24 Declassified: 07 - Storm Force

by David S. Jacobs

  Now the council members were gathered in the front lobby, along with their administrative assistants, staff members, and other members of their various entourages.

  When the meeting convened, admittance to the conference room was reserved strictly for the council members; their followers must wait outside during the closed session meeting.

  Among those milling about in the lobby were council members Imam Omar, Prince Tariq, and Prince Hassani. Omar and Tariq and their assorted hangers-on were grouped close together; Hassani stood off by himself, way over on the opposite side of the lobby.

  Imam Omar's face was all aglow, as usual, perhaps even more so, as he greeted a succession of dignitaries, smiling and waving, his face cherubic behind its matching of long, wiry, ash-gray beard.

  Prince Tariq was clad in Western garb today, a custom-tailored Savile Row shirt and expensive, hand-tooled Italian shoes, a leather portfolio with a gold clasp tucked under one arm. He smiled often, but tightly, and seemed preoccupied.

  Prince Hassani was garbed in the traditional white robes and headdress of the desert tribes; his garments were spotless, immaculate. His gaze was distant, as if fixed on otherworldly matters; his smile was beatific, radiant in its boundless compassion.

  A stir went through the crowd as Minister Fedallah approached, striding along the right-hand branch of the horizontal bar of the T, closing on the conference room. Now that he was here, the conference must surely start.

  Fedallah wore the dress khaki uniform and peaked cap of a commander of the Ministry's Special Section; his shoulder boards were studded with gold stars, his cap trimmed with gold braid. He walked along in military manner, as if on parade, arms and legs swinging with clockwork precision and timing. His eyes were alert, his face utterly expressionless.

  He was flanked by two bodyguards, who marched in step alongside him. A minor breach of protocol, this, since their standard practice was to march a pace behind and to the side of him, a measure of respect that delineated that he was the leader, they the followers.

  Also, a sharp-eyed observer might have detected that the flaps of their holstered sidearms were unbuttoned, allowing for speedier access to the weapons.

  Fedallah's arrival produced a second stir in the crowd, a most unusual one, as one of the assembled in the lobby suddenly darted forward, rudely shouldering aside his fellows in a brazen attempt to rush to the fore.

  Even more startling, the offender was Prince Hassani, ordinarily self-effacing to the point of near-invisibility.

  Reaching into the folds of the oversized sleeves of his robe, he pulled out a big-caliber, semi-automatic pistol. Crying out, "Allah Akbar!," his weapon leveled, he rushed toward Minister Fedallah.

  With equal and surprising suddenness, the conference doors burst outward and open, revealing a squad of Fedallah's Special Section gunmen, elite marksmen chosen for their dead-accurate skill with handguns. Their guns were out and ready; when the doors flew open, they opened fire, blasting away.

  Prince Hassani was caught square in the fusillade, shot through the body a dozen times in the blink of an eye. He whirled and spun in a dervish dance, slugs ripping through him.

  Panic and complete chaos seized the civilians massed in the lobby. They scrambled for cover, darting to the sides, throwing themselves to the floor, some shouting, some screaming.

  Prince Tariq went into a crouch on the floor, dropping his portfolio, covering his head with his arms as the shooting continued, a concentrated blast of furious firepower that filled the lobby with noise, gun smoke, and bullets.

  Then it was over.

  Tariq drew a breath and was surprised to find himself doing so; he'd felt sure that the bullets would find him and rip him out of this world and into the next — a transition that, unlike Hassani, he had not the slightest desire to undergo.

  Hassani had found his destiny. He lay sprawled on the marbled floor in the contorted posture of violent death, shot to pieces, blood from many bullet holes staining and overspreading, from head to toe, his once linen-white robes.

  He was not the only casualty. Somehow, during the shooting, Imam Omar had fallen to several stray bullets — about a dozen or so. Any one of which would have been fatal. The Smiling Cleric would smile no more.

  "A terrible accident," Minister Fedallah said, allowing himself a rare smile, all the more chilling for the genuine pleasure it displayed.

