24 Declassified: Collateral Damage 2d-8 Read online

  “Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar! ” the men chanted.

  Flanked by two bodyguards, Noor walked to the hole in the concrete wall and climbed through it.

  As soon as their leader was gone, the room exploded with activity. Someone produced jerricans filled with gasoline. Muttering prayers — and still ignoring Judith Foy—

  the men began dousing the walls, the floor, the dead men in the corner, with the flammable liquid.

  5:42:13 A.M. EDT

  Over Newark, New Jersey

  “This is Raptor One. ETA, two minutes,” Captain Fogarty said into Jack Bauer’s headset.

  Jack, now clad in a black CTU battle suit with Kevlar chest, shoulder, and spine plates, faced the five assault troopers inside the helicopter’s bay. He spoke into the headset in his helmet.

  “As soon as we fast-rope down to the street, I want you to hit the warehouse. Blow the garage door and we’ll move in,” he said.

  “The team in Raptor Two will hit 1313 Crampton on the opposite end of the block,” Jack continued. “Agent Abernathy’s team in Raptor Three will remain airborne, ready to provide backup if needed. Any questions?”

  Grim-faced, the men shook their heads.

  “Move fast and hit hard,” Jack advised. “We may be dealing with a biological or chemical weapon, so capture and containment is key.”

  “One minute,” Fogarty warned.

  Jack lowered his visor and shouldered a UMP

  45-caliber submachine gun. “Hit the ropes!” he shouted.

  The men rose and moved to the chopper’s open doors.

  5:44:08 A.M. EDT

  1313 Crampton Street

  The stench of gasoline was suffocating. Judith Foy battled the urge to empty her stomach. Though her head was spinning, she kept her focus on a stocky Hispanic teenager with shoulder-length black hair and a Browning Hi-Power handgun tucked casually in his belt.

  The youth had come down from an upper floor, empty jerrican in hand. He tossed the container into the pile of empties and crossed the room to the stack of full cans.

  He was four feet from Judith when she stumbled to her feet and lurched into his path.

  “I need a bathroom,” she rasped. “I’m going to be sick.”

  The punk snarled something in Spanish and thrust her aside, eyes on the gas. Foy pretended to waver, but as he stepped around her, she yanked the gun out of his belt, threw the safety, and shot him in the base of the spine.

  The youth howled and hit the floor. Five heads turned, mouths gaping in shock. Judith was a marksman and she hit her marks — first one man, then another.

  Before she dropped the third man, he drew his own weapon and squeezed off a shot. The bullet struck sparks off the steel door. Judith lurched sideways and fired again, hitting the shooter in the forehead.

  Two men remained standing. One clutched a can of gasoline like a shield; the other was reaching for his weapon.

  Firing too quickly for accuracy, even at point-blank range, Judith hit the wrong man. The bullet penetrated the jerrican, and it exploded in an orange ball of fire.

  Immediately, the pair was engulfed in flames that quickly spread. Fire scorched Judith, too, setting her hair and jumpsuit ablaze. Bolting across the basement, she dived through the hole and into the tunnel.

  Judith landed in a shallow pool of fetid sewer water, dousing her burning clothes and singed hair. Choking, eyes burning, Judith crawled to her feet and raced through the dripping tunnel in a desperate bid to outpace the roaring conflagration at her back.

  5:45:34 A.M. EDT

  Crampton Street

  As soon as Jack’s combat boots struck pavement, he moved away from the fast-rope so the man behind him had a clear space to land.

  Jack felt a hand grip his armored shoulder, turned, weapon ready. Tony Almeida was there, blinking against the prop wash.

  “We’ve got to get inside,” Tony shouted over the hovering chopper’s engine. “Agent Foy’s in the sh—”

  “Fire! Fire!” someone bellowed in Jack’s headset.

  He glanced at the warehouse, then the gang headquarters at the other end of the block.

  Smoke poured out of the roof above 1313 Crampton Street. Flickering flames reflected off Raptor Two’s aluminum belly.

  5:46:00 A.M. EDT

  Peralta Storage

  Judith burst out of the tunnel, into a cavernous basement.

