24 Declassified: Operation Hell Gate 2d-1

by Marc A. Cerasini

  “Mother of God. Who is he?”

  “Felix Tanner.” Jack tossed the dead man’s open wallet onto the desk, but Caitlin focused her attention on the ragged hole in Jack’s jacket, the blood seeping through the tear in the sleeve. She saw he was wincing.

  “You’re hurt!” She moved to help him, but Jack pulled away, searching the desktop.

  “There’s got to be a clue, something in this office that will tell me who’s directing this terrorist cell. Whoever it is, he’s covering his tracks. Felix Tanner probably knew the man’s identity or he wouldn’t have been murdered.”

  Caitlin watched Jack as he desperately tore through the office, scattering papers across the desk, over the dead body on the floor.

  Her eyes drifted to a television monitor in the corner of the office. It was on, though there was no sound. The man on the screen wore bulky black clothes and a ski mask. He stared into the camera as his lips moved.

  “Jack? Come here. I think you should see this.”

  Jack stared at the monitor, adjusted the sound. He and Caitlin both listened as the masked man explained that he would not shoot down any commercial aircraft if each major airline transferred five hundred million dollars to a numbered Swiss account in the next sixty minutes.

  “This isn’t terrorism,” said Jack Bauer. “It’s extortion.”

  4:58:25 P.M. EDT CTU Headquarters, Los Angeles

  A pall had descended over the Situation Room as the Threat Clock ran down to zero hour. The room was quiet, all eyes on the wall-sized HDTV monitor. The massive screen was broken up into five sections — each displayed live surveillance video feeds from locations inside the perimeters of Logan Airport in Boston, Ronald Reagan National Airport in Washington, D.C., O’Hare in Chicago, and Los Angeles International Airport just a few miles from CTU headquarters. One section in the middle of the screen was still dark.

  “I don’t see New York. Why don’t I see New York?” Ryan Chappelle snapped, his voice betraying nervous tension.

  “The satellite is almost in position,” Nina replied. A moment later, crystal clear satellite imagery focused on a section of LaGuardia Airport.

  “What about JFK?” Ryan asked.

  “We’re blind. Georgi Timko claimed he didn’t have the resources to set up camera surveillance, and the NSA would only allow us access to one satellite.”

  “I don’t like relying on some Russian mobster—”

  “Ukrainian,” Doris interrupted.

  “Some Ukrainian mobster, just because Jack Bauer trusts him.”

  Nina frowned. “Face reality, Ryan. Without local resources, what choice did we have?”

  “We’re at fifty-nine seconds,” Jamey Farrell announced.

  Ryan stared at the huge screen as he spoke into a headset. “All CTU tactical units report. Is everyone in position?”

  “Boston, ready,” said Milo Pressman from a workstation. On his screen he watched a grid map of Logan Airport, where a blinking blip represented the CTU tactical team lying in ambush for the terrorists to arrive.

  “D.C., ready,” said a red-eyed Cindy Carlisle, the only survivor from Cyber Unit Team Alpha. “O’Hare, ready,” said Jamey Farrell. “New York City, ready,” said Doris. “Georgi says his teams are in place at both airports.” “LAX, ready,” said the voice of Tony Almeida, speaking from the ambush site at the airport. “Ten seconds,” said Nina. “Nine…eight…” “I see activity on the service road,” said Jamey.

  “Positive contact at O’Hare. ” “Six…five…” “Contact at JFK,” Doris cried. “I hear gunfire.” On the HDTV screen, the satellite captured real-time images — flashes of gunfire, moving cars, an explosion. Eerily, there was no sound. “Three…two…” “Gunfire at Logan. The tactical team is already moving,” yelled Milo. “Zero…”

  21. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 5 P.M. AND 6 P.M. EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME

  5:00:06 P.M. EDT Los Angeles International Airport

  A voice crackled over Tony Almeida’s headset. “We have contact. Two black Ford Explorers, coming in from the south. You should be able to see them in thirty seconds.”

