24 Declassified: 08 - Collateral Damage

by Marc Cerasini

  8:01:29 P.M. EDT

  Kurmastan, New Jersey

  Jack Bauer stood in front of the burning cardboard factory, his form silhouetted by the crimson glow. Emergency lights flickered around him, flashing from a dozen fire trucks hastily summoned from the surrounding communities in response to one of the worst fires northwestern New Jersey had ever witnessed.

  In the middle of the smoking chaos, Jack collared a fire chief. Water dripped from the fireman’s helmet, to mingle with the sweat on his smoke-blackened face.

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  “I need to get inside that factory,” Jack cried over the roar of the blaze.

  “Ain’t gonna happen, buddy,” the chief replied. “That fire is going to burn itself out. There’s not enough water to smother it. We’re pumping the wells dry as it is.”

  Jack looked around. Professional fire companies from Clinton, Phillipsburg, and Milford had joined volunteer units from Alpha, Milton, and Carpentersville to battle the roaring blaze. Though the old factory was by far the largest conflagration, houses and mobile homes were also engulfed in flames.

  Suddenly a section of the factory roof collapsed. Rolling flames gushed out of the shattered windows and gaping doors. Cursing, Jack turned his back on the holocaust.

  Any evidence the terrorists might have left inside that industrial building was incinerated now. Except for the intelligence provided by Judith Foy and the late Brice Holman, CTU was flying blind—unless they could get something out of Ali Rahman al Sallifi.

  Jack ran among the emergency vehicles until he reached a CTU medical helicopter. The chief medical officer noticed Jack’s arrival and faced him.

  “I’m about to dispatch Imam al Sallifi to CTU for evalu-ation, Special Agent Bauer,” the man said.

  “What’s his condition now?”

  “Offhand, I’d say he was suffering from a drug-induced psychosis, but I couldn’t tell you what drugs were pumped into him. He’s also violent. My team had to tranquilize him before we could drag him out of that cave. He’s dehy-drated and malnourished, too.”

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  “Will al Sallifi be able to talk?”

  The medical officer shrugged. “In a few days, perhaps.

  But I doubt they’ll get much out of him.”

  “How’s the girl?”

  “Danielle Taylor has been traumatized, but physically she’ll recover.”

  “Take her back to CTU for debriefing,” Bauer commanded. “And tell Security to turn Agent Abernathy over to the interim director—”

  The officer blinked. “I didn’t know we had an interim director.”

  “He’s en route from Washington.”

  The officer yanked the helmet off his head and ran a gloved hand through dark, sweat-damp hair. “Layla Abernathy is asking to speak to you.”

  Jack’s cell phone chirped.

  “No time. Take Abernathy back to Manhattan. Let the interim director deal with her.”

  Bauer waved the officer away, then pressed the cell phone to his ear. “Bauer.”

  “It’s me,” Morris replied from the security console in New York.

  “What have you learned?”

  “First, I’ve identified someone from Brice Holman’s surveillance photos. A fellow with bad dentures called

  ‘the Hawk,’ a warrior-hero from the Afghan war against the Russians. A couple of years back he became a terrorist.

  Been busy since then, in Milan, London, Hamburg. The usual things. Anarchy and murder.”

  “What’s he doing in America?” Jack wondered aloud.

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  “Haven’t a clue,” Morris said. “But he has had past contact with the compound in Kurmastan. I also located a dossier on Ibrahim Noor. Smooth operator. Good at public relations. Despite local complaints about his compound, Noor has scored some success with the local politicians.

  He even endorsed the winning congresswoman for the district in the last election.”

  “Where did Noor come from?” Jack asked.

  “He’s made in America, Jack-o,” Morris replied. “A product of the mean streets of Newark, New Jersey—”

  “Newark!” Jack cried. “Where Foy was ambushed.

  Where Tony is holed up right now.”

  “Nice coincidence—”

  “If it is a coincidence. Tell me more.”