  The space was lit by banks of halogen lights. The garage door dominated one wall, the makeshift biological weapons lab the other. There were no vehicles present — Noor was already gone.

  Others were there, however. Two men in white lab coats were burning papers in a steel barrel in the center of the room. Smoke wafted up to the high ceiling. A third man sat at a small table, where he tapped the keys of a laptop computer.

  A man at the barrel cried out. Judith shot him in the face, and he pitched forward, into the flames. She fired at the other man and missed.

  The third man snatched the laptop off the table and ran toward the barrel, ready to toss the device into the flames.

  Judith shot him in the legs, and he hit the floor. The computer slid across the concrete, stopping at her feet.

  The man she missed rushed her. Judith pulled the trigger. The Hi-Power clicked on an empty chamber.

  The man slammed into her, and they both went down.

  As they struggled, the garage door blew apart with a deafening report, and men streamed through the shattered entrance.

  Despite her ringing ears, Foy heard a shot. The man on top of her jerked, then fell limp. Almost immediately, someone flipped the corpse aside.

  Judith blinked up at Tony Almeida, who lifted her off the floor with one hand.

  “The cavalry has arrived,” he said, grinning. “Not that you needed us.”

  “Believe me, I needed you. Grab that computer and let’s get out of here! This whole place is ready to blow!” she yelled, loud enough for everyone to hear.

  Just then, a rolling ball of fire roared out of the tunnel.

  “Out! Everybody out!” Bauer shouted, gesturing wildly.

  Tony grabbed the computer. And Jack rushed up to Foy.

  “Where’s Noor?” he cried as they ran.

  “Gone. Ten, maybe fifteen minutes ago.”

  Jack cursed. “And the truck?”

  Judith blinked. “What truck?”

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

  2:00:02 P.M. CEST

  Ungar Financial Building

  Geneva, Switzerland

  Robert Ellis avoided the crowd at the front of the auditorium, got in line at an entrance marked “Press” in six languages. A pair of security guards checked off every name on the list as the reporters arrived.

  “Ellis, Robert, Theological News Service, New York,”

  he said, handing over his identification. The guard checked his name against the roster and returned his ID.

  “Through the metal detector and straight ahead, Mr. Ellis,” the guard told him.

  After he passed through the X-ray machine, a slight, effeminate man swathed in Armani stepped out of the shadows to greet him. His English was slightly fractured, but Ellis had to admit the man’s pronunciation was excellent.

  “Mr. Ellis! How good of you to come, sir. Archbishop Holzer had many good things to say about you. When His Excellency called with this last-minute request for an invitation, I could not refuse him.”

  Ellis smiled. “I appreciate your hospitality, Mr.—”

  “Jorg Schactenberg,” he said, extending his hand. “I am Soren Ungar’s amanuensis.”

  The man’s handshake had all the warmth and life of a dead fish.

  “I understand you attended this event last year,”

  Schactenberg purred.

  “Two years ago,” Ellis corrected. “Last year I was away from Geneva on urgent business.”

  “Ah, yes,” the other man replied. “Always with the business. His Exce
llency, the Archbishop, told me you have kept him up late many times, with talking about the philosophy and the religion — and your many amazing adventures. You have a seminary background?”

  “A bachelor’s degree in theology, from Fordham University in New York,” Ellis replied. “And I might add that Archbishop Holzer possesses an amazing mind. I have often been a guest in his home, and it was always most stimulating.”

  Everything Ellis told Schactenberg was true, though if today’s bit of wet work ever came to light, Ellis doubted he would ever be welcome in the Archbishop’s residence again.

  “I’m sure Herr Ungar’s speech will be quite enlighten-ing,” Ellis added graciously.

  Schactenberg offered Ellis a thin smile. “As an American, I’m sure you will hear something that interests you.”

  The man led Ellis behind the massive stage, to a room packed with members of the international press.

  “I have reserved a place for you in the reception line, Mr. Ellis. I do believe Herr Ungar will greet all the members of the media before he delivers his address.”

  Ellis smiled. “I’m counting on it.”

