In the cab, the unconscious driver slumped forward, his foot depressing the gas pedal. The truck lurched sideways and careened into the guardrail. Sparks flew as the semi roared forward. Chunks of concrete fell from the crumbling guardrail.
Jack rolled onto his stomach. Ignoring the truck’s searing hot hood under his chest and belly, he reached for Amadani.
“Take my hand!” Jack cried.
Panting, the Afghani sneered and spit blood. “I am not afraid to die,” he cried.
Jack’s fingers closed on the collar of the man’s combat vest. “You don’t have to be a martyr.”
“Yes. I do,” the Hawk replied.
As Jack tugged on the man’s vest, the former mujahideen threw up his arms and slipped free of the garment.
The rig bounced once as Amadani was swept under the rolling wheels.
Jack scrambled to his feet, then cringed when a bullet punched a hole in the hood. Another armed man had appeared on the roof of the trailer.
Jack reached for his Glock — and the vehicle lurched violently, as the guardrail broke under its weight.
Time to go.
Still clutching Hawk’s vest, Jack leaped off the out-of-control cab and slammed down on the luggage rack of a passing SUV. His arrival so surprised the driver that the woman braked, nearly throwing Jack under the wheels of a giant commuter bus.
Jack hung on, and watched the big rig rip through the steel guardrail and tumble off the curved ramp. A moment later, he heard a second thunderous crash when the truck slammed into the ground far below.
9:59:21 P.M. EDT
CTU Headquarters, NYC
Peter Randall closed the office door and sat down behind Layla Abernathy’s desk. He adjusted the round glasses on his bland, boyish face, then went to work.
First he sorted through the stack of papers until he located the most current threat report. Then Randall activated Layla’s computer and typed in the woman’s secret password. When he was inside her system, he slipped a thumb drive into the USB port.
It took less than a minute to download the data into Agent Abernathy’s secure files, and another minute to alter the times and dates on the file folders. Finally, Randall deleted the computer’s log, erasing any sign of tampering, and put the computer back to sleep again.
Threat report in hand, Peter Randall left Layla’s office and returned to Security Station One.
“I have the threat report you requested,” he said.
“Great,” Morris O’Brian replied. “Hand it over, mate.”
16. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 10:00 P.M. AND 11:00 P.M. EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME
10:03:07 P.M. EDT
Detention Block
CTU Tactical Center, NYC
Layla Abernathy shivered. She wanted to cover herself, but her arms and legs were shackled to a steel chair bolted to the floor. A chain around her throat kept her back rigid, her head erect.
She sat in the center of a large chamber, her surround-ings dark, cold, and damp — almost medieval. The con-tours of the detainment room’s gray walls seemed to defy geometry, a mad tangle of arches, angles, and shadows like something out of the German Expressionist films she’d watched in graduate school. There was no sound, except for the echo of dripping water.
They’d taken Layla’s overalls and all the tactical gear she’d carried to Kurmastan, left her with only a white Tshirt and the spandex bicycle pants she’d worn underneath.
She listened while a security team searched through her gear, which was spread out on a steel table behind her.
Layla couldn’t imagine what they were looking for and she didn’t ask.
No point. They wouldn’t answer me anyway…
Soon the guards left Layla alone, and there was nothing to listen to but the slow, maddening drip.
Then a loud clang startled her. Somewhere close by, a steel door opened and closed. Layla heard two pairs of footsteps clicking hollowly in the nearly empty cell. One man stopped at the table, and Layla heard a metallic click, like a latch being opened.
The second man loomed over her. He was thin, almost skeletal, with high cheekbones, sunken eyes, and thin, expressionless lips.
“Do you know who I am, Agent Abernathy?” the man asked in a quiet, calm voice.
Layla shook her head. She’d been holding her body as still as possible, trying to keep her mind clear and focused.
Now her lower lip began to tremble.
“My name is Christopher Henderson. I’m now in charge of the New York Division. Do you understand me?”
