24 Declassified: Collateral Damage 2d-8 Read online

  “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.

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

  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.”

  15. 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?”

  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.

  “Why did they stop at the stadium?” Jack asked Morris.

  “Did they plant explosives there before they left?”

  “Unlikely. The New Jersey State Police and the bomb-sniffing dogs have been going over every inch of the Meadowlands Sports Center. They’re still looking,” Morris answered. “But so far they’ve found nothing.”

  “Why would the terrorists hole up in a parking lot?”

  Jack wondered aloud. “Could they be on some kind of schedule?”

  “I’ve no idea,” Morris replied. “But we’ve got this vehicle locked. I’m watching a live satellite feed of the truck right now. You’re practically on top of it, Jack-o.”

  Jack gazed at the river of headlights below. “Can you guess where they’re going?”

  “Into the Lincoln Tunnel,” said Morris.

  Jack instantly pictured thousands of commuters, driving under the Hudson, rolling into the heart of Manhattan.

  He flashed on midtown, Broadway, Times Square, theaters, restaurants, all jammed with tourists, office workers, families — innocent targets.

  Jack’s jaw clenched. “I need to stop that truck before it gets to the tunnel.”

  “You? ” said Morris. “Jack, listen to me. I can have a local SWAT team at the tunnel exit in ten minutes—”

  “No. The men in that truck know they’re hunted. They’ll react like trapped animals at any sign of the authorities.

  And there’s a risk of collateral damage if the police respond recklessly.”

  “Jack, let the authorities handle it.”

  “What if that vehicle is a truck bomb they plan to detonate inside the tunnel? It will be Oklahoma City times ten.”

  Captain Fogarty called to Jack from
the cockpit. “What do you want to do, Bauer?”

  “Where’s the truck now?” Jack asked.

  “It’s two hundred feet under us. I’m watching it with our belly camera right now,” the pilot replied.

  “Good. I can make a fast-rope descent. If I can get on the back of the trailer, I can—”

  “Fast-rope out of a moving chopper?” Fogarty cut in.

  “You’re nuts, Bauer—”

  “I’ve done it before,” Jack insisted. “Get me down to an altitude of fifty feet. All I need is a wide open space, a short stretch of highway without high tension wires or an overpass.”

  Fogarty shook his head. “I don’t like it, but if you’re serious, I can put you over the ramp.”

  “What ramp?”

  “The Jersey interstate ends in a long, curved downhill ramp that leads to the tollbooths. There are no overpasses, no electric lines or telephone cables, either. Traffic may even slow a little as it backs up at the toll plaza. Even then, we won’t be hovering. We’ll be moving at forty or fifty miles per hour.”

  Jack had learned helicopter assault tactics in the Army, and he’d used those skills on many Delta Force missions.

  Swinging on a fast-rope wasn’t a problem for him, though he knew it would be a lot tougher from a moving aircraft.

  “Listen, Fogarty, I can do this.” Jack’s tone was sure.

  “Your job is to get me over that truck.”

  “Weehawken is two minutes ahead. After that it’s the ramp and the tunnel,” Fogarty’s copilot warned.

  Fogarty grunted. “Okay, Bauer, you win. Get ready to move when I give the signal. We’ll reach the ramp in approximately two minutes. After that, you’ll have about a minute to make your descent before we’ll have to pull up.”

  Bauer nodded. “Do it.”

  Adrenaline feeding his veins, Jack slipped a new clip into the Glock, then tucked the weapon into its holster.

  The few doubts he had burned away as he focused on the details, inspecting the fast-rope on the chopper. Because it wasn’t anchored to the ground, the fast-rope had to be thick, heavy, and long to prevent it from being jerked around by the tremendous down draft from the rotors.

  This rope looked good. It was at least fifty millimeters in diameter and it was more than one hundred feet long—

  more than sufficient for a descent.

  Gloves were essential in a descent like this, otherwise friction could strip his palms raw. Fortunately there were gloves and knee pads among the chopper’s stores, though Jack could find no helmet — not even a hockey-style head protector like the ones he’d worn in Delta.

  “Bauer, we’re beyond the last overpass and dropping now. Get ready to move,” Captain Fogarty warned in Jack’s ear.

  Jack inhaled, his heartbeat slowing as he took control of his breathing and his impatience, focused on his actions.

  The chopper’s sudden descent made his stomach lurch. He ignored the discomfort, clipped a deadweight to the end of the rope, and tossed it through the open door. The cord quickly unspooled to a length of sixty feet. He locked the winch, slipped the gloves over his hands, and seized the thick cable.

  Jack could see the truck now, its shape outlined by four dim lights on top of the trailer.

  “Go! Go now,” Fogarty cried.

  Still clinging to the rope, Jack stepped out of the helicopter. He dangled for a moment, the rotor blades throbbing above, the traffic roaring below, the pilot’s voice lost in the howling maelstrom.

  Buffeted by the merciless downdraft, Jack waited for the chopper to line up over the vehicle. Then the rope began to spin. Without hooks or a safety harness, there was nothing to hold Jack to that lifeline but the strength of his grip. Now the wild movement threatened to throw him off. And the spinning would only get worse the longer he hung there.

  Captain Fogarty swooped low and positioned the chopper directly over the speeding truck. Still twisting in the wind, Jack aimed his feet at the swaying silver trailer far beneath the soles of his boots.

  Finally, Jack eased his grip on the rope and began the descent…

  9:20:29 P.M. EDT

  Interstate 495, at the Weehawken Exit New Jersey

  Inside the rumbling trailer, the members of the Warriors of God cult heard the rotors beating over their heads. Farshid Amadani — the Hawk — felt three pairs of eyes watching him expectantly, waiting for him to issue a command.