  “Noor was born Travis Bell, in University Heights, forty-two years ago. Bell was a former gang leader and drug dealer from Newark. He was the prime suspect in several murders, and a rising star in the cocaine trade. And get this, Jack. Travis Bell had his own gang, named after the address where he grew up. Number Thirteen.”

  Jack let out a breath. “The tattoos—”

  “On the late Rachel Delgado’s arm, too, according to Tony Almeida,” Morris replied.

  Jack stroked his forehead, lost in thought.

  “Listen, Morris. Forward everything you have about Ibrahim Noor and Travis Bell to Tony in Newark. I don’t care how he does it. Just tell him to dig up all he can about the Thirteen Gang. Find out if they’re still active and who their leader is now.”

  “Consider it done.”

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  Jack hissed. “Tell me how a street thug like Travis Bell ends up a spiritual leader?”

  “Well, Jack-o, it seems Mr. Bell converted under the spiritual guidance of Ali Rahman al Sallifi, while he was serving a ten-year sentence for a drug conviction.”

  “Converted to Islam, you mean?” Jack said.

  “No, I don’t,” Morris replied. “They might use the jar-gon—jihad, Khilafah, and all that—but what Ali Rahman al Sallifi was preaching wasn’t Islam at all. It was more like something out of Jim Jones and the Kool-Aid drinkers in Jonestown.”

  Morris paused, “The Warriors of God is a cult, Jack.

  Pure and simple. Ali Rahman al Sallifi and Ibrahim Noor set themselves up as prophets, or maybe even gods.

  They preached violence, not spirituality. And now their deluded followers have gone on some kind of insane rampage.”

  “No,” Jack said. “Not insane. There’s a reason behind this attack. It’s not random because too many elements are involved—Mangella in Little Italy, the Albino. Someone is pulling strings here. There’s some ultimate goal in mind.

  We just haven’t figured it out yet.”

  He heard voices on the other end of the line, then Morris vanished for a moment. “Are you there, Morris?”

  “Sorry, Jack,” O’Brian replied. “We’ve just received word of a terror attack in Pennsylvania. A State Police car was run off the road by a truck, and he reported the license plate of one of the vehicles registered to the paper factory in Kurmastan. A minute after receiving that initial report, the truck stop where the squad car was 184

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  wrecked blew up—multiple bombs with many estimated casualties.”

  Jack cursed.

  “A nearby tank farm went up, too,” Morris continued.

  “Now half the town of Carlisle is burning.”

  In the ruins of Kurmastan, Jack blinked, faced the blazing factory again. He tried to imagine an innocent American town reduced to this smoldering inferno around him.

  Then Jack caught his breath.

  “Did you say Carlisle?”

  “You got friends there, Jack?”

  “That’s the home of the new Special Operations Tactical Training School, part of the Army War College. Ryan Chappelle is lodging at the barracks right now. He’s in the middle of a nine-week training seminar on counterterrorist tactics.”

  “No wonder it was so quiet in the L.A. office,” Morris quipped.

  “Are you tracking that truck now, Morris?”

  “I am,” Morris replied. “After the blast, I positioned a satellite over that section of Central Pennsylvania, and homed in on the bloody bastards.”

 
Anticipating Jack’s next request, Morris called up the location of the training school on his monitor. He whistled.

  “Good instincts, Jack-o. That truck is making a beeline for the SOTTS. It should arrive in half an hour or so.”

  “Alert the school, warn them what they’re up against.

  And see if you can reach Ryan personally.”

  “I’m on it, Jack,” Morris replied. His fingers flew C O L L AT E R A L D A M A G E 185

  across the keyboard as he entered the codes to send out the dispatch.

  In Kurmastan, Jack felt the heat from the smoldering ruins. “They’ve struck first,” he said softly. “Before we could stop them.”

  “We’ll get them,” Morris insisted. “We’re using highway surveillance cameras to check license plates. Every state and local police department has been alerted. Dr. Guilling has arrived here in New York. He’s shifting satellites over the eastern seaboard. It’s only a matter of time—”

  “Did you say Dr. Guilling was in New York? I thought Ted was at Langley,” Jack said.

