24 Declassified: 01 - Operation Hell Gate Page 15

  A sudden burst of gunfire echoed through the tunnels, reaching their ears.

  “We have to move now,” said Jack. “If you know about this tunnel, the FBI will know about it, too. They’re going to follow us.”

  “No,” Taj replied.

  “But—”

  “Keep silent and listen, Mr. Lynch.”

  A moment later, they all heard the roar of a muffled explosion, then the crash of tons of masonry. Jack knew the century-old building that housed the delicatessen had been blown up by the men inside.

  The young man grimaced, blinked back tears. Taj clapped his hand on the young man’s shoulder, squeezed it.

  “Inshallah,” Taj whispered. “You must be strong,” he reminded him. “This is what God demands of us. Who are we to question Him?”

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  THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 8 A.M. AND 9 A.M. EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME

  8:00:01 A.M.EDT Centers for Disease Control, Atlanta

  Boxy and utilitarian in design, Building One on Clifton Road at the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention was the venue for many of the CDC’s press conferences and media briefings. On this sunny, sweltering Georgia morning, the main conference room was not open to the press or the public, but the space was already crowded for the history-making teleconference.

  As one of thirteen major operating components of the federal Department of Health and Human Services, the CDC served as a sentinel for the health of people in the United States and throughout the world.

  One of the CDC’s mandates was to protect the health and safety of the public through the prevention and monitoring of infectious diseases and the creation of new, more effective vaccines—the very subject of the briefing that was about to begin.

  At precisely eight o’clock, Dr. Henry Johnston Garnett’s digital wristwatch issued a series of quiet staccato beeps. The Director of the Centers for Disease Control quickly muted the alarm on his wrist and promptly called the briefing to order. The tall, white-haired African-American physician and researcher offered the audience his greetings, then turned the floor over to Dr. Colin Fife, Head of Immunology Research and Development for Paxton Pharmaceuticals in New York City.

  Dr. Fife, stocky man with a thick red beard and a partially bald head, stepped up to the podium. Waving away the scattered applause, he began to speak.

  “As the former Administrator for the Bacterial, Viral, and Infectious Diseases Registry, my colleague Dr. Garnett was instrumental in setting today’s historic events into motion, and for that I thank him.”

  This time Dr. Fife waited patiently for the applause to fade.

  “As many of us know, the worst outbreak of Type A influenza in history was the 1918 pandemic that killed more than twenty million people worldwide. Striking America just as the nation was gearing up for the First World War, the disease ultimately killed more soldiers than combat in that conflict. If that same influenza strain were to return today, up to a hundred million Americans would die for one reason—because there is still no effective vaccine in existence, or under development.”

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  Dr. Fife glanced at his notes before continuing.

  “In 1918, the Type A strain of influenza, which seemed no different from the Type B and C strains of previous years, suddenly and inexplicably turned lethal, killing its victims within hours of the first signs of infection. The virus induced in its victims an uncontrollable hemorrhaging that filled the lungs, and the victims drowned in their own body fluids.

  “This strain was so virulent, the normal age distribution for flu mortality was reversed—instead of children, the old, and infirm, in the 1918 pandemic the vast majority of the infected were young healthy adults. Thus society’s very infrastructure was ravaged as the bulk of those responsible for civilization’s day-to-day maintenance perished of the disease. Those who survived believed the social order was breaking down—it very nearly did.”

  Dr. Fife paused. “So you see why Paxton Pharmaceuticals’ breakthrough experiments are so important. With our new techniques in vaccine development and production, we at Paxton are optimistic that using the 1918 influenza cultures the CDC is providing, our researchers will be able to develop the first wide-spectrum Type A influenza vaccine ever developed.”

  Dr. Fife looked up from his notes. He did not need them for the next part of his talk.

  “Think of it, ladies and gentlemen. Imagine a time when, like polio or typhus, influenza might be eradicated completely. Within a decade influenza will pass from one of humanity’s greatest threats to a minor health problem solved by the proper vaccinations.”

