24 Declassified: 01 - Operation Hell Gate Page 24

  7:23:13 P.M. EDT Fifty-ninth Street, Manhattan

  “Where are they now?” Jack raced toward the Queensboro Bridge ramp, an ancient structure of dirty steel girders rising up from Second Avenue and flanked by multimillion-dollar apartment buildings overlooking the East River.

  Jack had kept his cell phone connection to CTU, Los Angeles, open while Jamey Farrell followed Caitlin’s blip on a grid map of Queens. The thirtythree-second coast-to-coast delay had caused a few tense moments, but so far they were tracking the kidnapped woman with accuracy.

  “The vehicle Caitlin is in is still moving along Thirty-first Street in Queens,” said Jamey. “It looks like they’re heading for the Triboro Bridge, which means they could be going to Harlem, or even the South Bronx.”

  The Queens-bound traffic on the bridge’s lower level was moving in a start-stop fashion. New York was a late city—late to work in the morning, later leaving in the evening—so rush-hour traffic had not yet lightened. Jack’s years of youthful dirt bike racing served him well as he darted between cars and trucks with ease.

  As Jack twisted the throttle to slalom around a lumbering tow truck, he heard Nina Myers’s voice in his ears. “Jack, we’ve received some disturbing intelligence...”

  She told him about the CDC aircraft and its deadly cargo, how the aircraft would be entering New York airspace in less than seventy-five minutes.

  “That’s their target.” Jack was certain. It all added up.

  “That’s our feeling here, too,” said Nina. “But Ryan is concerned that you’re on a wild goose chase. That Omar Bayat isn’t heading for Taj’s location at all.”

  “No, that can’t be right. Taj and Bayat are a team. They’ve worked together since the Ali Kahlil clan was wiped out in Afghanistan. After downing the Belgian airliner over North Africa two years ago, they escaped across the border to Libya together. I’m betting that’s what they plan to do here, too.”

  For a moment there was silence on both sides of the phone connection. Then Jack spoke. “Let’s assume Omar Bayat is leading us to Taj and another terrorist cell. Where would they launch an attack from? They need someplace close to the airport, above the city skyline, yet remote—a launch from a rooftop or a building would be seen.”

  “How about the Triboro Bridge?” said Nina. “It’s the tallest structure in the area.”

  “It’s high enough, but too public. Thousands of cars pass over that bridge every hour. The terrorists could be spotted, reported by anyone with a cell phone—”

  “Jack!” It was Milo Pressman’s voice. “About a quarter of a mile upriver from the Triboro there’s a

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  railroad bridge called the Hell Gate. The bridge goes right over Astoria Park, and across the East River to Randalls Island, then on to the South Bronx.”

  “He’s right,” said Nina. “Hell Gate is actually a little closer to LaGuardia than the Triboro, though both bridges are right under the flight path to the airport.”

  “Jamey, what’s happening to Caitlin now?” Jack asked.

  “The vehicle is turning onto the Triboro Bridge... No. Wait. It’s on Hoyt Avenue, a road that runs parallel to the Triboro, maybe under it...”

  Over the snarl of the Harley’s engine, Jack heard the analyst exclaim something unintelligible.

  “Jamey? What is it?”

  “Hoyt Avenue, Jack. It leads right to the shore of the East River. To Astoria Park—”

  Three thousand miles away, Jack Bauer knew where he was headed. “Hell Gate Bridge...”

  7:36:09 P.M. EDT Astoria Park, Queens

  On a quiet residential street bordering Astoria Park, Omar Bayat stopped the van in front of a locked gate of an eight-foot chain-link fence. The sun was a hot orange ball shining between the tall oak and elm trees, but the van was shaded by the steel span of a railroad bridge a hundred feet over its roof.

  The Afghani looked over his shoulder at the woman, bound and gagged on the floor of the cargo bay. “I will be right back.”

  Bayat exited the vehicle, unbolted the padlock, and drove through the gate. He backed the van into a small wooden garage that butted up against one of the bridge’s ivy-covered, concrete support columns. It was cool and shady under the span, with abundant greenery bordering the fenced-in area.

  Hidden from view inside the garage and behind the concrete arch, Bayat changed into green New York City Parks Department overalls. Then he opened the back door and dragged Caitlin out by her red hair. She squealed, but the sound was muffled by the gag over her mouth.