  “The new director brought him along. In fact, nearly everyone has been replaced with the interim director’s people. They marched in here like a conquering army and swept the place clean.” O’Brian chuckled. “It’s a wonder I kept my job.”

  “I’m boarding a helicopter now,” Jack said. “Locate those trucks, and relay their coordinates to me as soon as you get them.”

  8:38:25 P.M. EDT

  Special Operations Tactical Training School Security Gate

  As soon as Ryan Chappelle got the warning from CTU, he alerted the rest of the men in his barracks that they were about to be attacked—for real. The men immediately sprang into action.

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  “If this operation is successful, it will be the fastest ambush ever mounted in the history of counterterrorist operations.”

  The speaker was Joe Smith. Like the other instructors at the counterterrorism seminar, Smith was an active duty special operations soldier. and the name he was using was an alias.

  “If it doesn’t work, we’re all going to be in trouble for raiding the armory without proper authorization,” said William Bendix. The tall African American had the body of a pro wrestler and a shaved head. He wore a utility vest, sans shirt, and a briefcase-sized magnetic mine was slung over his broad back.

  “As senior officer, I’ll take responsibility. If this is a bust, it’ll be my neck under the hatchet.”

  Smith spoke with quiet authority and a southern drawl.

  He clutched a Heckler & Koch UMP .45 with a twenty-five-round magazine in his large hands, and several concussion grenades were hooked to the belt of his black denim pants. A big man, he had stained his face and hands with shoe polish that rendered him nearly invisible in the darkness. Smith crouched behind a decorative stone fence, watching the well-lit road that led from the front gate at the bottom of the hill, right up to the main building.

  “This whole thing sounds loco to me, man,” said Ben Johnson, a Hispanic standing close to Smith. “Mad cultists driving trucks of death? Come on. Someone at Langley must have had an Austin Powers moment to feed us that kind of intel.”

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  His teeth white against a face streaked with dark paint, Johnson held a Colt Commando in his scarred fist.

  “You’ve got it wrong. The threat is real,” protested Ryan Chappelle, the Regional Director of CTU Los Angeles.

  “You heard about the blasts in Carlisle, and you read the alert that came over the military wire. And I spoke to one of my operatives, personally. This intelligence is solid—

  from one of my best agents. Though I don’t like Bauer personally, his job performance is—”

  “Bauer? Are you talking about Jack Bauer?” asked a man who called himself Martin Eden.

  “That’s correct,” Chappelle replied. “Jack was Delta Force before he came to CTU . . . Perhaps you knew him.”

  Eden flashed Chappelle a feral grin. “Nope. Never heard of no Jack Bauer. And, for the record, Delta is an airline.”

  The men around Chappelle chuckled. Ryan frowned, not understanding why the others were laughing.

  “Yo, check the gate,” the man named Moe Howard called from his position near a bronze statue of colonial hero Robert Rogers, the founding leader of America’s first special ops unit, back in 1756.

  Joe Smith squinted in the distance. “I see lights. Looks like a truck. Let’s see what the driver does.”

  Martin Eden raised night vision binoculars. “It’s an eighteen-wheeler with a long trailer. Logo’s too small to read from here. D . . . R . . . something. Wait a minute!

  The truck just smashed through the front gate. Now that wasn’t friendly.”

  “Take position, everyone,” Joe Smith commanded.

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  A half-dozen men fanned out down the hill, vanishing in the shadows among the trees and brush of the landscaped hillside.

  “What do you want me to do?” Ryan Chappelle whispered.

  “You came here for some hands-on counterterrorism experience, so I’ll hand you this.” Joe Smith thrust a Glock into Ryan’s limp grip. “If I point at something and say

  ‘shoot there,’ you do it. Otherwise stay out of the way.”

  Ryan chewed his lip and gave the man a nod.

  The truck was rumbling up the hill now, close enough for Ryan to hear the growl of its diesel engine. He tucked the gun in his belt and lifted his micro-binoculars.

  Under the streetlight, Ryan thought he saw a dark figure dart into the roadway beside the truck. If it was one of the special ops men, he was gone before Ryan could be certain.

