24 Declassified: 01 - Operation Hell Gate

by Marc A. Cerasini

  Near the middle of the park, Griff drove past a sprawling brick structure that served as the bath house for Astoria Pool, an Olympic-sized facility built by the WPA and the city’s public works commission during the depths of the Great Depression. The pool attracted large crowds in the summer, but it wouldn’t be opening for the season until the end of June. A good bit of luck, because crowds would not have been productive. At the moment, the park hosted no more than a handful of dog walkers, pick-up soccer players, and teenagers.

  The grass sloped downward, toward the boulder-strewn shore. Across the river, the Manhattan skyline glimmered in the cloudless afternoon. Near the center of the park, the tall oak, elm, and beech trees—some of them more than a century old—were dwarfed by a mammoth structure built of beige granite blocks. Rising at the river’s edge, the three-hundred-foot tower with its crowning parapets resembling a medieval fortress, served as the base for a high, arched railroad bridge that spanned the East River between Queens and the Bronx.

  Constructed in 1916, Hell Gate Bridge took its name from the unusually turbulent area of water beneath the span—and the many men who’d plunged to their deaths in those waters while trying to erect it.

  Griff continued to drive along the narrow road until he came to a break in the row houses. A chain-link fence stood unlocked. Inside, next to a massive supporting column for the Hell Gate Bridge above, a kelly-green New York City Parks Department truck was parked. Griff pulled his unmarked van next to the green truck and cut his engine.

  Taj waited on the flatbed of the battered Parks Department vehicle, along with two other members of his cell. All wore Parks Department overalls, all carried valid IDs. More than two hundred feet above their heads, on the bridge’s span of faded red steel, others waited beside a makeshift block and tackle. When Griff arrived, they lowered a rope. The light, saltwater breeze from the river knocked the rope back and forth against the massive support column until it reached the vehicles on the ground.

  Griff hopped out of his van, opened the rear doors.

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  Taj climbed down to join him, and they both dragged the heavy box out of the cargo bay.

  “One launcher with memory stick. Three missiles. You can’t miss,” said Griff.

  Taj grabbed the lowered rope and secured the box to a steel hook, then stepped away. High above, the men hauled the rope, dragging the Long Tooth missile launcher to the top of the bridge.

  After a long search, Griff had selected this location himself. Hell Gate lay directly in the flight path to La-Guardia Airport. The bridge was tall enough to afford Taj a clear shot, yet remote and inaccessible enough for them to act without detection. There was no pedestrian, car, or truck traffic on the railroad bridge, and any passing train would see only men in Parks Department uniforms. No one would suspect Griff or Taj or any of his men of anything sinister. No one would even fathom what FBI agent Frank Hensley had coordinated to unleash on America from the top of Hell Gate.

  5:55:09 P.M. EDT Boeing 727, CDC charter flight 35,000 feet over Trenton, New Jersey

  Captain Stoddard activated the auto pilot, keyed the cockpit radio.

  “This is Charter 939 calling LaGuardia tower, come in.”

  A crackling voice filled the cabin. “LaGuardia air traffic control responding. We read you nine-threeniner.”

  “We’re on course and on schedule,” Captain Stoddard replied. “Estimated time of arrival over New York City airspace, eight-three-eight p.m., Eastern Daylight Time. Over . . .”

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  THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 6 P.M. AND 7 P.M. EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME

  6:07:12 P.M. EDT Grand Central Station, Main Concourse

  Jack Bauer and Caitlin O’Connor stood on the mezzanine inside Grand Central Station. Though Grand Central serviced only commuter trains these days, the marble-lined interior of the imposing Beaux Arts structure evoked the romance of railroad travel at the dawn of the twentieth century. Below the raised balcony where they stood, the expanse of the main concourse spread out before them. High above their heads a vaulted ceiling was adorned with murals depicting the twelve signs of the Zodiac.

  As Jack predicted, the terminus was packed with commuters, the human tide swirling around the massive clock that topped the information stand in the center of the main concourse, and the sculptural groupings executed by artist Jules Coutan back in 1913 when the building was constructed. But Jack hardly noticed the impressive interior space. He was studying faces in the crowd.

