24 Declassified: 08 - Collateral Damage Page 13
“It’s a long story,” Tony replied.
Chloe glanced at her watch. “I see.” Her tone was dis-approving. “Well, I really don’t have time to hear it. You seem to have all the time in the world, but some of us actually have to work for a living.”
“Give me a break, Chloe.”
“Give me a break. I can only guess it’s happy hour on the East Coast. Have one on me.”
“Don’t hang up!” Tony cried. “This is a matter of national security. Have you heard about the bombs?”
“If you’re talking about the ones that disabled satellite capabilities in the Mid-Atlantic states, then yes, I’ve heard about them. In fact, I’m in the middle of analyzing a list of—”
“My information might have something to do with those attacks,” Tony said. “All you have to do is forward some data in an e-mail attachment to Morris O’Brian’s ISP account, then tag it with something personal so he reads it right away. Can you do that?”
Chloe’s face scrunched up again. “I don’t know. That little British creep took me out a couple of times, then he stopped calling—”
“Chloe, please.”
“Oh, all right!” She rolled her eyes. “But how in the heck C O L L AT E R A L D A M A G E 153
can I tag the e-mail so Morris will read it right away?”
Tony sighed. “You’ll figure something out . . .”
5:27:36 P.M. EDT
Inside the Warriors of God compound Near Kurmastan, New Jersey
Jack Bauer took the lead as he and Layla Abernathy followed the tree line along the top of a gentle slope. Between breaks in the foliage, Jack caught a glimpse of the mobile home park. Even from this distance, the trailers seemed decrepit, with rusty and pitted walls, broken windows, and missing doors.
The late afternoon sun was scorching—so hot that Jack signaled Layla to hunker down in the shade for a moment.
She removed her cap and wiped sweat from her forehead.
Jack loosened his body armor to let some air through.
They both gulped water from plastic bottles.
Layla glanced at her watch. “We’ve been hiking for half an hour, ever since we debarked from the chopper. We must be close now.”
Jack rose and used micro-binoculars to scan the area below.
“We’re almost there,” he replied. “I can see the compound. There’s no sign of life, no one on the streets or—”
Jack fell silent.
“What do you see?” Layla asked.
“There’s a minibus in the middle of main street. It’s lying on its side, windows broken.”
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The cell phone went off in Jack’s pocket. “Morris?” he answered.
“News, Jack,” O’Brian began. “I’m still tracing Holman’s phone, and he’s close by. He’s moving up the hill due south of your position. Maybe three hundred yards away.”
Jack swung his binoculars around and scanned the next hill. All he saw were trees and thick brush.
“Are you sure?”
“Positive, Jack-o.”
Jack closed the phone. “Wait here,” he whispered to Layla, handing off his phone. “If I’m not back in ten minutes, call Morris.”
Layla took the phone and nodded. A moment later, Jack faded into the thick brush.
5:33:14 P.M. EDT
Inside the Warriors of God compound Dani had been spotted somewhere near the mobile homes.
She never noticed anyone as she passed the cluster of ram-shackle old trailers, but someone must have seen her and put the alarm out. Almost as soon as she entered a heavily wooded stretch, Dani heard excited voices—both women and boys—followed by the sound of several people crash-ing through the brush.
Still clutching the shotgun in her sweating hands, Dani ran until she was too exhausted to continue on. Finally, she dived into a thicket at the base of a hill, hoping to elude C O L L AT E R A L D A M A G E 155
the hunters. Cowering in the brush, knees curled under her, the teenaged girl fought panic and tried to control her rasping breath.
Suddenly the traumatic events of the past few hours overwhelmed her. Dani felt a knife through her guts and she heaved. Then she began to tremble uncontrollably.
Tears filled her eyes and dug canals through the filth and caked blood that stained her cheeks.
Dani sobbed once, then clapped her hand over her mouth—too late, for a moment later the branches parted above her head and a young man cried out.
“She’s here!”
Startled out of her fear trance, Dani looked up. The youth loomed over her. He was maybe fourteen. Round face. Deep brown eyes. His triumphant grin exposed a missing front tooth. He wore a frayed T-shirt and a hemp necklace around his thick, sweat-stained neck. He lifted a baseball bat—
She shot him in the chest with both barrels. The kid was blown off his feet by the impact, and bounced off the trunk of a tree.
The explosive double blast shocked Dani, and the recoil was more than she could handle. The stock slammed against her shoulder; the smoking gun flew from her hands.
Moaning, Dani clutched her bruised shoulder and stumbled to her feet. Without a second glance, she stepped over the dead boy and scrambled up the hill.