  “Jamming?” Tony asked.

  “Since they entered the perimeter their cell phones and radios have been jammed,” the voice replied. “Not that they noticed.”

  Tony lowered the binoculars and stepped back into hiding.

  “I see them on the service road,” he said softly.

  Tony stood with Captain Schneider and a member of Blackburn’s tactical assault team between two empty shipping containers the size of semitrucks. Other members of the CTU tactical team were also hidden — behind a cluster of aircraft signal lights, in a storm drain under the runway, inside a small concrete utility building. All wore black overalls and thick body armor and were heavily armed. Jessica Schneider’s left arm was in a sling, wrapped tightly against her chest.

  Captain Schneider squinted at the tiny screen on the PDA in her hand. “They’re moving into position next to runway six, right where the data from the memory stick said they’d go.”

  “Get ready. We move as soon as they exit the vehicles. I want snipers to take out the drivers so no one gets away,” Tony commanded.

  “Roger,” said Blackburn from inside the concrete building.

  “Ready to go,” said Special Agent Rosetti from his hiding place under the runway.

  “Snipers in position, aiming at targets,” reported the men at the signal lights.

  Tony glanced at Captain Schneider. Under the harsh Southern California sun, her face was pale and drawn. Sweat beaded her upper lip, which trembled slightly. “Ready?” he asked.

  “Maybe I should sit this one out,” Jessica replied. “My arm. ”

  Tony grasped the problem immediately. Captain Schneider was gun-shy. Not frightened, exactly. Just rattled. She’d been wounded. Now she held back, hesitated to get back into the saddle.

  “Come on,” Tony said with a smile. “I brought you all the way to the ball. The least you can do is dance.”

  Jessica smiled back at him, and Tony saw some of her old spirit return. “You do go on, Special Agent Almeida. Why, I think you could turn a girl’s head.”

  Tony fixed her with his gaze. “Don’t go soft on me now, Captain. I was just starting to get back that old semper fi spirit. Anyway, you could take down these cholos with one hand tied behind your back.”

  Captain Schneider grinned. “Well, if you put it like that…”

  Her voice trailed off as she drew her Marine-issue.45. Tony peered out from between the two metal containers. The terrorists for hire — members of the Manolos, a Mexican street gang Dante Arete recruited out of South Central — had exited their vehicles and were setting up the missile launcher.

  Tony spoke into the microphone. “Snipers take aim. Tactical Team, move on my command…”

  5:07:53 P.M. EDT John F. Kennedy International Airport

  Georgi Timko slung the AK–47 over his shoulder and stepped over to the bullet-riddled SUV. Safety glass lay scattered on the ground, sparkling like spilled jewels in the afternoon sun. Inside the SUV’s open bay, a young Afghani’s dead arms dangled over the edge of the truck bed. The Ukrainian dragged the man to the ground and sat down in the door of the truck with a satisfied sigh. Other armed men circled the perimeter, checking inside the vehicles, the contents of the dead men’s pockets.

  In the distance, beyond the shattered missile launcher, the airport shimmered in the June heat. No one had come, no one had even heard the shooting as Georgi’s men ambushed the terrorists while jets roared overhead. Now the fight was over, the threat ended.

  Timko felt a presence at his side. “Vodka, Comrade Georgi?”

  His eyes went wide as he faced Yuri. “Yuri, do you know this is the first time you’ve spoken to me since the day I hired you two years ago. And this is the first time you addressed me by name, ever.”

  Old Yuri shrugged. His grin bared rotten teeth. “What is there to talk about. The job I have stink
s. I sit around all day, wait for trouble. I bring you trays of food and brew hot tea. It’s boring. I should make it more boring by speaking to you?”

  Yuri handed his boss a metal flask. “Drink,” he grunted.

  Georgi took a deep gulp. Yuri sat next to him, gazing at the dead Afghanis.

  “It was good this happened,” said Yuri, nodding. “I was becoming complacent in my job. I needed a challenge.”