  Bayat cuffed her. “Shut up or I will slit your throat.”

  Caitlin whimpered, rocked unsteadily on her feet while Bayat untied her wrists. He left the gag in place. Then the Afghani pushed her to the back of the garage, where a hole had been cut in the ceiling. A twelve-foot ladder poked through that hole and up the side of the concrete support column.

  “Climb,” barked Bayat.

  Caitlin looked up. On top of the portable ladder, rungs had been embedded in the concrete to form a permanent ladder that ran all the way to the top of the bridge. Caitlin’s eyes went wide and she shook her head wildly, trying to tell Omar Bayat she was too afraid. He struck her again, so hard it drove Caitlin to her knees. He reached down and yanked her to her feet by her hair.

  “Climb or die,” he hissed, his hot breath on her cheek. Hands shaking, limbs weak, Caitlin reluctantly reached for the first rung.

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  7:49:13 P.M. EDT Thirty-first Street, Queens

  “Where is Caitlin now?” Jack yelled over the roar of the cycle.

  “She’s still on Nineteenth Street, between Twenty-first and Twenty-second Drives,” said Jamey. “Maybe it’s a safe house, or a staging area.”

  Jack gunned the engine and ran a yellow light. “How far away?”

  “Maybe twenty minutes. Less if traffic is light,” Jamey replied.

  Jack cursed. “Too far.”

  “Jack, Caitlin is moving again. Across the park. She’s following the span of the bridge, moving under it.”

  Jack frowned, increased speed. “Caitlin isn’t under the bridge, Jamie. I’m betting she’s on it.”

  7:59:26 P.M. EDT Hell Gate Bridge

  Caitlin thought the climb up the ladder was difficult until she reached the top of the span. High above the park, the gentle breeze became a gusting wind that tangled her long red-gold hair and tore at her ripped and dirty skirt. Caitlin saw four sets of railroad tracks, silver trails that led over the water and across Randalls Island. A narrow steel mesh catwalk ran along the edge of the span, paralleling the tracks.

  “That way,” Omar Bayat said, pointing toward the catwalk.

  Behind the gag, Caitlin whimpered and hesitated. She wasn’t overly afraid of heights, but the steel mesh in front of her looked like nothing more than a gossamer web, too fragile to hold her weight. Bayat pushed her and she stumbled onto the steel grating, yelping behind the gag. She grabbed the handrail, steadying herself.

  Far below, she could see children playing in the green grass of Astoria Park. They looked so tiny to her, like scurrying mice ...and then it struck her. That’s all they are to this man, she realized. That’s all I am. Closing her eyes, Caitlin swallowed, then squared her shoulders and continued on.

  Movement became easier with time, as she became accustomed to the height, and the uneven feel of the catwalk’s grating. Under other circumstances, Caitlin would have enjoyed the view. The setting sun dropped lower over the horizon, illuminating the city with a golden glow.

  Still over the park, they passed through a beige stone tower with a high stone roof. Over her head, parapets overlooked the East River and Manhattan beyond. When she emerged from the tower a few minutes later, Caitlin was struck once again by the view.

  A quarter mile or so south, the arch of the Triboro Bridge also spanned the river, its roadway clogged with traffic. Beyond the long highway bridge, the skyline of the Upper East Side peeked over the tip of Roosevelt Island. Caitlin coul
d see the Empire State Building, the spire of the Chrysler Building, the slanted roof of the Citicorp Center, and in the distance, the gleaming twin towers of Lower Manhattan’s World Trade Center.

  By now, Caitlin had passed over the entire length of the park. Far beneath her, a narrow road paralleled the Queens bank of the East River. Rap and hip-hop

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  music wafted up from hot rods. An ice cream truck’s jingle and the snarl of a passing motorcycle lifted on the breeze to Caitlin’s ears. It seemed strange to her how normal, everyday life was simply continuing . . . how people could be so oblivious to the terrible thing about to happen just over their heads.

  Suddenly, the faded red steel began to vibrate under her feet. Omar Bayat pushed her into a recessed area, then stood between her and the tracks. A moment later, an Amtrak train roared past them, shaking the bridge so hard, Caitlin thought she would be shaken off, plunging to her death far below.