  No longer able to hold back, a young woman in a business suit stood up in the second row. “But Dr.

  Fife,” she began, “is it not terribly dangerous to move these cultures?”

  Dr. Fife seemed unfazed by the outburst. “Of course, if these cultures were to be released into the general population, the nightmare scenario I just described could be repeated. That is why every possible precaution has been taken.”

  “But are those precautions enough?” the woman demanded in an urgent tone.

  Dr. Fife nodded, acknowledging her concerns. “You tell me if our precautions are adequate,” he countered. “For instance, hazardous material and biological contamination specialists will be present to facilitate the movement of the cultures at every step of the transfer, from the time they leave the CDC labs until they reach Paxton’s research facilities in Manhattan.

  “There will be a team at the Atlanta airport, another at JFK to meet the aircraft when it arrives. And a third biohazard team will be aboard the aircraft, riding with the cultures in full hazard gear. The FBI will be notified of the flight, and will send out alerts to all pertinent local and federal law enforcement agencies.”

  Dr. Fife offered the woman his most benign smile. “When those influenza cultures are placed aboard a chartered 727 jet in just a few hours, you may rest assured that all steps have been taken to assure safety, and that absolutely nothing has been left to chance.”

  8:09:12 A.M.EDT Court Street and Atlantic Avenue, Brooklyn

  In a state of stunned bewilderment, Liam watched the three-story brownstone on the southeast corner of

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  Clinton and Atlantic—his destination—collapse in a

  rolling rumble of brick, plaster, wood, and glass.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph...”

  Well over an hour before, Liam had emerged from the Hoyt Street subway station on the heels of the transit cop who’d been summoned to a police action. He watched as the officer hopped into a waiting Transit Police car driven by another cop. They sped down Fulton Street and turned toward Atlantic Avenue, out of sight.

  Liam had followed Fulton until he’d reached Boerum Place, a quiet, shady boulevard only a few blocks from downtown Brooklyn. Even from a distance, Liam had been able to see the emergency vehicles rushing down Atlantic Avenue, hear the sirens wailing. He hadn’t thought much about it then, and when he caught the smell of bacon frying, he could no longer ignore his exhausted condition.

  He’d been through a lot—the long ride, the mugging, the subway train nearly killing him, then the cop getting suspicious. He felt cold, clammy, shaky all over. He hoped getting some food into him would help him make the final hike to Taj’s store. So he’d sat at the counter of a small neighborhood diner and ordered up a good fry—bacon, sausage, eggs, toast— then washed it all down with a cup of hot tea.

  The food had done the trick. He was still bloody fah’ed out, but the hot food and the caffeine in the cha had revived him enough to finish the job for Shamus. By the time he’d made his way over to Atlantic, however, he’d found his way blocked by a police barrier.

  The officers had seemed preoccupied with watching the drama unfold, so Liam had followed the line of yellow tape and wooden barricades until he’d found an unguarded spot and slipped through. He’d walked another block, to t
he corner of Court Street. It had been impossible to go farther than that. Police were everywhere, and emergency vehicles had blocked every street. Fire trucks were scattered about, and fire hoses jutted from hydrants and snaked along the pavement. Finally Liam had joined a group of Middle Eastern men who’d emerged from a greengrocer to watch the action from a fairly close vantage point.

  Liam had been stunned to discover that black FBI vans had circled Kahlil’s delicatessen—his destination— and armored assault teams had just entered the store. Sirens had continued to blare, emergency lights flashed as more vehicles moved through the cordon. Police, fire department, and traffic helicopters were circling overhead, the sound of their beating rotors reverberating from the surrounding buildings. Among the air traffic a chopper belonging to Fox Five News dipped low, cameras rolling to provide live coverage to its millions of viewers.

  Then the staccato sound of gunfire had shattered the bright blue morning. Shocked outcries had greeted the shots and many had fled the sidewalks, taking shelter in the surrounding stores and shops. A second assault team entered the building to join the first, and Liam had heard another burst of gunfire. Then he’d heard the muffled explosion, saw the flashes inside the brown-brick building, and the brownstone literally folded in on itself, to vanish in a massive cloud of billowing dust and debris that washed over emergency vehicles and law enforcement officials close to the collapse. Almost immediately, a dozen fires sprang up among the rubble.