“Yes,” Layla said, cursing the tremor in her voice.
A strong hand seized her shoulder and an alcohol swab swiped her forearm.
“No,” she gasped.
Layla tried to move but was pinned like a butterfly on display. Her mouth was parched, her heart thumped in her chest. She barely suppressed the urge to scream.
“This will hurt a little,” Henderson warned.
Layla winced at the needle prick.
For a moment, she felt nothing. Then her limbs began to tingle as if they were on fire, burning from the inside.
Layla jerked wildly as her muscles tensed uncontrollably, and she strained at her bonds. Moaning, Layla chewed her lip and tasted blood. The pain intensified, until it felt like her heart was pumping boiling lava through her veins.
Finally, Layla cried out. In a moment, the pain eased.
“That was only the beginning,” Henderson said. “How much more agony you’ll endure depends on whether or not I’m satisfied with the answers you give me. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Layla rasped.
“Good,” Henderson said, his tone obscenely cheerful.
“Let’s begin…”
10:41:54 P.M. EDT
Under the 495 ramp to the Lincoln Tunnel
Jack Bauer examined the mangled wreckage in the glare of spotlights. Emergency beacons flashed around him. A number of local fire companies as well as the New Jersey State Police Bomb Squad had converged on the scene.
When Jack showed them his CTU ID, they allowed him to pass through the police line to view the devastation.
The truck from Kurmastan had plunged almost two hundred feet off the ramp and slammed into a Conrail switching station. The cab had been crushed beyond recognition; the dead driver was still inside. Though its tank had ruptured, and the smell of diesel fuel permeated the area, there was no fire. Still, firemen spread flame-retar-dant foam on the spillage to reduce the chance of accidental conflagration.
When it struck the switching station, the trailer had cracked open like an eggshell, spilling its deadly contents onto the railroad tracks. The aluminum shell was so twisted, Jack could hardly make out the Dreizehn Trucking logo on its hull. Plastic-wrapped bricks of C–4 were scattered like confetti. The cargo bay had been stuffed with enough explosives to bring down the roof of the Lincoln Tunnel, or level much of Times Square, if either attack had been part of the terrorists’ plan.
Among shattered crates of C–4 and an armory of guns and ammunition, Bauer counted two mangled bodies. A third corpse dangled from the top of a nearby telephone pole, where the crew of a Weehawken Fire Department ladder truck was preparing to bring it down.
Across from the tangled wreck on the railroad tracks was Waterfront Terrace Road. Its large marina complex and luxury restaurant were now being evacuated via the Hudson River. Jack could see a fleet of police and fire boats bobbing in the dark water, the lit-up Manhattan skyline rising beyond.
Jack turned away from the glare, gazed at the liquid crystal display on the PDA in his hand. The device had once belonged to the Hawk. Jack had found it, along with a cell phone, in the pocket of the man’s black utility vest, which Jack now wore over his blue jumpsuit. Bauer had already forwarded the contents of the device and the Hawk’s cell phone to Morris O’Brian for further analysis.
While he awaited the results, Jack studied a series of road maps stored in the PDA’s memory. He was interrup
ted when his own cell phone vibrated.
“Bauer.”
“It’s me,” said Morris. “You’re looking at the maps?”
“Yes,” Jack replied. “There are six of them—”
“That’s right, Jack-o,” Morris interrupted. “Two match the routes taken by the truck that hit Carlisle, and the vehicle you just took down—”
“So the other four maps might indicate the routes taken by other trucks that we have yet to locate,” Jack said, thumbing through the PDA’s index.
“Might is the problem,” said Morris. “It’s such a trouble-some little word.”
“Might is what leads are made of,” Jack replied.
“Good point.”
Jack squinted at the tiny screen. “Looks like one map outlines a route to Atlantic City. And another’s going to a location outside of Rutland, Vermont.”
“There are two trucks heading for Boston, too.” Morris paused. “Director Henderson has ordered me to alert the proper state and local authorities. Thanks to you, we have a chance of stopping these trucks. A good chance.”