  Finally the train passed and they resumed their hike, leaving the boulder-strewn shore behind them. Now, beneath her feet, Caitlin could see only the gray-green waters of the East River, swirling and roiling with dangerous riptides and whirlpools. Here, nearly three hundred feet above the water, the wind increased until it whistled through the high-tension electrical wires strung over the bridge, its powerful gusts threatening to sweep her slender form over the edge.

  Ahead, in the glare of the setting sun, Caitlin spied activity. She counted three men in green overalls, circling a strange device mounted on a tripod. The object looked like a telescope with two optical cylinders instead of one.

  Omar Bayat put a boot to her rump, pushing her forward. As Caitlin approached the men, someone stepped out of the shadows beside her.

  “Take off the gag,” growled Griffin Lynch. “She can scream her bloody head off and nobody will hear her up here.”

  Omar Bayat ripped the gag away, Caitlin rubbed her bruised lips. “What do you want with me, you bleedin’ sod? Why don’t you just kill me and be done with it?”

  Griff grabbed Caitlin’s chin, gripped it in his scarred but still bruising hand. “Never fear, lass. You’ll die soon enough. When it’s good and dark out here, I’m gonna toss you off this bridge. With luck your corpse won’t wash ashore for a week, and by then Shamus and me will be long gone, while you join your dead brother in hell.”

  Caitlin’s jaw dropped.

  “That’s right, girl. I sent Shamus to kill your brother and he agreed to do it. Serves your boy right for messing up the delivery to Taj. His fuck up forced me out to this bloody bridge when me and Shamus should have been halfway to the Islands by now. At least it’s good to know Liam’s probably been blasted into dust already.”

  For a moment, Caitlin’s heart stopped. But then she realized that Griff’s words were all wrong. Shamus was the one who’d died in the explosion. Her own Liam had escaped and turned himself in. He was in police protective custody now. She was about to tell Griff as much, but quickly choked back the words. It was better if Griff thought her brother was already dead. Then Liam could go on living his life, safe and sound and hopefully happy ...even without his big sister to kick his ass and trim his bangs. Yes, Caitlin thought, Liam is alive. He’s all right. He’s protected. That realization alone gave her the strength she needed to face her own death.

  Her eyes flashed defiantly. She pushed Griff’s hand away from her face. “Ya talk big, Griffin Lynch. But like all the Provos, you’re good for pushing violence and nothing more.”

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  A brief, disgusted smile flashed across Griff’s stone cold expression. “I can’t wait to kill you, girl. But at least your death will be fast and clean—more than I can say for the rest of the folks in this city.”

  Caitlin choked back her fears. Over Griff’s shoulder, the blazing rays of the setting sun were now touching every particle in the air, spreading their red-orange tinge until the entire horizon appeared as if someone had set it on fire. That’s when she realized what Griff and his associates had been erecting—a missile launcher, its ominous silhouette pointed at the sky.

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

  8:05:53 P.M. EDT Hell Gate Bridge

  Thanks to the GPS beacon in the watch Caitlin wore, Jack knew where to go. He found the fenced-off area on Nineteenth Street. He found the garage, the van, and the ladder.

  “Where is she now?” Jack said into his headset.

  “In the middle of the bridge, Jack, facing south. The blip hasn’t moved for several minutes.” Jamey’s voice was tense. Jack knew what she was thinking— were they going to throw Caitlin off the bridge?

  “I’m going up right now,” said Jack. “I’m taking the earphones out but I’m leaving this channel open. You’ll be able to hear me, but I won’t be able to hear you.”

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  “Is that a good idea, Jack?” Ryan asked.

  Nina answered for him. “Jack will need all his senses on that bridge.”

  Ryan frowned. “Well, good luck, Bauer.”

  Jack did not reply.

  Crouching low, he reached under the van, rubbed road dirt and oil on his hands, then on his face. It wasn’t exactly camouflage but it would help him fade into the darkness on the bridge—he hoped.

  Jack drew the Mark 23 USP, checked the magazine, his extra ammunition. Then he tucked the weapon in the holster under his arm, yanked the earphones out and began to climb.

  It took him more than five minutes of climbing to get to the top. By the time he reached the span it was twilight; the sun had dropped below the horizon. The park beneath him was shrouded in purple shadows, broken by tiny islands of light under glowing lampposts.