  He, too, had received a timely warning from CTU, an urgent message warning of an imminent assassination attempt. Not that gratitude for his narrow escape had altered his opinion of the unbelievers one iota.

  They were dogs, these Americans, that he still believed; but at least this one time, their barking had proved useful.

  23

  THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 3 A.M. AND 4 A.M. CENTRAL DAYLIGHT TIME

  Petroleum Receiving Point, New Orleans

  Departing the Pelican Pier base in a hurry, Vollard had directed the three-vehicle convoy containing his twelve-man mercenary force to a remote, little-traveled underpass beneath a railroad bridge, a mile or two away from the PRP.

  He wanted the storm to reach a greater fury before he struck, providing maximum chaos and confusion to allow him to successfully complete his mission. Yet not so much so as to interfere with his getaway; his, and his troops.

  Hurricane Everette did not affect his mission plan greatly; he'd always planned to approach by land. His primary target was the vast field of oil storage tanks and the web of pumps and pipelines enmeshing it. The target area was at the foot of the Point, solidly on the mainland.

  The storm would not affect the explosives, either. The bombs would be triggered by automatic timing devices, rather than by remote, radio-controlled detonators.

  Now, two hours after leaving Pelican Pier, Vollard gave the order to attack. The time had come; the strike was on. The force was on the move, closing in on their objective.

  His twelve-man force was divided into three SUVs. The tall-sided vehicles had a high center of gravity that made them particularly susceptible to being blown over by powerful blasts of wind. But the SUVs were roomy, with space enough for four or more fully equipped troops, complete with weapons, gear, and field packs of explosives.

  The winds hadn't reached gale force yet; with any luck, the bombs would be planted and the mission completed well in advance of the storm's peak.

  Vollard rode in the front passenger seat of the lead vehicle. Rainwater sluiced nonstop across the windshield, side and rear windows; it was like driving through a car wash several miles long. Water streamed along the gutters, pooling in the low spots in the road. No real flooding yet. The SUVs' raised carriages helped, minimizing the danger of drowned, stalled engines.

  The three-vehicle convoy cruised the riverfront, coming up to the Point. An impressive sight, this technopolis, one that not even the deluge could wholly subdue.

  Looming up against the black backdrop of the river, it looked like a lunar colony out of a science fiction dream.

  Rows of oil storage tanks, giant silvery cylinders and globes, were laid out on a grid of avenues and side streets. The tank farm was wrapped in a web of multilevel platforms, catwalks, valve hubs and clusters, junction boxes and pipelines. Avenues were lined with rows of streetlamps; the tanks themselves were bathed by floodlights.

  The downpour screened the scene, veiling it, dimming the lights, making them hazy, glowing blurs. Blacktopped rainy streets shimmered with wavy bars and bands of reflected light.

  The Point was approached by a broad thoroughfare, a four-lane avenue leading up to the main gate. The entrance was secured by several guardhouses manned by a squadron of security police.

  Vollard could have taken them out by main force, but why bother? It was less risky to avoid them than to eliminate them. Why force the front door when it was so easy to enter by the side?

  * * *

  Intelligence precedes attack. Vollard had made a study of the site, photographing it from various angles, clockin
g the routines of patrols and shift changes, gaming a variety of mission plans at the Pelican Pier base to map out the optimum angle of attack.

  The Point was on the north side, left bank of the river. River Road highway ran east-west along the shoreline. The massive complex was on the south side of the road. A ten-foot-high chain-link fence bordered the property, walling it off from the mainland.

  West of the fence lay a football-sized field that served as a dumping ground for the Point. The final resting place for obsolete hardware and old junk that was less expensive to leave in place to rust and rot, rather than to recycle it or have it carted away.

  It was heaped high with sections of pipe eight feet in diameter; old wooden electric cable spools; mounds of V-shaped metal brackets and X-shaped support metal braces; piles of rubble consisting of broken-up pavement and concrete; and similar castoffs.

