbled onto the pavement.

  Amadani flew off the hood, too, but the sleeve of his utility vest snagged the rearview mirror, and the Hawk ended up dangling helplessly. He’d banged his head on the way down, and blood poured from a gash in his forehead.

  In the cab, the unconscious driver slumped forward, his C O L L AT E R A L D A M A G E 201

  foot depressing the gas pedal. The truck lurched sideways and careened into the guardrail. Sparks flew as the semi roared forward. Chunks of concrete fell from the crumbling guardrail.

  Jack rolled onto his stomach. Ignoring the truck’s searing hot hood under his chest and belly, he reached for Amadani.

  “Take my hand!” Jack cried.

  Panting, the Afghani sneered and spit blood. “I am not afraid to die,” he cried.

  Jack’s fingers closed on the collar of the man’s combat vest. “You don’t have to be a martyr.”

  “Yes. I do,” the Hawk replied.

  As Jack tugged on the man’s vest, the former mujahideen threw up his arms and slipped free of the garment.

  The rig bounced once as Amadani was swept under the rolling wheels.

  Jack scrambled to his feet, then cringed when a bullet punched a hole in the hood. Another armed man had appeared on the roof of the trailer.

  Jack reached for his Glock—and the vehicle lurched violently, as the guardrail broke under its weight.

  Time to go.

  Still clutching Hawk’s vest, Jack leaped off the out-of-control cab and slammed down on the luggage rack of a passing SUV. His arrival so surprised the driver that the woman braked, nearly throwing Jack under the wheels of a giant commuter bus.

  Jack hung on, and watched the big rig rip through the steel guardrail and tumble off the curved ramp. A moment 202

  2 4 D E C L A S S I F I E D

  later, he heard a second thunderous crash when the truck slammed into the ground far below.

  9:59:21 P.M. EDT

  CTU Headquarters, NYC

  Peter Randall closed the office door and sat down behind Layla Abernathy’s desk. He adjusted the round glasses on his bland, boyish face, then went to work.

  First he sorted through the stack of papers until he located the most current threat report. Then Randall activated Layla’s computer and typed in the woman’s secret password. When he was inside her system, he slipped a thumb drive into the USB port.

  It took less than a minute to download the data into Agent Abernathy’s secure files, and another minute to alter the times and dates on the file folders. Finally, Randall deleted the computer’s log, erasing any sign of tampering, and put the computer back to sleep again.

  Threat report in hand, Peter Randall left Layla’s office and returned to Security Station One.

  “I have the threat report you requested,” he said.

  “Great,” Morris O’Brian replied. “Hand it over, mate.”

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

  10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17

  18 19 20 21 22 23 24

  THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE

  BETWEEN THE HOURS OF

  10:00 P.M. AND 11:00 P.M.

  EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME

  10:03:07 P.M. EDT

  Detention Block

  CTU Tactical Center, NYC

  Layla Abernathy shivered. She wanted to cover herself, but her arms and legs were shackled to a steel chair bolted to the floor. A chain around her throat kept her back rigid, her head erect.

  She sat in the center of a large chamber, her surround-ings dark, cold, and damp—almost medieval. The con-tours of the detainment room’s gray walls seemed to defy geometry, a mad tangle of arches, angles, and shadows like something out of the German Expressionist films she’d 204

  2 4 D E C L A S S I F I E D

  watched in graduate school. There was no sound, except for the echo of dripping water.

  T
hey’d taken Layla’s overalls and all the tactical gear she’d carried to Kurmastan, left her with only a white Tshirt and the spandex bicycle pants she’d worn underneath.

  She listened while a security team searched through her gear, which was spread out on a steel table behind her.

  Layla couldn’t imagine what they were looking for and she didn’t ask.

  No point. They wouldn’t answer me anyway . . .

  Soon the guards left Layla alone, and there was nothing to listen to but the slow, maddening drip.

  Then a loud clang startled her. Somewhere close by, a steel door opened and closed. Layla heard two pairs of footsteps clicking hollowly in the nearly empty cell. One man stopped at the table, and Layla heard a metallic click, like a latch being opened.

  The second man loomed over her. He was thin, almost skeletal, with high cheekbones, sunken eyes, and thin, expressionless lips.

  “Do you know who I am, Agent Abernathy?” the man asked in a quiet, calm voice.

  Layla shook her head. She’d been holding her body as still as possible, trying to keep her mind clear and focused.

  Now her lower lip began to tremble.

  “My name is Christopher Henderson. I’m now in charge of the New York Division. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes,” Layla said, cursing the tremor in her voice.

  A strong hand seized her shoulder and an alcohol swab swiped her forearm.

  C O L L AT E R A L D A M A G E 205

  “No,” she gasped.

  Layla tried to move but was pinned like a butterfly on display. Her mouth was parched, her heart thumped in her chest. She barely suppressed the urge to scream.

  “This will hurt a little,” Henderson warned.

  Layla winced at the needle prick.

  For a moment, she felt nothing. Then her limbs began to tingle as if they were on fire, burning from the inside.

  Layla jerked wildly as her muscles tensed uncontrollably, and she strained at her bonds. Moaning, Layla chewed her lip and tasted blood. The pain intensified, until it felt like her heart was pumping boiling lava through her veins.

  Finally, Layla cried out. In a moment, the pain eased.

  “That was only the beginning,” Henderson said. “How much more agony you’ll endure depends on whether or not I’m satisfied with the answers you give me. Do you understand?”