24 Declassified: Collateral Damage 2d-8 Read online

  Trailers went up in smoke and flames, the eruptions continuing for almost thirty seconds before the cacophony finally subsided. As Layla hugged the earth, smoke billowed over their position. It stank of cordite, scorched metal, and burned flesh.

  “Inshallah,” Layla muttered from the ground.

  Jack crouched over Agent Abernathy. “Stay here,” he told her. “Call Morris and tell him to send backup. We’ll need tactical teams and a medical unit.” Jack pointed to the teenager. “Take care of the girl, too—”

  “What are you going to do?” Layla demanded.

  “I’m going down there to find out what the hell is happening.”

  12. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 6:00 P.M. AND 7:00 P.M. EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME

  6:05:50 P.M. EDT

  Security Station One

  CTU Headquarters, NYC

  Morris O’Brian watched flickering, real-time satellite images of the shattered town. Thick smoke crossed his monitor screen like a creeping black smudge. Flames licked the walls and roof of the rambling factory.

  He was tempted to alert the local firefighting authorities — though in that isolated region of rural New Jersey, Morris wasn’t sure what resources were actually available.

  It wasn’t his call, anyway, so Morris didn’t make it.

  Jack Bauer had called for backup and Morris obeyed—

  dispatching two tactical assault teams and a medical unit.

  Estimated time of arrival: twenty-eight minutes and fifty-five seconds, according to his threat clock.

  “The last chopper’s just lifted off from the heliport,”

  Peter Randall informed him. “No problem with clearance this time.”

  Morris nodded — then his cell phone beeped. Bloody hell? Who’s calling me on my personal line?

  But it wasn’t a call. His ISP had just alerted him to an urgent e-mail waiting in his cache. Morris looked around for the briefcase computer he had brought with him that morning, found it behind the door where he’d left it when he started work on the troubled security system.

  He dumped the briefcase on his desk and opened the lid. He wiped his thumb over the fingerprint sensor, and got clearance to proceed. His ISP protocols and passwords were programmed into the computer, and Morris had the

  “urgent message” on screen in seconds.

  The e-mail came from Chloe — the kinky bird from the computer department he’d been dating on the sly. Morris read the tagline, and his knees turned to jelly.

  “Oh god,” he moaned, dropping into a chair. “She’s pregnant?”

  6:22:06 P.M. EDT

  Kurmastan, New Jersey

  As Jack descended into the valley, he entered a pall of smoke. Passing the ruins of the mobile homes, he saw everyday signs of human habitation among the ruins — refrigerators turned on their sides, doors wide, spilling their contents, burst mattress smoldering in the sun, a shattered baby crib, torn cereal boxes, broken dishes.

  There were no signs of life, but plenty of signs of death.

  The grisly remains of the citizens of Kurmastan were all around him.

  Jack circled one of the intact mobile homes. Sheets of opaque plastic had been hung in place of windows. The door was unlocked, and Jack opened it. Inside he saw three filthy bunks, an aluminum sink filled with dirty Styrofoam plates, plastic utensils, and swarming ants. The tiny bathroom was crammed with empty ammunition boxes, all brand-name sportsman shells purchased legally, over the counter.

  When Jack exited the cramped trailer, a braying goat stumbled into his path. Startled, he watched the frightened creature bolt for the forest, spindly legs kicking up dirt.

  Crouching low, leading with the weapon he clutched with both hands, Jack moved along Kurmastan’s main street. He saw a small market, blown apart now, fruits and vegetables scattered on the scorched and blackened street.

  Here the smoke was choking, and Jack had to cover his nose and mouth with a tattered prayer shawl soaked in the streaming flow from a shattered water pipe.

  There were many bodies around the blasted Community Center, some of them intact. Jack examined two of the corpses and discovered they’d been shot — probably by Brice Holman in the escape Dani had described.

  Jack wondered where Holman was now, if he was dead or alive.

  He holstered his Glock, wiped smoky tears from his eyes with the sleeve of his CTU tactical assault uniform.

  It was clear that the people of Kurmastan had committed mass suicide, after savagely attacking the church group and slaughtering almost everyone. But Jack had more questions than answers.