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5:36:27 P.M. EDT
Inside the Warriors of God compound Jack Bauer heard the shotgun blast and took off. Leading with his Glock, he ran through the trees until he reached the edge of a shallow valley. Crouching among a cluster of trees, he immediately spotted the injured teenager moving up the hill.
Where’s Holman? Jack wondered.
At the base of the hill, three women in black robes clustered around a figure sprawled on the ground. Jack heard anguished cries and wailing. Then the trio spotted the blond girl. Brandishing pitchforks and kitchen knives, the woman hiked up their robes as they climbed the hill.
The teenager glanced over her shoulder, saw the women, and picked up her pace. In another minute, she would reach his position.
Jack slipped the Glock into its holster and ducked behind the thick foliage. When the girl reached the trees, Jack reached out, snagged her, and pulled her to the ground in one smooth motion.
The girl screamed and fought him.
“I’m a friend,” Jack hissed. “I’m here to rescue you.”
Still the girl struggled. Part of her wanted to believe him—Jack could see it in her eyes—but she was beaten bloody and half mad. Too terrorized to trust anyone.
Jack heard voices, peeked through the leaves and saw the women. They were almost on him. Holding the girl down with one hand, he drew his Glock with the other.
The women reached his position a moment later. They stopped in their tracks when they spied Jack.
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“Get down on the ground now!” Jack cried, reluctant to fire.
One of the women surprised him by hurling a kitchen knife. Jack deftly avoided the blade, then shot the woman in the head. As she toppled, the others reared back. Then both women fumbled for their belts. Only then did Jack notice their bulging robes, and the detonation cord dangling from their waists.
Jack aimed—but before he could fire, a volley of shots cut the women down. Layla Abernathy stepped out of hiding, a smoking Glock gripped firmly in both hands.
“I thought I told you to stay put,” said Jack, one hand pinning the teenaged girl on the ground.
“I heard the shots,” Layla replied. “I thought maybe you were in trouble.”
“Check the dead women. I think they’re wearing explosive belts. Be careful not to set one off.”
Jack looked down, into the teenager’s eyes. By now, she’d stopped struggling against him. “Are you calm? ”
The girl nodded and Jack released her. She sat up and rubbed the reddening flesh on her bare shoulder.
He examined the girl. One sleeve of her sweatshirt had been torn away; the other hung
by a few threads. Dried blood caked her thin arms, covering bruises and gouged flesh. She had a black eye and a swollen nose, and chunks of her hair had been torn out by the roots.
Though she was fairly banged up, Jack concluded the physical wounds were superficial. Her psychological condition was another matter.
“You were right, Agent Bauer,” Layla said. “These 158
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women are all wearing explosive devices—bricks of C–4, connected to a detonation cord.”
She frowned. “Two of them had IDs. Both are . . . were born in the United States. And none of these three dead women are of Middle Eastern descent.” The notion seemed to confound Layla Abernathy, but Jack didn’t have time to deal with her existential dilemmas right now.
Jack addressed the teenager. “Who are you? What were you doing inside the compound?”
Danielle Taylor told them her name and where she lived.
Then the harrowing story of her captivity came tumbling out of her mouth. She told them about the church group, the torture, and the beheadings. Near the end of her tale, she mentioned a Mr. Holman, the man who helped her escape.
“Holman?” Layla interrupted. “Brice Holman?”
Dani nodded.
Before Jack could silence her, Layla spoke again.
“Holman is an agent for the Counter Terrorist Unit of the CIA,” she told Dani. “I’m from CTU, too. Brice is my superior.”
Dani instantly paled, and Jack could see the look of fear and panic return to her eyes. He also sensed the girl was hiding something. He knew the only way she would open up was if he somehow earned her trust.
“Forget about that,” Jack said gently. “We’re here to help. My name is Jack Bauer. I’m—”
Then the ground trembled under their feet. As one, thousands of birds burst out of the trees and took to the sky as the rumbling roar of multiple explosions battered their ears.
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Dani cried out. Layla dropped to the ground, clutching her head.
Jack whirled, seeing a dozen blasts and plumes of black smoke rising from the center of Kurmastan. On the opposite end of town, flames lit up the sky above the old paper factory.
More explosions followed. Several clapboard homes blew apart, sending debris leaping into the afternoon sky.
Then a mobile home erupted, bursting asunder like a shoe box stuffed with firecrackers.
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.”
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9
10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17
18 19 20 21 22 23 24
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.
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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?”
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.