24 Declassified: Collateral Damage 2d-8

by Marc A. Cerasini

  Carlisle, Pennsylvania

  Luddie Kuzma rolled his vehicle into a remote spot on the edge of the sprawling truck stop parking lot. He powered down the window and cut the engine. The night was more comfortable than the afternoon, but it was warm and becoming humid. Still, Luddie welcomed the fresh air streaming through the window after hours spent with a rattling air conditioner.

  Massaging his neck, Lud savored the silence — at least he did until a trailer truck rumbled past his van and rolled to a halt, air brakes hissing in protest.

  He watched as the man in the passenger seat jumped out and helped guide the big truck into a parking spot between a moving van and an Ethan Allen furniture truck.

  He noted with interest that the newcomer lacked backup alarms — as annoying as those beepers were, they were also a requirement in most states. The vehicle had a small logo that Lud strained to read.

  Dreizehn Trucking

  The license was local, too. The vehicle was based in New Jersey.

  Yawning, Lud forgot about the truck and glanced at the illuminated dial of his plastic sports watch. Not even eight o’clock yet, and it’s already been a long day — too long to get right back on the road.

  Lud tilted his seat back, stretched out his legs. At five foot three, and nearly two hundred pounds, he was built like a sandy-haired fireplug. But nine hours behind the wheel would wear out anyone’s knees, even a midget’s.

  At fifty, Luddie was the oldest livery driver in the Allegheny — Lehigh Valley Medical Alliance.

  Today he hauled a kidney from Allegheny County Hospital to Easton Medical Center. He hadn’t a clue where the organ came from, or who the lucky recipient would be.

  But that was par for the course. Luddie was only a driver.

  It was none of his business. He’d delivered the organ to Easton General on time, earned his three hundred bucks plus gas, and now he was on his way back to his dinky apartment on Pittsburgh’s South Side, home since the wife divorced him two years ago.

  Lud balled up the empty bag of Bon Ton pork rinds and tossed it into the trash bag on the floor. With a contented sigh, he released his seatbelt and shoulder strap, pulled his Pittsburgh Pirates cap over his eyes, and settled back. In seconds he was snoring…

  The loud bang of a metal door shocked him back to consciousness.

  Startled, Lud bolted upright, momentarily disoriented.

  He glanced at his watch and realized he’d been sleeping for about twenty minutes. Then he looked around for the source of the sound.

  It was the vehicle from Dreizehn Trucking. The double cargo doors were wide open, and several men were crawling around inside.

  “What the hell are yo’uns doing?” he muttered suspiciously.

  For a moment, Lud thought he was witnessing a robbery in progress. But when he discerned the deadly nature of the hauler’s cargo, he realized the truth was even more nefarious.

  In the dim light of the trailer’s cavernous interior, Lud saw a wall lined with fully stocked weapon racks — machine guns, assault rifles, shotguns, boxes of grenades—

  the kind of stuff Luddie Kuzma had handled in Vietnam.

  There was more. A black youth aboard the truck started handing down bricks of plastic explosives wired to timers.

  Lud ducked lower in his seat, scanned the parking area around him. Fifty yards away, he spied another man on his knees, using duct tape to connect one of the bombs to a tanker truck full of gasoline.

  Heart racing, Lud pondered his next move. If he started his engine, or even made a move, they would spot him—

  and he realized with mounting panic that all the men were wearing sidearms, too.

  Before he could decide on a course of action, Lud saw a figure loom in his rearview mirror, heard the click of a bullet sliding into its chamber.

  He turned, looked up—

  7:48:37 P.M. EDT

  Carlisle, Pennsylvania

  Vernon Greene strode across the parking lot, toward the cargo bay of the Dreizehn truck, the gunmetal-gray USP

  Tactical still smoking in his right hand.

  “I found some cracker sleeping inside that van. Didn’t you scope the place first?” he demanded.

  The man in the truck shrugged, handed down another bomb to a youth, who clutched it to his chest as he raced away.

  “My boys clipped two guys sleeping in their trucks and some bitch in a Caddy. So what if they missed that one.

  You got him, right?”

  Greene unscrewed the silencer and tossed it inside the trailer.

  “Tell your boys to step it up. We’re leaving in five minutes.”

  Three minutes later, the last of the men returned to the truck and piled inside. Vernon Greene closed the door behind them, then hopped into the cab.

  “You ready to hit the big target?” he asked.

  The driver nodded, nervous sweat beading his leathery skin. “I can get us to the U.S. Tactical Training School in twenty minutes.”

  “Go,” Greene commanded. “Let’s get scarce before this place blows sky-high.”

  The diesel engine roared, belching smoke. One minute later, the Dreizehn truck rumbled down the exit ramp and away from the sprawling truck stop. The driver ignored a red light and swung onto the main road. In the process he clipped a Pennsylvania State Police car and turned the vehicle completely around.

  The trooper behind the wheel couldn’t give chase — the front of his car was shattered, and he had an injured partner to deal with — but he immediately used the radio to report the Dreizehn truck, and its plate numbers, to the State Police barracks less than a mile away. He also requested an ambulance.

  While the driver tried to revive his partner, the world exploded around him. Ears battered by the noise, bathed in an eerie orange glow, he watched as a dozen explosions rocked the truck stop, one after the other. The diesel pumps blew in a stupendous blast, sending a roiling, burning mushroom cloud into the darkening sky.

  Then the gasoline pumps erupted, spewing burning liquid upward like a blazing fountain. Diners and staff hurried to the windows to view the commotion — just in time to die as bombs placed at each of the food court’s four corners brought the entire structure down on top of hundreds of customers and employees of a dozen different fast-food chains.

  Then a gasoline tanker that was rolling toward the police car exploded. The tank leaped into the air and split asunder, sending thousands of gallons of burning gasoline spilling down the ramp like a river of volcanic lava.

  Behind the wheel, the state trooper threw up his hands to protect his face as a fireball streaked toward the windshield of his crippled vehicle. The window exploded into tiny, cutting shards. Then the billowing flames engulfed the car and filled the interior, instantly incinerating the two occupants.

  14. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 8:00 P.M. AND 9:00 P.M. EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME

  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.

  “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 roo
f 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.”

  “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.

  “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.”

  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 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 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.

  “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.”

  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—”