  Why were Dani’s captors, and the ones who chased her up the hill, all women, children, and the elderly? Where are all the men?

  Cautiously, Jack peered through the door of the smoking Community Center. The stench of death permeated the place, but, mercifully, the roof had collapsed, so he couldn’t see much.

  He circled the ruined building. In the back, he found two large Dumpsters that had been tipped over in the explosions. The smell of rotting food mingled with charred flesh, adding to the unbearable conditions.

  Jack stopped in his tracks when he suddenly heard a human sound — a mad, tittering laugh.

  “Hello?” Jack called.

  More laughter followed, and Jack trailed the echo until he spied a six-foot pit reinforced with logs — the entrance to an underground bunker. Jack heard the laughter again, and knew it emanated from that earthen pit.

  Reluctantly, he descended into the trench and entered the bunker. Inside, he found a long tunnel lined with wooden support beams. He found a light switch and tested it, but the generator was either destroyed or inactive and the naked bulbs remained dark. Jack paused, waiting for his eyes to adjust. The underground bunker was ten degrees cooler than the temperature outside, and smelled of raw wood and freshly turned earth. There was another odor, too, a kind of chemical smell Jack couldn’t identify.

  He heard the mad chortling again. In this eerie place, the deranged voice set Jack’s flesh crawling. He slipped the emergency light from his utility belt and pinned it to his shoulder holster. Crouching, he proceeded along the dark, low-ceilinged tunnel.

  After fifty paces, the tunnel ended with a spacious underground chamber. Large chemical barrels lined the walls. Jack played the flashlight beam over the plastic drums. All of them came from Rogan Pharmaceuticals, LLC. According to the labels, the barrels contained one of three substances — Hyperdrine, Androne, and something called Virilobil.

  Curious, Jack squinted to read the fine print on one of the barrels. Then he heard the tittering laugh, this time right behind him. He played the flashlight beam into the shadowy corner and discovered he was not alone in the darkness.

  Chains rattled as the other man threw up emaciated arms to ward off the harsh light. He moaned, and Jack saw a long, unkempt beard crawling with lice. The man’s hair was long, too, and hung in dull ringlets from a dirty scalp.

  His fingernails were curved into filthy yellow talons.

  The captive’s flesh was sallow, and there were chafing sores on his wrists and ankles where he’d been chained.

  Despite the man’s horrible condition, Jack recognized him from the photos in the secret Kurmastan files. This wretch was Imam Ali Rahman al Sallifi, the supposed leader of this community.

  The man trembled under the light, in the throes of some type of drug fugue or madness, Jack didn’t know which.

  Only one thing was clear. This man had not been the spiritual leader of these people for a long time.

  So who did control Kurmastan? And why did their leader have the compound destroyed, his followers commit mass suicide?

  The bound figure shifted, and a new stench curled Jack’s nostrils. The old man was lying in his own offal.

  “It’s inhuman. Not even an animal should be treated like this,” Jack muttered, moving to free the man. But as soon as he approached al Sallifi, the old man howled and lunged at him, raking the air with filthy claws. Jack c
ursed and stumbled back.

  He waited a moment for the man to settle down, then Jack took a cautious step forward. Al Sallifi charged again, snarling as he strained against the rattling chains that bound him to the wall.

  Knowing there was nothing more he could do, Jack quickly fled the bunker, into the smoke-shrouded afternoon.

  Outside, he heard the roar of turboshaft engines, the steady beat of helicopter blades cutting the air.

  The reinforcements had arrived.

  Too impatient to wait for the strike teams, Jack headed back up the hill, through the ruined mobile home park, to the grove where he had left Layla Abernathy and Dani Taylor.

  6:49:57 P.M. EDT

  In the woods above Kurmastan

  Layla Abernathy watched the CTU helicopters circle above the blazing compound, before setting down in a cyclone of smoke and burning embers.

  She glanced at her wristwatch, wondering why Jack Bauer had not yet returned. Layla fished for the micro-binoculars on her belt, but before she peered through them, she glanced at Dani. The girl was squatting on the soft loam, legs folded under her. Then Layla recognized something shiny on the ground beside the girl, something that had fallen out of the pocket of her pants.