  Suddenly Chappelle was blinded by a yellow flash—an explosion that blew the back wheels off the trailer. The cab kept moving, dragging the tottering cargo bay with it, until a second explosion went off under the engine block. That blast blew off the front tire, shattered the truck’s windows, and sent the engine cover flying into the air.

  “The squids were right,” Martin Eden said in the tone of a professional evaluating a new product. “Those magnetic mines blew the hell out of that truck. I’d love to see what they do to a boat.”

  On the narrow road, the semi’s blasted cab came to an abrupt halt when the axle dug into the asphalt. Then its trailer jackknifed, and the whole rig tumbled on its C O L L AT E R A L D A M A G E 189

  side, breaking in half as it smashed a section of the stone fence.

  The din faded, and for a long moment all was silent.

  Then the cargo doors opened with a loud bang. Red tracer fire cut through the night. Men rolled out of the truck, into a fusillade of fire and a rain of concussion grenades.

  Howling, the terrorists fell, one by one, until there was no one left alive.

  In the darkness around the ribbon of road, voices cried out. “Clear!”

  “Clear here.”

  “All clear!”

  “Anybody hurt?” Joe Smith called. A chorus of negatives greeted him. Only then did he realize the ambush was over—and he hadn’t fired a shot.

  Martin Eden rose from his hiding place and ran toward the wreck, Ryan Chappelle on his heels. Other men emerged from hiding and swarmed over the smashed truck, checking the bodies, then the contents of the cargo bay.

  “I got nine unfriendlies down, no survivors,” Moe Howard declared. “There are some maps and stuff in the cab. Might be intel. Might be crap.”

  “I don’t know about intel, but there are enough guns and ammo here to start a war,” Larry Fine said, shaking his head.

  “There must be a ton of C–4, too, manufactured with easy-set timers and ready to go,” Smith observed, his facade of calm suddenly cracking.

  As they fumbled through the wreckage, reality began 190

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  to dawn on all of them as the magnitude of the threat was slowly revealed.

&n
bsp; Finally, Martin Eden faced Ryan Chappelle. “Jack Bauer says there are eleven more trucks on the prowl just like this one, right?"”

  “That’s right.”

  Eden frowned. “Then God help us.”

  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

  9:00 P.M. AND 10:00 P.M.

  EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME

  9:10:20 P.M. EDT

  Eight hundred feet above Interstate 495

  New Jersey

  Jack Bauer leaned through the door of the CTU helicopter, wind tearing at his hair. His right hand gripped the exit bar. His left clutched a thick rope attached to a winch on the side of the fuselage.

  A six-lane highway rolled under the belly of the racing Sikorsky, a long ribbon of glowing headlights against a crowded urban landscape. In the distance, Bauer could see the Manhattan skyline glittering against the violet sky.

  “You’re telling me one of the trucks is down there?”

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  Jack yelled into his headset. His heart was racing and he was ignoring a cold sweat.

  “Yes,” said Morris.

  “I need confirmation!”

  “Right,” said Morris. “I’ll forward the satellite feed to the navigational computer inside your chopper. Give me a moment . . .”

  “I’ve got the target on-screen now, Agent Bauer,” Captain Fogarty informed him seconds later.

  Jack strained to hear the voices over the throb of the pounding rotors. He released the rope, increased the volume on his headset, and twisted the earphone tighter.

  “This truck was holed up in the parking lot of Giants Stadium since early afternoon,” Morris explained. “About an hour ago, Meadowlands security finally got suspicious and dispatched officers to check out the vehicle. Two guards were killed; a third is in critical condition and not expected to live. And the truck, as you can obviously see from my tracking, got away from them.”

  “And you’re positive you’ve locked on the right vehicle?” Jack pressed.

  “The survivor managed to get the license number,” said Morris. “The truck’s from Kurmastan.”

  The increasingly bizarre pattern of attack puzzled Jack.

  A highway rest stop. A gas farm. Then a failed assault on a military training school.