  “I’m supposed to meet the man calling himself Agent Ferrer under the big clock at six p.m. sharp,” Jack said, peering into the mob.

  Caitlin looked, too, though she didn’t know what to search for. The phony CTU agent could be any one of the thousands of businessmen who thronged Grand Central at rush hour. How was she to know who the impostor was? More importantly, how was Jack to know? Caitlin sighed, glanced at Jack’s digital watch now on her own wrist.

  “If you’re to meet him at six, then you’re late,” she said.

  “That’s the point. I’m going to wait a few more minutes, scope out a couple of likely suspects from the people lingering near the clock. Then I’ll call Agent Ferrer on my cell, explain how I’m running late. If one of the people we’re watching answers his phone, I’ll know he’s the impostor.”

  Jack’s cell chirped in his hand, interrupting them.

  “Is it—?”

  “It’s CTU,” Jack told her. He answered, listened to Nina Myers for a moment. Finally he spoke. “I’ll tell her,” Jack said, ending the conversation.

  “Tell me what?” Caitlin demanded.

  “Back at CTU, Jamey Farrell is monitoring all New York City police frequencies and emergency channels. A few moments ago she intercepted a Police Department accident report.”

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  Jack paused. Caitlin’s knees turned to water. “Tell me, Jack,” she said.

  “Shamus Lynch is dead. He was killed by an explosion inside a parking garage in Queens. At the scene of the accident, your brother, Liam, turned himself in. The police have him now. They’re holding him in protective custody.”

  Caitlin covered her mouth, shut her green eyes to stop the flow of tears that flooded them. “Ohgodthankgod,” she cried, throwing her arms around Jack’s neck.

  He held her for a moment, then pulled away to look into her face.

  “Listen to me very carefully. This whole thing is over for you now. Shamus is dead, Griffin is too busy running from CTU to chase after you. You don’t have to do this anymore. You can go to a policeman right now, any policeman, and ask him to put you in protective custody, too. In a few hours this will blow over. In the meantime, you’ll be safe . . .”

  Caitlin pushed her hair back and shook her head. “No, Jack. I’m going to see this through ...Look, me and my brother were a party to this bloody mess out of the gate. We didn’t mean to be, but now that I know we are, I want to help clean it up...If there are any charges against me and my brother, then maybe at the end of the day my helping you will help a judge see his way clear to goin’ easy on us. You understand?”

  Jack nodded and they went back to watching the crowd. It was Caitlin who spotted the most likely candidate.

  “How about that one, Jack?” she said, pointing.

  Bauer scoped the man through miniature tourist binoculars he’d bought at a newstand. The man was in his mid-thirties, physically fit, broad-shouldered, with either a dark complexion or a serious tan topped by golden, sun-bleached hair.

  “He’s the right age, and time is running out,” said Jack. “Let’s give it a try.”

  But just as Jack made the call, the blond man stepped behind the clock and out of sight. Meanwhile a voice answered on the second ring.

  “Agent Ferrer here.”

  “Jack Bauer. Look, I’m running a little late. Could you stay on the cell phone until I reach you. I’m with Caitlin, just outside Grand Central now. W
e’re on Forty-second Street . . .”

  While Jack talked, Caitlin waited for the blond man to reappear. When he finally showed, he clutched a cell phone to his ear. She slapped Jack’s arm; he nodded. Jack had seen it, too. While Agent Ferrer continued to speak, Jack hit the mute button so the caller could not hear them.

  “Stay here,” Jack whispered. “I’m going to keep him on the line while I sneak up behind him, take him prisoner...”

  She watched as Jack hurried down the massive marble stairs to the main concourse. Within a few seconds, he’d vanished in the dense, fast-moving crowd.

  At the bottom of the stairs, Jack opened a hidden compartment on the cell phone case, extracted a tiny, single-wire headset. He slipped the wire over his head, the button-sized phones into his ear canal, the dot microphone under his chin without missing a beat in the conversation. Then he dropped the phone into his jacket, closed his right hand around the handle of his Mark 23.