  “Have they found us, Hawk?” one man asked, his voice trembling with emotion.

  “They found us at the stadium, my friend. It was only a matter of time before they tracked us down,” the former mujahideen replied, his tone resigned.

  The throbbing intensified as the helicopter descended upon the rumbling truck. Inside the trailer, the air was hot and suffocating, tinged with the chemical taint of explosives.

  “Turn out the lights,” the Hawk commanded.

  In a moment, the interior of the cavernous trailer was plunged into darkness. Amadani used a dim emergency flashlight pulled from his black utility vest to climb the stacked crates of C–4. He moved with caution, careful to avoid the crisscrossing detonation cords.

  In the dull glow of the crimson light, the Hawk unlocked the roof hatch and cracked it. The slipstream whooshed around his ears, filling the stuffy trailer with a blast of fresh air.

  Peering through the hatch, the Hawk saw the belly of the helicopter above him, a long rope dangling down. He frowned when he spied a single man in a blue battle suit hanging from the door. Amadani quickly closed the hatch before the other man spotted him.

  “We are about to be boarded,” the Hawk warned.

  The men cried out.

  “Remember we are warriors! Martyrs for the jihad!”

  Amadani bellowed, his fierce words drowning their laments.

  “I shall swat this flea,” the Hawk said. “You will follow the alternative plan and detonate this vehicle inside the Lincoln Tunnel.”

  The men nodded. Grim-faced, they began to arm the explosives.

  Still perched on the crates, the Hawk touched the pocket of his combat vest. He considered using his cell to inform Ibrahim Noor that they’d been discovered, that this truck would not be in position to destroy the Brooklyn Bridge at dawn and provide the necessary diversion for Noor’s final, devastating strike. But he didn’t make the call. Why should he? Noor and his foreign allies were monitoring the situation from a secure location, and they would know he and his men had failed. Any call he made now might be tapped and traced by their enemies.

  Better to keep the infidels fumbling in the dark, the Hawk decided as a sudden thump sounded above him.

  Clutching a USP Tactical in his scarred hand, the Hawk muttered a final prayer for himself and his warriors. Then he opened the hatch…

  9:22:53 P.M. EDT

  On the 495 ramp to the Lincoln Tunnel

  Jack Bauer landed with a bruising crash, facedown on the top of the speeding trailer. Battling the relentless slipstream, he hugged the ridged aluminum while he brought his legs up under him. He climbed to his feet the same way he used to mount a surfboard, using his arms for balance.

  But instead of smelling a cool ocean breeze, Jack choked on hot exhaust fumes belched by the cab’s twin stacks. He lurched forward, through the smog, toward the cab and the man behind the wheel. The roof had evenly spaced ridges, and they helped Jack maintain his balance as he stumbled to the front of the trailer.

  Meanwhile the truck rolled down the center lane at a good clip, cars, buses, and other trucks flowing around it.

  Over Jack’s head, the staccato beat of the whirling rotors intensified when Captain Fogarty pulled up and banked over the Hudson. In seconds, the helicopter was no more than a dark silhouette against the glistening skyline.

  Jack planned to smash his way into the passenger com-partment and take out the driver. Once he gained control of the vehicle, he could swerve away from the tunnel and its traffic, neutralize the other terrorists in a remote location — or simply drive
the whole damned rig into the Hudson River if he had to.

  He’d almost reached the cab when Jack heard a clang.

  A roof hatch opened directly in front of him, and a figure emerged clutching a handgun. Jack recognized him immediately, from the surveillance photos Morris had forwarded to his PDA — Farshid Amadani, a.k.a. the Hawk.

  Before the terrorist could take aim, Jack launched himself at Amadani. The velocity of Jack’s charge carried them both over the edge of the trailer. They landed on top of the cab with a loud crash; a roof light shattered under the Hawk’s battered spine. Jack, who was cushioned from the fall by the other man’s body, heard Amadani gasp, smelled his sour breath.

  Jack groped for the weapon, his fingers closing on the man’s wrist. The Hawk fought, refusing to release his handgun. He sank his yellow teeth into Bauer’s shoulder and bit down. Jack howled and slammed his right fist into the man’s abdomen, his left still clutching the man’s wrist.

  Amadani cried out and pushed Jack aside. Together they rolled off the roof of the cab and slammed onto the engine’s hood.

  Still grappling, Jack was on the bottom now. The hot metal scorched his back. The noise battered his ears. Jack glimpsed the startled face of the driver, the USP Tactical waving at him through the windshield as the men struggled to control the weapon.

  Jack slammed his knee into Amadani’s groin — and the gun bucked in the man’s hand. The Hawk fired twice.

  Glass shattered, and Jack heard a howl. Still struggling, he glanced at the driver through the broken windshield. The man was clutching the steering wheel, crimson gore gush-ing from a ghastly head wound. Meanwhile the rig rolled on, increasing speed as it descended the incline.

  The Hawk saw the driver, too, and his eyes went wide.

  Jack used the opening to strike back. He brought up his knee again, to deal another punishing blow to his foe’s genitals. Then he used both legs to toss the Hawk aside.

  The man’s gun bounced off the hood, and tumbled onto the pavement.

  Amadani flew off the hood, too, but the sleeve of his utility vest snagged the rearview mirror, and the Hawk ended up dangling helplessly. He’d banged his head on the way down, and blood poured from a gash in his forehead.