  6:09:32 A.M. EDT

  Aboard Raptor Three

  In the light of a blazing dawn, Jack Bauer, Layla Abernathy, and Tony Almeida watched the Peralta Storage facility collapse in on itself from the air. Burning cinders rose into the smoky sky. Howard and Crampton Streets were packed with emergency vehicles, lights flashing.

  “There’s nothing more to see here,” Jack declared, directing the pilot to return to Manhattan.

  Before they lifted off, Jack used a mobile Wi-Fi broad-band communications system to forward the contents of the enemy’s computer to experts at Langley.

  Agent Foy was aboard Raptor One, on her way to CTU’s infirmary, where her injuries would be treated. Jack kept the laptop at his side once he realized it belonged to Said Kabbibi or one of his technicians.

  “Morris, can you hear me?” Jack said into his headset.

  “Loud and clear, Jack.”

  “Any sign of the missing truck?”

  There was a long sigh. “Jack, you’re asking for the impossible now. We’ve established the garage under the warehouse was too small to hold a large trailer truck like the other twelve vehicles, so we really don’t know what type of truck we’re looking for.”

  “There must be something—”

  “Peek out your window,” Morris interrupted. “There are quite literally thousands of trucks on the road right now. It would be easier to find a needle in a haystack while blindfolded.”

  Jack bit back a curse. “Anything from Langley yet?”

  “The bio-weapons experts are still reviewing the contents of the computer. Director Henderson urges patience.”

  “Patience is no virtue when you’re running out of time,”

  Jack shot back.

  “Pithy, and well said,” Morris replied. “I’m going to remember that one.”

  Layla Abernathy rested her hand on Jack’s arm. “Langley will come through,” she said. “They understand how urgent the situation is.”

  Jack nodded, took a swig of water from a plastic bottle.

  Across the bay from the pair, Tony slouched in a seat. Like Jack, he wore new scars from this day, and it wasn’t over yet.

  Morris’s voice suddenly came on in Jack’s headset. “I have the Director of CTU’s Biological and Chemical Warfare Unit on line now,” he said. “I’ll put him through.”

  As the connection was made, Tony sat up, adjusting his own headset. Layla tapped her foot nervously.

  “Dr. Vogel here,” the Director began.

  “What are we dealing with?” Jack asked without pre-amble. “Is it a biological or a chemical agent?”

  “Both,” Vogel replied with equal bluntness. “The agent is called Zahhak, after a demonic snake of Persian my-thology, sometimes depicted with two heads. The name is apt because this substance brings death in two ways.”

  “Explain,” Jack ordered.

  “At first we thought we were dealing with a simple sarin compound,” Vogel replied. “Sarin, or O-Isopropyl meth-ylphosphonofluoridate, is a clear, colorless, and odorless nerve agent classified by the United Nations as a weapon of mass destruction. Sarin is nothing new, of course. It was developed in the late 1930s by German researchers looking for a better pesticide. What they created instead is one of the deadliest compounds on earth. Sarin has been used—”

  “Zahhak is not sarin, then?” Jack interrupted.

  “Not precisely,” Vogel said. “Like sarin, Zahhak is very unstable. It can break down in days, which is why Kabbibi needed a lab here in America to produce the weapon.

  Various substances have been tried to make the agent more stable and increase its shelf life. A stabilizer chemical called tributylamine has been used in the past, with mixed results. Dr. Said Kabbibi tried something different, something revolutionary, and it worked.”

  Jack’s impatience with the technician threatened to boil over. He opened his mouth to speak; Layla restrained him with a gesture.

  “Layla Abernathy here,” she interrupted. “You said this was both a chemical and a biological weapon?”

  “I was getting to that,” Vogel said testily. “Kabbibi initially tried to bond various bacteria with the sarin substance, hoping to make the chemical more stable. He tried many organics without success, until he stumbled upon bacteria called Clostridium perfringens. The result was a two-pronged weapon of mass destruction more deadly than anything previously encountered.”

  “Two-prong?” Jack cut in.

  “Let me explain,” Vogel said with a sigh. “A terrorist attack in the Middle East often involves two sets of explosive devices. After the initial blast and resulting casualties, emergency workers stream to the scene of the attack.