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  With the headset, Jack was able to shut out the ambient noise from the people around him—to concentrate on “Agent Ferrer’s” words and the noises around him.

  Immediately Jack heard the hollow sounds of the terminal as background to Ferrer’s voice, and he knew the impostor really was somewhere inside the terminus.

  While moving toward the central clock, Jack decided to see how much the impostor really knew.

  “Have you heard how the airport raids have gone?” asked Jack. “Did they stop the attacks in D.C., LA, Chicago ...here in New York?”

  Ferrer was silent for a moment, then he dodged the question.

  “I’m not sure we should be discussing this on an unsecured line.”

  “Perhaps you’re right.”

  “How close are you, Special Agent Bauer?”

  Jack could hear impatience—and perhaps suspicion—in the man’s tone. Meanwhile Jack slipped between knots of people until he saw the blond man’s back. The impostor was only a few yards away now, still talking on his cell. In his Brooks Brothers suit, an attaché case in his hand, the impostor looked more like a stockbroker than an assassin, but Jack knew looks could be deceptive.

  “I’m almost there,” said Jack, stepping behind the man and slipping his weapon out of its holster. With the gun still behind his jacket, he shoved the barrel of the .45 into the blond man’s ribs. “In fact, I’m right behind you,” said Jack.

  The blond man lowered the cell, whirled to face Jack. “Hey, dude,” he cried. “At least say excuse me when you bump into—”

  The man saw the gun in Jack’s hands, only partially hidden in the folds of the jacket. He backed away.

  “Good try, Bauer,” the voice said in his ear. “But apparently you were stalking the wrong man.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Look up. Check on your friend.”

  On the mezzanine Jack saw Caitlin, face pale. Beside her, a tall man with dark skin and bleached blond hair clutched her arm. Despite his Western clothes, Jack recognized him from the files on his PDA.

  “Omar Bayat,” Jack whispered.

  “You recognize me,” Bayat replied. “I should be flattered.”

  “Let her go. Take me hostage, instead,” Jack insisted.

  “I’m not looking for a hostage, Mr. Bauer. I just want to get out of here without you following me.”

  “That’s fine. What do you want me to do?”

  “There’s a mailbox about fifty feet away. Do you see it?” Bayat asked.

  “I see it.”

  “I want you to walk over to that box and drop your cell phone and weapon into it.”

  “If I do that, what do I get in return?”

  “I’ll let this woman go, after I’m out of the station. Otherwise I’ll kill her on the spot with my bare hands, and no one in the crowd will be the wiser.”

  Jack hesitated.

  “You know I can do it, Bauer. Move to the mailbox now or she dies.”

  “I’m going,” said Jack. He was ten feet from the mailbox when the blond man Jack had accosted by mistake returned—with two New York City policemen in tow.

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  “He’s the one!” The blond man pointed out Jack. “He pulled a gun on me!”

  Members of the crowd around Jack heard the blond man’s statement and moved to get out of the way. Jack used the crowd to shield himself as he turned and ran in the opposite direction. As he raced through the mob of commuters, Jack heard Omar Bayat laughing over his headset.

  “Wait, Bayat. Let her go,” Jack cried. “She can’t hurt you now and neither can I.”

  “She goes with me, Bauer,” Bayat replied. “A man named Griffin Lynch is anxious to meet her.”

  Jack heard the hiss of dead air. “Son of a bitch!”

  “Halt!” a voice barked. Jack heard screams and glanced over his shoulder. The policemen were still chasing him. One of them had his weapon out. Luckily, the man couldn’t get a clear shot because so many civilians were in the way. Jack continued to weave in and out of the crowd until he burst onto Forty-second Street.

  Traffic was heavy, but moving. Along Forty-second Street, there were cars and trucks as far as the eye could see. Jack looked around, looking for a way out. At any moment, the policemen were going to emerge on the street, where they might just get a shot at him.

  Then, across the street, Jack spied a burly man sitting astride an idling Harley-Davidson motorcycle, an American flag waving on a short staff above the rear wheel. The bike was all chrome and rumbling engine.