  The dump was fenced in and gated, not so much to discourage thieves, who were uninterested in the rubbish, as it was to keep out kids, who'd think it a great playground, where they could break their fool bones and necks, and their parents could then sue the company for big bucks.

  It was unguarded, even by junkyard dogs; it was unlit. It was perfect for Vollard's plan.

  * * *

  Now the three-vehicle column pulled off River Road, turning right onto a gravel road leading up the dump yard gate. The machines turned off their headlights, leaving on their parking lights.

  One of Vollard's men got out and used a bolt cutter to snip open the padlocked chain securing the gate. He opened it wide and the SUVs drove in.

  A dirt road led inward to the depths of the dump, mounds of rubble rising on all sides. The bleary glow of the PRP complex's lights underlit the bottoms of low-hanging clouds sweeping in northward from the river.

  The SUVs halted deep in the dump site. Eastward, beyond the fence and inside the Point complex, stood a vast lot filled with big rig trailers and container boxes. The trailers were empty; the truck cabs were parked elsewhere, in a more secure motor pool.

  Directly south of the container lot stood the tank farm, the tract of oil storage tanks that was the target for tonight.

  Vollard and his men were outfitted for the weather in waterproof ponchos.

  The rain slickers were worn over their field packs, similar to knapsacks but more heavy-duty, laid out on a lightweight, tubular aluminum frame allowing the bearer to carry weighty loads. Those packs were filled with blocks of plastic explosives, detonators, and thermite bombs.

  A macabre but effective touch, the mercs' assault rifles were weatherproofed by latex condoms covering the barrel muzzles to prevent water getting inside them. The troops also toted green khaki satchels with shoulder straps, containing spare clips of ammunition and grenades.

  The relentless rain rendered night-vision goggles useless; it was impossible to see through lenses ceaselessly soaked by nonstop rain. High winds would have ripped them off their faces, too. So they had to forgo them.

  Most of them carried commando knives worn in hip sheaths, in case any old-fashioned throat slitting was required.

  A couple of mercs began working on the chain-link fence with bolt cutters, opening up a gap big enough for several of them to pass through abreast.

  Vollard wasted no time on inspirational speeches, saying only, "Time to earn our pay."

  Through the gap in the fence they filed, twelve mercs plus their leader. Vollard was first through the gap; he led from the front. Always.

  Now they were in the geometric gridded maze of truck box containers, acres of them. Rain drummed on the rooftops of empty containers, setting an unholy racket rising up on all sides. Water sheeted down the sides of the big boxes; rivulets streamed through the gravel lot.

  The force followed an east-west aisle eastward. They had not gone far, when Vollard noticed on his right in a cross street a big yellow bulldozer. It had not been there on the most recent recon mission performed by his scouts the day before.

  What of it? There was always plenty of movement around an industrial site.

  Typical of the Americans to leave a valuable piece of construction equipment out in the middle of a hurricane; childish, extravagantly wasteful. Shrugging, he thought no more about it.

  The containers were laid out in a grid. On the north-south lanes, the south view opened on the tank farm. Rows of cylindrical oil storage tanks, looking like round silver pegs driven into the earth.

  The tanks would be mined in hexagonal cluster patterns, with each central, mined tank igniting the adjacent tanks, blowing them up; they in turn would blow up their neighbors, and so on, until the whole field went up like a string of firecrackers.

  In a sense, the bombs themselves were a kind of detonator, trigger mechanisms that would unleash the incredibly greater potential energy of each tankful of oil.

  The storm would only increase its fury. Oil and water don't mix. Drenching rains would do nothing to suppress the conflagration, but only help spread it. High winds, rather than snuffing it out, would fan it to greater fury, like a stream of oxygen fueling an acetylene torch.

  When they blew, the devastation would be awesome. Spectacular.

  * * *

  The sound of a motor engine starting up nearby was explosive in its loudness and surprise shock value. It gave Vollard a start, and the rest of his team, too.