  5:11:59 P.M. EDT CEO Felix Tanner’s office Prolix Security, Fifth Avenue

  Jack and Caitlin watched the monitor. The man in the ski mask was issuing complicated instructions for the transfer of the ransom money.

  Jack’s cell chirped. He answered, heard Ryan Chappelle’s exuberant voice. “We got them, Jack. Every cell. In Washington the tactical team took most of them alive, same in Boston. In Chicago and LAX we had to take them out. And your Russian friend—”

  “Ukrainian,” a young woman’s voice cried out on Ryan’s end.

  “—they shot up the remains of the New York City cell at JFK. The threat is over Jack. We did it!”

  “What about LaGuardia?” Jack demanded.

  “Nothing, Jack. Timko’s men were waiting but the terrorists were a no-show. Nina thinks you may have taken out that cell yourself, back at Wexler Business Storage.”

  Jack recalled the men he’d battled. Most of them were old. Some had missing limbs, eyes. “I don’t think so, Ryan.”

  “Maybe they got cold feet, Jack. Whatever happened, the threat is over.”

  “Not quite.” Jack told Ryan about the video conference, the masked man’s blackmailing threat, which was continuing as he spoke. At the end of the conversation with Chappelle, Jack addressed Jamey Farrell. “Listen to me, you can trace the digital video feed to its source, just tap into Prolix Security’s computer system.”

  “I’ll need access to the computers in that office,” Jamey replied.

  Jack moved to the desktop PC, discovered Felix Tanner had logged on to his computer before he’d been murdered. Following Jamey’s instructions, Jack opened a back-door channel for her to tap into the Prolix computer system.

  “I’ve got the signal,” said Jamey after a few minutes. “But it’s going to take five or ten minutes to trace it back to a server, and then to the point of origin.”

  “I doubt he’ll talk much longer,” said Jack. “But try your best.”

  Less than a minute later, the masked man ceased speaking in the middle of a sentence. He touched his ear, as if he were wearing a headset under the mask. Then the screen went black.

  “The signal is gone, Jack,” said Jamey. “I didn’t have enough time to run it down.”

  “Damn!” Jack cursed.

  Ryan came on the line. “Why did the man’s speech end so abruptly?”

  “I think I know why,” said Jack. “He was probably in contact with some or all of the airport missile teams. He knew they’d been neutralized, killed, or captured — and that we might try to trace his signal.”

  “Then we’re out of luck. We’ll never catch the ringleader,” said Ryan.

  “I have one more lead,” Jack replied. “The man who contacted me claiming he was Agent Ferrer was a phony, I’m certain of it. I didn’t let on I figured him out. I went ahead and set up a rendezvous. I’m going there now, with Caitlin for bait. Maybe if I capture this impostor I can make him talk, force him to reveal the leader’s identity and location.”

  “That’s your plan?” Ryan said, incredulous.

  “I’m playing this by ear,” Jack confessed. “I have no other choice.”

  Bauer checked his watch. “I wanted the rendezvous to happen somewhere nice and public, where the impostor would have a hard time making a move against me and escaping. The busiest place in New York City is Grand Central Station at rush hour, so that’s where I’m going…”

  5:29:52 P.M. EDT Astoria, Queens

  Griffin Lynch had driven from LaGuardia’s freight terminal directly to his final destination. Taking the last exit on Grand Central Parkway, the unmarked van bounced along a multi-laned avenue of battered concrete. Directly ahead was the slowly rising entrance ramp to the Triboro Bridge. But Griff wasn’t heading for that elevated toll plaza. Bearing right, he followed a branching road that angled down, all the way to the river’s edge.

  Before reaching the water, Griff came to Astoria Park, a sixty-five-acre stretch of greenery in the borough of Queens that bordered the East River. Griff turned right and followed a narrow street along the park. On his right was an unending line of modest row houses, on his left a wide lawn covered with trees and peppered with benches.

  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. 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 o
f arrival over New York City airspace, eight-three-eight p.m., Eastern Daylight Time. Over. ”

  22. 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.