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  “Back! Everyone back!”

  A fireman was on the sidewalk now, in helmet and full gear. He was waving everyone into the surrounding buildings. As he forced the crowd back, away from the toppled structure, a dozen more firemen hurried forward, toward the conflagration.

  Liam knew that the law enforcement officials who had charged into that building had been buried in tons of rubble. As fires began to spread, Liam was amazed by the courage of the firemen who rushed toward the site of the explosion instead of away from it.

  “Clear the area!” a fireman’s bullhorn blared.

  Liam considered retreating, but didn’t. Instead, he slipped through the crowd and moved forward. He was only half a block away now, and his flesh prickled with the heat of the fire. A thick column of black smoke rose from the rubble, pushed along Atlantic Avenue by a faint breeze off the water. The smoke hit Liam, choking him. He smelled burned wood, smoldering plaster, and something else—gas.

  A fire chief in white helmet stood in the middle of the street, yelling into a bullhorn. “Get out! Get away! Clear the area now—”

  Inside the rubble, among the trapped and moaning FBI agents, hot flames touched the ruptured gas main. Liam was blinded by an impossibly bright orange flash. Behind him, the plate-glass window of a furniture store shattered. A wave of superheated air washed over him, and Liam was bowled over by the force of the blast. Deafened, scorched, trembling, he curled into a ball around the attaché case while the sidewalk quaked beneath him.

  8:12:57 A.M.EDT Atlantic Avenue Tunnel

  Jack, Taj, and the young Afghani felt the stones under their feet tremble before the thunder of the gas explosion reached their ears. Then they heard it. Dust fell from the ceiling and smoke billowed out of the narrow shaft they’d climbed out of. First a dusty powder, then oily curls of hot smoke. The young man’s gaze found Taj. His lips trembled.

  Another sound made itself known—alien, alive, angry. Tiny, tittering squeals merged into a sustained shriek, the chattering click of thousands of tiny claws brushing stone. In the weak light of the electric bulbs, a rippling brown carpet seemed to flow along the floor, the walls, at the far end of the tunnel. Stampeded by the explosion, they rushed toward the men in a snarling mass of teeth and claws.

  “Rats!” Jack shouted.

  “This way,” Taj called, turning away from the maddened swarm. Jack followed the man for a few steps before he realized the young Afghani was not with them.

  “Taj!” Jack cried.

  The man turned, saw the young Afghani. “Borak!” he cried. “Follow us.”

  But the young man shook his head. “I will stop them.”

  “No!”

  The Afghani turned his back on them, lowered the muzzle of the Uzi he drew from his sash, naïvely fired. The bullets chewed through the squirming, squealing tide without effect. The brown flow swarmed around the young man even as he emptied

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  the magazine into the panicked horde. The rats nipped at his sandals, clawed at his legs. The young man howled and dropped the useless weapon. Reaching into his loose shirt, he pulled out an old, Soviet-made grenade.

  “Not in here!” Taj screamed.

  But the boy was too frightened to hear him. As the rats swarmed over him, forcing the boy to the ground, he popped the pin on the grenade.

  Without a word, Taj and Jack ran away from the rats, the impending explosion. Jack figured on a ten-second fuse and counted down in his mind.

  Eight...seven...six ...

  “Get ready to hit the ground!” Jack cried.

  Five...four...three . . .

  “Down!”

  Jack leaped forward, skidded along the hard stone floor. He curled into a ball, covered his ears. As expected, the explosion seemed massive in the enclosed space. The sound reverberated off the walls, bringing down dust and jarring more masonry loose as it rocked the one-hundred-and-fifty-year-old structure.

  As the smoke cleared, Jack jumped up. Taj was already on his feet, running forward. Over the startled squeals of the swarming rats, they heard another sound—crashing masonry, crumbling earth, and the roaring rush of water. The grenade or the gas explosion—or perhaps both—had ruptured a water main.