But Jack remembered what Brice Holman had said before he’d expired. He’d seen twelve trucks, twelve, loaded with armed men, leaving Kurmastan that morning.
Which still leaves six more out there — somewhere, Jack thought, if I want to trust Holman’s intel, and I have few doubts on that score…
Morris seemed to read his mind. “Don’t worry, Jack.
You’ll stop them.”
Jack shook off his anxiety and redirected Morris. “What about the contents of Farshid Amadani’s cell phone?”
“Nine numbers are stored there,” Morris replied. “Eight of them are for cell phones with bogus accounts.”
“And the ninth?”
“An unlisted number for the West Side apartment of one Erno Tobias, a citizen of Switzerland. Mr. Tobias is an executive officer for Rogan Pharmaceuticals.”
Jack flashed back to the stockpile of steroids and amphetamines at Kurmastan. They’d all come from Rogan Pharmaceuticals.
“I’ve just pulled up the passport photo for Mr. Tobias from the State Department database, and I’m forwarding it to you,” Morris continued. “You might recognize him.”
The PDA beeped in Jack’s hand, and he retrieved the digital image. Surprise struck him at the sight of the pale white face.
“It’s the Albino,” Jack said. “The man who killed Fredo Mangella in Little Italy.”
“I have an address,” Morris announced. “Nice digs, too.
It appears Mr. Tobias occupies an apartment on Central Park West.”
The address flashed on the PDA screen.
“Got it,” said Jack. “I’m going there now.”
10:56:25 P.M. EDT
Security Booth
General Aviation Electronics Rutland, Vermont
On this wood-lined stretch of Route 4, just a few miles from Pine Hill Park, rush hour occurred three times a day, coinciding with the shift changes at the massive General Aviation Electronics manufacturing plant.
At seven a.m., three p.m., and again at eleven p.m., a steady stream of cars, pickups, and minivans flowed off Columbian Avenue, onto a short driveway that led into the access-restricted parking lot.
Because of the classified nature of the devices manufactured here, which included vital components for the U.S. military’s fleet of high-performance jet aircraft, there was only one way in or out of the plant. That road was straddled by a gated security booth and manned by two armed guards.
While there was always a delay at rush hour, tonight’s was worse than usual because of a security alert issued by the Federal government less than thirty minutes earlier.
Most days, gaining admittance to the employee parking lot was a simple process. The electronic pass glued to the workers’ windshields allowed them to be waved through.
But tonight the two guards inside the glass booth had been instructed to stop each vehicle and check the IDs of all occupants. The security officers were also advised to be on the lookout for suspicious vehicles, especially large trucks.
It was Officer Darla Famini and her partner, Archie Lamb, who were taking the heat for the delay, mostly from workers rolling in at the last minute for the night shift.
“Come on, Darla, what’s the problem?” complained a corpulent man behind the wheel of a late-model GM pickup.
“You ought to know me. I’m your damned cousin.”
“Sorry, Billy,” Darla said, handing him back his employee ID. “Tonight we have to check everybody. We have a situation.”
“Situation? ” Billy rolled his eyes. “We haven’t had a situation since Ronald Reagan was President.”
Darla frowned. “We’ve got one tonight.”
Billy adjusted his ball cap. “Lucky me. I’m at the end of the line.”
“You have plenty of time to clock in,” Officer Famini replied, waving him through.
As the gate went up, Billy glanced into his rearview mirror. “Here comes someone else you can harass,” he said. Then he pulled away in a cloud of exhaust smoke.
Darla watched two headlights bounce up the driveway.
Her partner appeared at her shoulder.
“That’s a truck,” said Archie Lamb.
The night sky was clear and cloudless above Rutland, the stars and planets sharply bright. Darla could make out the vehicle, too.
“Aren’t we supposed to be on the lookout for big trucks?”
Archie asked.