  That’s when the terrorists unleash a second string of blasts, to kill those rushing to aid the victims.”

  Jack frowned, recalling accounts he’d read of such dia-bolical attacks.

  “When Zahhak is unleashed, the sarin compound immediately attacks the nervous system of its victims,” Vogel continued. “Symptoms present in minutes include runny nose, tightness in the chest, constriction of the pupils, nausea, drooling. Difficulty in breathing increases as the victims lose control of their bodily functions. They urinate.

  Defecate. Vomit. Bleed from the nose and mouth. Death soon follows — but Zahhak’s threat doesn’t end there.”

  “Explain,” Jack said tightly.

  “The biological agent— Clostridium perfringens—is introduced into the victim’s body along with the gas, causing an outbreak of necrotizing fasciitis.”

  “Of what?” Abernathy asked.

  “A condition commonly known as ‘flesh-eating bacteria’ occurs. The bacteria work too slowly to affect the initial victims of the gas, but their bodies and their bodily fluids are immediately contaminated with the bacteria.

  Clostridium perfringens is highly contagious. Exposure from a single touch, or even breathing the weaponized bacteria, can cause infection and a slow and agonizing death. There is no cure.”

  “This is monstrous,” Layla whispered. “Emergency workers and hospital personnel would end up becoming the ones infected — emergency response would be taken out first.”

  “It gets worse,” Vogel informed them. “Within minutes of dispersal through an aerosol dispenser, Zahhak forms a solid. In that state, the effects of the sarin are neutralized, but the malignant bacteria live on. In fact, it is virtually indestructible at this point. And the solid particles are mi-croscopic in size, so they become airborne, spreading the contagion across hundreds of miles.”

  “Dr. Vogel, is there a vaccine or countermeasure to combat Zahhak?” Jack asked.

  “Countermeasure?” Vogel replied, his tone bitter. “My colleagues and I are not precisely sure how this substance works. A countermeasure or vaccine may be years away—

  or a pipe dream. Once Zahhak is unleashed, it is like a genie that can ne
ver be returned to its bottle.”

  “What can we do?” rasped Jack.

  “Stop it before it’s released,” Vogel replied. “In its liquid or gaseous state, Zahhak is very sensitive to moisture and heat, which is why Kabbibi needed liquid oxygen to keep the substance cool. Zahhak can be destroyed by heating it to a temperature above 160 degrees centigrade. It is also completely soluble in water — steam would be ideal to render the agent inert, but only in its liquid or gaseous state. Once it becomes a solid, there is nothing that can be done to contain its deadly effects.”

  Vogel ended the call at that point, informing Jack he was scheduled to brief the President. Christopher Henderson came on line.

  “Any thoughts, Jack?”

  Bauer’s mind raced. “When I was talking to Dubic, and he believed he was talking to the Albino, Dubic said something about a rendezvous at the bull this morning. Is that a section of New York? A building, plaza, or park?”

  Layla blinked. “You’re kidding, right? Wait. I forgot you’re from Los Angeles.”

  “Cut to the chase,” Tony growled.

  “There is a bull,” Layla told them. “The Wall Street Bull, a two-and-a-half-ton bronze sculpture of a charging bull. It sits in Bowling Green Park. The statue was erected after the 1987 stock market crash, and it’s become the symbol of the Financial District.”

  “That’s it, then!” Jack said. “Noor’s heading for Wall Street, and we’re going to be there to meet him.”

  6:49:13 A.M. EDT

  Broadway

  Lower Manhattan

  Ibrahim Noor steered the truck onto Broadway, joined the flow of traffic heading downtown. Though it was early, rush hour was already in full swing in the Financial District. The morning sun was bright, heralding a warm day.

  In the passenger seat, Said Kabbibi twitched nervously.

  He was about to speak when the traffic light turned red, forcing Noor to brake. Cross traffic from Cedar Street quickly crammed the intersection.

  Kabbibi groaned, tugged on the collar of his utility worker’s uniform. “I fear we will not make it to the park in time. Unfortunately I cannot stop the timer now. The aerosol device will release the toxin at precisely seven-thirty.”