  Running behind Taj, Jack glanced over his shoulder to see a tidal wave of foaming black water engulfing the horde of rats and following them down the length of the tunnel.

  “Here!” Taj cried, “the ladder.”

  Jack saw the Afghani scramble up iron rungs embedded in the stone. His fingers closed on the cold metal a split second later, just as the foam washed over his feet, his ankles, his legs.

  8:45:41 A.M.EDT Federal Bureau of Investigation Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington, D.C.

  The FBI received an urgent electronic message from the Centers for Disease Control. The memo informed the Bureau that the long-planned transfer of disease cultures to Paxton Pharmaceuticals in New York City was taking place as scheduled. A flight plan was included in the memo, providing the FBI with the radio frequencies the pilots would use, the airplane’s flight path, altitude, and cruising speed, departure and arrival times and destinations, files on all personnel involved in the transfer.

  Signed by Dr. Henry Johnston Garnett, Director of the Centers for Disease Control, the directive urged the FBI to contact all pertinent agencies and alert them to the transfer of the potentially deadly cargo. Immediately, the FBI analyst in charge of intelligence redistribution alerted state and federal law enforcement officials in Atlanta and New York City about the potential biohazard threat coming their way.

  Because of the Frank Hensley accusations about Jack Bauer, however, FBI Headquarters in New York City instituted a Bureau-wide intelligence blackout with CTU. Beyond the routine security alert issued eight hours before, no one at the Counter Terrorist

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  Unit was notified about the chartered CDC flight, or the deadly cargo it contains.

  8:59:04 A.M.EDT Office of New York Senator William Cheever Hart Senate Office Building, Washington, D.C.

  Dennis Spain, a bundle of nervous energy in a stocky, compact form, entered the Senate office precisely on time. As Chief of Staff to Senator William S. Cheever of New York, Spain felt his duty to be sleek, smart, and imperially efficient was surpassed only by his obligation to appear that way. Today’s ensemble was one of Spain’s favorites, a lightweight Italian suit and Bruno Magli loafers. The impression, he felt, was “chic competence,” but the finely tailored clothes also left Spain feeling crisp and comfortable, no easy fea
t during the muggy summer months of the glorified swamp that was Washington, D.C.

  After picking up his own mail, Spain’s next stop was his boss’s in-box, where his daily routine of browbeating the staff began. “These letters are all dated three days ago,” he said, shaking a blue folder at a quaking intern sitting behind her desk. The young woman pulled a lock of long, dark, stringy hair away from her face.

  “I...I know, Mr. Spain. But the Senator was away on a junket and he couldn’t sign them until today.”

  Spain read the names and addresses on the letters. “None of these people matter one bit. Why didn’t you use the signature machine?”

  The young woman—an undergraduate at Columbia University and daughter of a rather large donor to the Senator’s last campaign—seemed to shrink in her chair as she avoided his angry stare.

  “The...the Senator...Senator Cheever...He said he didn’t want me to do that anymore. Said it was too impersonal.”

  “Well, Senator Cheever certainly can’t sign these. They’re as stale as old fish.” He tossed the folder on her desk. “Do the letters over with today’s date, then give them to the Senator to sign. Let’s hope he can find a pen around here.”

  “Yes sir, Mr. Spain. Right away.”

  Her reply was barely heard and certainly not acknowledged. Dennis Spain had already entered his office. He closed the door behind him, dropped into his leather chair, and brushed back his blond-streaked brown hair, exposing a broad forehead over thin eyebrows and narrowly set eyes with a constantly critical gaze that made him appear shrewd. That’s the word his friends used—shrewd. His opponents preferred shifty.

  Like everyone in Washington, Dennis Spain had enemies, more than his share considering he’d never run for or been elected to a political office. He’d served only as the Senator’s campaign manager and then his Chief of Staff. Not quite out of his thirties, he occupied a powerful position that had been well earned in Spain’s own estimation.