  “Is that Brice Holman’s cell phone?” Layla asked.

  Dani jumped as if startled, then snatched up the phone.

  “No, it’s mine.”

  “That phone belongs to Brice,” Layla insisted. “That’s what CTU was tracking when Jack found you.”

  She stared at the girl, her mind roiling. Holman could very well have the key to all this chaos locked inside that device. Digital recordings. Surveillance logs. Photographic images.

  Layla knelt down beside the teenager. “You have to give me that cell phone,” she said urgently.

  “No!” Dani cried.

  “This is a matter of national security.” Layla reached for the phone.

  Dani screamed, and the two women struggled. Layla was petite, but better trained. In a few deft moves, she had the girl pinned to the ground.

  “Give me that phone,” Layla demanded. “I can’t let some moody adolescent jeopardize innocent lives.”

  Suddenly a shadow fell over the women. Layla looked up, just as a foot lashed out and struck her temple.

  Without a sound, Layla toppled to the ground and stayed down. Dani slid out from under her, looked up at the newcomer.

  “Mr. Holman!” she cried. “You’re alive.”

  Brice Holman stumbled, then slumped to the ground.

  “Barely,” he grunted, clutching his belly. Dani saw black blood seeping through his shirt.

  Dani threw her arms around Holman. He touched her arm reassuringly, then stared at the still form on the ground.

  “Judy warned me,” he said to the unconscious Agent Abernathy. “She was sure you were a mole. I thought it was Rachel Delgado, but I guess Foy was right…”

  Then Holman grunted and clutched his gut with both arms. “Won’t be long now,” he rasped.

  Another figure entered the clearing. Holman looked up, into the barrel of Jack Bauer’s Glock.

  “Who are you?” Jack demanded. “What did you do to Agent Abernathy?”

  Dani hurled herself between the two men. “This is Mr.

  Holman. The man who helped me!”

  Bauer lowered his weapon. “I’ve been searching for you all day.”

  “You’re Jack Bauer? From the Los Angeles unit?”

  Jack nodded.

  “Forgive me if we don’t shake hands. I’m holding my guts in place at the moment.” Holman winced again.

  “Listen, we have to talk, Bauer, and fast. I don’t have much time…”

  “I’ll call the paramedics,” Jack said. “There’s a medical unit hovering around here somewhere.”

  Brice Holman took his cell from Dani Taylor’s hand and offered it to Jack. “Use my phone.”

  13. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 7:00 P.M. AND 8:00 P.M. EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME

  7:04:49 P.M. EDT

  In the woods above Kurmastan

  Hunterdon County, New Jersey

  Flickering flames still rose from the ruined town. In the debris-strewn streets, helicopters idled and armed silhouettes moved through the billowing smoke. Down in the valley, the shadows deepened — the sun would set in an hour or so.

  Jack used mini-binoculars to watch the medical team move among the mobile homes. Following his GPS signal, they were making their way up the hill to perform triage on Director Brice Holman. After personally examining the man’s ravaged abdomen, Jack didn’t think they would make it in time.

  Sprawled on the ground, head cradled in Dani Taylor’s lap, Brice grinned, but the amusement never touched his pain-ravaged eyes.

  “Turns out a pitchfork can kill you as dead as a nine-millimeter,” he grunted.

  Also on the ground, Layla Abernathy groaned and stirred, but her eyes didn’t open. Jack ignored the traitor.

  He had secured the woman’s wrists and ankles with flex ties, so she wasn’t going anywhere.

  Brice Holman’s intense gaze locked with Jack Bauer’s.

  “Twelve trucks, Bauer. All of them with the Dreizehn Trucking logo,” Holman said ominously. “Between eighty-five and a hundred fanatics aboard them. If the forces are divided equally… Hell, you do the math, Bauer. I’m too damned tired. But I have lots of intelligence inside that phone. The access code is Bin 666 Charlie seven — that’s the word seven spelled out in letters, got it?”

  Jack nodded. Holman relaxed, slumping against Dani Taylor. The teenager had never left his side, even when Bauer exposed the deep puncture wounds and tried—

  vainly — to staunch the bleeding.