  Without a watch, Jack used his PDA to check the time. He had less than thirty minutes to find the terrorists and stop the missile from launching. He took off at a run on the narrow catwalk.

  Under normal circumstances, Jack would be charging into this situation with aerial intelligence and support in place, a backup team there for him at every turn. He would be wearing sound-absorbing chukkas and Kevlar body armor, a helmet with night vision goggles. He’d have tactical support, too, on both sides of the bridge.

  But for this, Jack was alone. Despite his throbbing muscles, aching arm wound, his hunger, thirst, and near-exhaustion, he pressed on. Jack knew if he wavered now, Caitlin would die and the terrorists would unleash a terrible pandemic, the likes of which America had not experienced in nearly a century.

  8:23:25 P.M. EDT Switching booth, Hell Gate Bridge

  Caitlin had been shoved next to a metal shed set flush against the support beam on the very edge of the span. She had very little room on the ledge. Below, the river’s black water spun in a dozen violent whirpools, each one appearing to yawn open and closed, like living monsters demanding to be fed.

  Omar Bayat had used duct tape to bind her hands behind her back, but Caitlin had already managed to free them. Now she bided her time, clinging to a slim chance that Griff would change his mind about throwing her over—or she’d find a way to escape.

  Omar Bayat returned to loom over her with an Uzi in hand. Nearby, the men manning the missile launcher had activated something. The Afghanis appeared to be fixated on a tiny green screen on a black box attached to the side of the launch tubes.

  Griff stood on top of the metal shed, scanning the twilight sky with binoculars. Occasionally he would shift his search, peering down the tracks toward Astoria Park. His features were taut, worried. Caitlin suspected he was waiting for his brother, Shamus. She knew he would never arrive.

  Inside the shed, Taj sat beside Frank Hensley on a wooden box. Caitlin knew the stranger was the FBI agent Jack had spoken about because Taj had addressed the man by name. It was Hensley who issued

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  instructions to the Afghanis, Taj who translated them into some foreign tongue she was not familiar with.

  Caitlin
continued to watch these men come and go, heard every word they spoke. Some of what they said surprised her.

  “Still no signal from the 727,” Taj reported.

  “It’s too soon. If anything, the CDC airplane will be late.” As he spoke, Frank Hensley glanced at his Rolex. “I have a call to make. Let them know how the mission is progressing.”

  Taj smiled, revealing yellow teeth. “This operation has gone well. Baghdad will be satisfied.”

  Hensley’s features darkened. “Baghdad will be satisfied when America suffers the way Iraq has suffered.” He tapped out a number on a bulky satellite phone. A moment later he was speaking another foreign language Caitlin had never heard before.

  8:31:13 P.M. EDT Hell Gate Bridge

  Knowing Caitlin was somewhere on the south side of the bridge, Jack crossed over four sets of train tracks to the northern edge, hoping to move close enough to surprise the terrorists before he was discovered. On the north catwalk, Jack had an upriver view dominated by a sprawling Department of Environmental Protection facility on Randalls Island.

  The twilight sky was bright purple, twinkling lights from the Triboro Bridge a quarter mile away and the Manhattan skyline beyond the only illumination. There were no lights on Hell Gate and the railroad bridge was cast in deep shadow. Through the steel mesh under his feet, Jack saw black rippling water far below.

  As he approached the center of the span, Jack became more wary. He drew the .45, released the safety as he moved cautiously along the rickety catwalk, aware of every sound. Suddenly Jack spied a silhouette framed against the purple sky—a man was standing on the roof of a shed, watching the sky through binoculars. Jack was forced to duck behind the railroad tracks, sprawl flat on his belly across the catwalk.

  Jack held his breath, listened. A barge chugged under the bridge, Jack stared down at its decks and the rippling, white-topped wake. Over the howl of the wind through the wires, the rush of the tide far below, Jack heard voices. Cautiously, he lifted his head over the tracks. The man on the shed still watched the horizon, his back turned. A few yards away, Jack saw three other men clustered around a Long Tooth missile launcher mounted on a tripod. It was too dark to make out their features, but Jack was certain Taj was one of them. Jack hoped the renegade FBI agent was among them, too. Jack had a score to settle with Frank Hensley.