  Nothing should be in operation at this time. Vollard was already unslinging his assault rifle out from under his poncho. Around him, his men were dropping into combat crouches. Unlimbering their weapons, they tried to look in all directions at once.

  The engine noise loudened, rising to a roar that out-shouted the howling winds. It came from behind him, lumbering around the corner of a container and into view.

  The bulldozer.

  The mighty machine lurched forward, its Caterpillar treads turning, grinding up turf, sending thick gobs of mud flying. Gears shifting and grinding, engine torquing into higher RPMs, the dozer entered the east-west corridor behind the file of mercs.

  The corridor formed by rows of container boxes laid end to end was like a chute: a cattle chute. The kind that cattle are herded down on their way to the slaughterhouse.

  The bulldozer advanced, coming on, picking up speed. Inexorable juggernaut.

  Some of the mercs broke and ran eastward along the corridor, others had the presence of mind to open fire on the oncoming machine.

  More and additional motors went into action, whining and grinding as they lifted the bulldozer's front blade, providing cover for the driver and his passenger in the open cab.

  Bullets turned into lead smears as they struck the massive, concave blade, striking sparks, ricocheting, making no headway against its heavy-duty metal.

  The corridor between the parked containers was just wide enough to allow the bulldozer to pass through with a foot or two of clearance on either side. Not enough for a man to pass through.

  The mercs were shooting at the bulldozer; now the dozer opened fire on the mercs.

  * * *

  Back when he was in his teens, and during summer semester breaks during college, Jack Bauer had worked construction. It had served him well then and continued to do so in his present line of work. Being a construction worker was good cover at home and abroad, anywhere where big projects were afoot.

  Jack was a pretty fair heavy-equipment operator. Now he was doing a better than fair job of driving the bulldozer down the corridor at the mercs.

  His hands and wrists still hurt like hell. He'd had them patched up by CTU medics, passing on the painkillers to keep his reflexes sharp and his mind clear. He'd popped a few energizer pills, amphetamines, to keep him amped up for the big finish.

  Wearing wrist-length work gloves to protect his hands, he double-shifted, working the floor-mounted stick shifts.

  The cab was surrounded with four vertical poles holding a square-shaped metal roof over the driver's seat. It was open on all four sides, but the raised blade served as a bulletproof shield.


  Jack did not ride alone. Hathaway was with him, manning a .50-caliber machine gun that had been rigged in the cab, wired into place over the top of the hood.

  They both wore strips of white cloth knotted in place above the elbows of their left arms. A means to instantly identify CTU personnel from the enemy. A lot of bullets were going to be flying, and CTU wanted to lose no men to friendly fire.

  Hathaway cut loose with the machine gun, laying down a line of fire that tore up the turf several feet away from the mercs at the rear of the file.

  That did it. Vollard's troops broke and ran for the open space at the opposite end of the corridor.

  The bulldozer kept on coming, treads tearing up turf, machine-gun muzzle flashing fiery spear blades. The corridor was a chute with no way out on the sides.

  Vollard realized that the machine-gun fire wasn't ripping into the men, it was nipping at their heels, setting them running. Herding them!

  One of the mercs in the rear of the file tripped and fell, sprawling face-first in the mud. He got his hands and knees under him and started to rise just as the bulldozer was upon him.

  The dozer rolled over him, grinding him flat under its treads. He made not so much as a bump in the machine's forward progress.

  The mercs were stampeding now, running toward what looked like safety at the far end. Before they were even halfway there, a big-rig tractor-trailer truck rolled into view, crossing the opposite end at right angles, blocking it and closing off the exit.

  Turning the corridor into a box.

  A kill box. The trap had closed and the endgame was opening.

  Stretched out prone on top of the container boxes on both sides of the chute was a squad of CTU marksmen. Sharpshooters.

  They wore rain hats and ponchos, their weapons wrapped in waterproof sheaths until now, when they were brought into play. With the terrible patience of hunters, they'd lain in wait for a long hour in the rain, since spotters had first announced the arrival of Vollard's men.