  “Listen, Bauer, these trucks are packed with deadly cargo. Guns. Ammunition. Explosives. Maybe chemical and biological weapons, too. One truck left the compound early this morning. The rest later, maybe the early afternoon. They fanned out in all directions…”

  Holman winced against the pain. When he spoke again, his voice was weaker, his tone more urgent. “You’ve got to stop them. Send out a nationwide bulletin, alert all Federal, state, and local law enforcement agencies. Track them down. Use satellites. Raid truck stops and diesel fuel dumps — whatever it takes.”

  Holman groaned, and fresh blood stained the bundled cloth he clutched to his guts. “It’s up to you now, Bauer.

  There’s no one else who can stop these terrorists. Nobody but you.”

  Bauer nodded. “I’ll stop them, Holman. I swear it.”

  The medical team arrived at that moment. They dragged a protesting Dani aside, then began to work over the man.

  Bauer stepped to the edge of the hill and tugged Holman’s cell out of his pocket, dialed up CTU New York.

  “O’Brian here.”

  “It’s Jack, Morris. Prepare to receive data.”

  “Ready.”

  Jack punched in Holman’s security code, located the intelligence cache, and pressed the send button.

  Behind him, Jack heard Dani sobbing. A paramedic appeared at his shoulder.

  “I’m sorry, Agent Bauer,” the woman said softly. “We did what we could, but Director Holman lost too much blood. He’s gone…”

  7:18:50 P.M. EDT

  Security Station One

  CTU Headquarters, NYC

  Morris O’Brian downloaded the contents of Brice Holman’s cell phone. After opening the files in his briefcase computer, he copied the data, bundled it with the information retrieved from Judith Foy’s cell, then forwarded complete data packages to the Central Intelligence Agency in Langley; FBI Headquarters in Washington, D.C.; and CTU Los Angeles for further analysis.

  He also sent them the cleaned up audio of the mad, rant-ing speech by Ibrahim Noor, which was picked up from Holman’s cell phone and processed at CTU New York.

  Then Morris went to work analyzing the photographic images shot by Deputy Director Judith Foy at Newark Lib-erty Airport that morning.

  Than
ks to Chloe’s alarmingly titled e-mail — a false alarm as it mercifully turned out — Morris had been able to retrieve Agent Foy’s intelligence data, which had been sent as an attachment.

  Now Morris worked with the surveillance photographs on his screen, using the CTU known-terrorist database to analyze facial features for a match. Within fifteen minutes, he’d come up with a potential equivalent.

  He called up the personnel file of the known terrorist and his alias and made a closer comparison. Suddenly Morris’s angular face broke into a grin of triumph.

  “As the old lady at the church bazaar said— Bingo! ”

  “Pardon me?” Peter Randall called from the next station.

  “Never mind, back to work,” Morris said. “Nothing to see here, mate.”

  Morris placed the two photographs side by side for a final eyesight comparison. “Got you,” he whispered.

  The man posing as Canadian structural engineer Faoud S. Mubajii, from Montreal, Quebec, was really a Saudi Arabian scientist named Said al Kabbibi.

  Morris scanned the man’s file. Kabbibi’s list of known terrorist affiliations was as long as the degrees after his name. According to the database, Kabbibi was a doctor of medicine, Harvard; a doctor of pharmacological sciences, MIT; a doctor of biochemistry, Berlin University, who hung out with members of the PLO, the Taliban, and the Republican Guard in Iraq.

  Back in the 1980s, Kabbibi was so well known inside the intelligence community that he had an official handle:

  “Biohazard Bob.”

  As it turned out, Kabbibi had dropped out of sight for more than a decade. The last time anyone saw him—

  anyone being agents of Britain’s MI–5—Biohazard Bob Kabbibi had been a guest of Saddam Hussein, the current dictator of Iraq. The scientist apparently resided in some opulence, inside a villa near an Iraqi army base on the out-skirts of Baghdad.

  Not coincidentally, that villa was less than a kilometer away from a state-of-the-art biological warfare facility.

  7:28:51 P.M. EDT