“Put the flashers on,” Darla said.
Archie hit the button, and red warning lights lit up around the booth.
“He’s still coming,” said Darla.
Archie pointed. “Looks like he’s speeding up.”
“Contact the night supervisor!”
While Archie dialed the number, Darla punched another button on her console. Long, metal spikes popped out of the pavement. If the truck tried to pass through the gates now, its tires would be shredded.
She expected the driver to see the spikes and slow his vehicle, but he didn’t. The truck kept right on coming, its headlights filling the booth. At the last possible instant, the vehicle swerved away from the tire-shredding spikes sticking out of the roadway and crashed right through the security booth.
The flimsy structure exploded into shards of glass and shattered lights; Darla and Archie were killed instantly; and the Dreizehn Trucking vehicle continued on, through the parking lot. Because of the shift change, the lot was jammed with cars and employees. The truck barreled through them, running down those who reacted too slowly.
The big rig rolled right up to the massive steel doors to the plant — and smashed right through them. Then a white flash lit up the night. With a single deafening blast, the General Aviation Electronics plant was leveled. Eight hundred men and women, fully two-thirds of the plant’s workforce, were murdered.
The blast was so powerful, it blew the leaves off trees and turned over cars on Route 4. Miles away, windows in homes and businesses near Rutland’s famed historic district were shattered.
Flames quickly spread to a nearby battery factory, where a half-dozen chemical tanks ruptured, spewing millions of metric tons of poisonous fumes into the air.
As the cloud of toxic death spread, birds fell from the trees, their feathered carcasses dropping onto lawns and streets. Hundreds of people, tucked into their cozy homes for the night, succumbed immediately. Minivans and SUVs ran up into yards and through fences as their drivers instantly perished.
In the next few minutes, many more would die as a hellish orange glow spread out over Rutland, smothering the night sky, extinguishing every last point of light in the clear, cloudless heavens.
17. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 11:00 P.M. AND 12:00 A.M. EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME
11:03:26 P.M. EDT
Ivy Avenue at Beacon Street
Newark, New Jersey
“God go with you,” the old man said in Spanish.
“Gracia
s, Padre,” Tony replied. Then he turned from the scarred metal door, glanced up and down the deserted block, and ducked into a shadowy alley.
This broken-down neighborhood had been a thriving area once, housing union workers for the nearby industrial section of the city. But the industries were long gone now, along with the well-paid jobs. The buildings around him appeared abandoned, too; but Tony knew, from the amount of discarded hypodermic needles and heroin wrappers scattered around, there had to be a shooting gallery somewhere on this block.
Ahead, in the darkness, he sensed movement — a figure stepped out of a doorway, walked toward him.
“Well, Almeida?” whispered a woman’s voice. “Get anything?”
Judith Foy was still wearing her tracksuit and ball cap.
She’d been hiding in the alley, staying out of sight while Tony conducted a quiet discussion with an old, white-haired priest.
Tony rubbed his soul patch. “Yeah,” he said. “I got something. An address.”
He’d been looking for intel on the Thirteen Gang. CTU
had nothing in their database, but apparently they were still active here in Newark. And since Tony couldn’t simply go to the Newark Police, flash his CTU ID, and ask for a file, he set out to do his own legwork.
He’d noticed fishes painted on the sides of buildings, like graffiti, with Spanish words scrawled inside, and he knew these were markers, leading illegal aliens to a Cath-olic rescue mission, where they could get help if they were in trouble with authorities, the law, or anyone else.
It was late, but Tony figured an underground rescue mission would have someone guarding the door 24/7. Sure enough, after only two sharp knocks, the heavy, battered door had cracked open.
He’d spoken to the priest in street Spanish, telling him he was trying to help his girlfriend, whose son had gotten involved with a gang. “Please, I have to find him. He may be in danger of overdosing on drugs. Can you tell me where the Thirteen Gang hangs out in this area?”
24 Declassified: Collateral Damage 2d-8 Page 16