  Perfect, thought Jack. Despite the traffic, he ran into the street, darting between moving cars. A taxicab driver refused to brake for him, so he rolled across the yellow hood. Landing on his feet beside the biker, Jack caught the man’s long ponytail, yanked him off the motorcycle.

  Before the man could stumble to his feet, Jack gunned the engine and sped away, racing down the sidewalk. Pedestrians scattered as he shot down the pavement for more than a block. Finally, confronted by a knot of tourists gathering under the awning of a hotel, Jack swerved back onto the street.

  Using his headset, Jack made contact with CTU. Chappelle answered the call. “Let me put you on speakerphone, Jack.”

  “The man who assumed Agent Ferrer’s identity is really Omar Bayat, Taj Ali Kahlil’s associate and the leading exporter of terrorism for the Taliban government in Afghanistan.”

  “How do you know, Jack?” Ryan asked. “Did you capture him? Neutralize him?”

  “No,” Jack replied. “Bayat managed to get past me and grab Caitlin. He’s holding her now. Is the tracer inside my watch working?”

  “Perfectly,” said Jamey Farrell. “I’m tracking Caitlin’s every move. Good thing you gave her your watch in case anything went wrong.”

  “Where is she right now?” Jack asked.

  “In a van, moving uptown on Third Avenue. The van’s at Fifty-seventh Street, moving into the right lane. I think it’s probably going to cross the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge, into Queens . . .”

  “We’d better not lose track of Caitlin,” said Jack. “Right now, she’s our only connection to the terrorists. Without her we don’t know where they’re hiding or what they’re up to.”

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  THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 7 P.M. AND 8 P.M. EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME

  7:19:43 P.M. EDT CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles

  The speakerphone at Ryan Chappelle’s workstation buzzed, interrupting him. Tired and cranky, Ryan punched the button. “Yes?”

  “It’s Nina. I just spoke with Roger Tyson, Deputy Director of the National Transportation Safety Board.”

  Ryan snickered. “Don’t tell me the airport raids hit the news? Does he want to apologize for doubting our intelligence?”

  “News of the raids has been suppressed so far, but Deputy Director Tyson did hear about them through bureaucratic channels. He called us with a warning.”

  Chappelle sat up. “A what?”

  “
This afternoon a chartered CDC flight took off from Atlanta. It’s carrying bio-hazardous materials— samples of the deadly 1918 influenza strain—”

  “Why the hell weren’t we told? CTU should have received the same security report as the other agencies!”

  “The flight was mentioned in the daily DSA security alert, but no one here at CTU made the connection. We should have received a second alert when the aircraft left the ground, but we were shut out.”

  Ryan frowned. “What do you mean shut out?”

  “It was Hensley,” Nina replied. “According to Tyson, the alert was issued directly to the FBI. Apparently Hensley convinced his superiors to keep CTU out of the loop on alerts until Jack Bauer is apprehended and interrogated. He’s convinced them that until that happens, the entire unit is compromised.”

  “I can’t believe this!”

  “Ryan, listen. It’s worse than we thought. The CDC plane is a Boeing 727, the same type of aircraft Dante Arete was targeting at LAX. Its destination is LaGuardia Airport in Queens. It’s due to land at approximately 8:45 p.m., Eastern Daylight—”

  “Son of a bitch,” Ryan exploded. “That has to be the final target. No wonder nothing happened at five p.m.! The CDC plane isn’t landing until quarter to nine. They want to shoot down that aircraft, spread influenza virus over the entire city—and they just might be able to pull it off.”

  “We have to warn Jack—”

  “First the NTSB has to order that aircraft to land at the next airport.”

  “It’s too late for that, Ryan. The NTSB already tried without success.”

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  “But they certainly have the authority to order it down.”

  “It’s not a question of authority. Due to security concerns, the CDC aircraft is maintaining strict radio silence. The pilot reports in once every hour, and we just missed the last window. The next time they establish radio contact, the plane will be over New York City.”