24 Declassified: Collateral Damage

8. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 2:00 P.M. AND 3:00 P.M. EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME

Jack summoned his team to the security station for a briefing by Morris O’Brian. He leaned with folded arms against a desk while the cyber technician spoke.

“This morning, when Brice Holman refused to answer our friendly phone calls, I followed CTU protocol and issued a trace command on his cell phone.”

“A trace command? What’s that?” Layla interrupted.

Morris glanced at Jack, then smiled indulgently. “I used the unique identifiers on Holman’s phone to trace its activity. Nothing happens when the man’s phone is turned off, of course. But as soon as he turns it on, the trace commands imbedded in the telecommunications grid automatically attempt to triangulate his position, and then forward the data to me.”

“So what have you got?” Jack demanded. He moved behind Morris’s chair to stand over the man.

Peter Randall was there, too, doe-eyed behind his round glasses. Despite his boyish demeanor, Randall had assumed responsibility for internal security in Tony Almeida’s and Rachel Delgado’s absence.

In the last hour, he’d proved to be a valuable asset.

Randall had determined the intruders killed on the roof of CTU Headquarters had entered through the parking garage, and his security team also found the bodies of the murdered guards behind some parked cars.

Now they were hunting a third accomplice, clad in a good copy of a CTU uniform. He had been taped fleeing the scene by the reactivated security cam inside the parking garage, around the same time the firefight broke out on the roof.

“Here’s the skinny, Jack-o,” Morris replied. “At twelve twenty-eight this afternoon, Holman activated his phone for approximately thirty-nine seconds — not long enough to triangulate his position with any sort of accuracy, but I did learn that the low-power transmission from his cell went to a switch in the farming community of Alpha, New Jersey—”

Layla interrupted again. “A switch? What kind of switch?”

“Darling,” Morris said patiently. “In mobile lingo, or as you call it in the colonies, in cell phone lingo, a switch is a transmission tower.”

“So Director Holman is in Alpha, New Jersey?”

“I didn’t say that, luv. I said his cell phone signal came to the tower in Alpha. But you are correct, in a sense.

Director Holman is not far away. Cell phone signals are weak. CTU’s phones are better than most, but they only have a range of thirteen kilometers.”

Morris looked up at Jack Bauer, who peered over his shoulder at the grid map up on the HD computer monitor.

“About twenty minutes ago, Holman tried using his phone again. It was only activated for fifty-two seconds, but this signal went to different place… a tower in Clinton, New Jersey. Using the location of the prior call and this one, I was able to triangulate his position. Assuming he hasn’t moved, I know where Holman is.”

“Where?” Jack demanded, though he thought he already knew the answer.

“He’s in a town called Milton, New Jersey. A pictur-esque little community on the Delaware River. According to our geographic database, parts of the Erie Canal still exist in the area—”

“Cut the regional history tour and show me the map.”

“All right, Jack-o.” Morris tapped a key, and a flashing red dot appeared on the grid. “That’s Milton.”

Jack nodded. “Where’s Kurmastan?”

Layla moved behind him while Morris tapped another key. Instantly a second blip appeared, nearly on top of the first.

“Now we know where Director Holman is,” Layla said.

“But what is he doing there? And why hasn’t he responded to our calls?”

“We’re going to find out the answer, right now.” Jack faced Peter Randall. “Where are your choppers?”

“Two blocks away,” Randall replied. “There’s a secure compound on the banks of the Hudson River. The detention block is there, too.”

“Alert them,” Jack said. “Tell them to prep a helicopter, and get clearance for an immediate takeoff. Tell them they’re carrying two passengers to Milton, New Jersey.”

Jack turned to Layla. “You’ll need your weapon for this trip. And tactical assault gear, too.”

The woman’s lips parted in surprise. “You’re taking me?”

“You wanted fieldwork, didn’t you?”

“I… I’ll secure my gear from the armory,” Layla stammered.

It took Tony a while to locate the property room. Finally, he cornered an orderly in the ER and asked him where to go.

“Through that door over there and down one flight. You make a left and follow the corridor. The property room will be on your right. You can’t miss it. The sign on the door says morgue.”

Tony frowned. “Morgue?”

The orderly shrugged. “That’s the way it is, mon.”

Tony thanked the man and entered the stairwell. He took the stairs two at a time, the heels of his shoes clicking hollowly in the cavernous space.

At the bottom of the steps, Tony bumped into a youth in a white smock.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

The dark-haired Hispanic did not reply. Hands in his bulging pockets, he hurried up the stairs. Tony shrugged off the encounter and followed the corridor until he spotted the door to the morgue. To his surprise it was ajar, cool air from the massive refrigerators streaming into the stuffy corridor.

Suspicious, Tony slipped his hand into his jacket and drew the Glock from its holster. He peered around the open door, into the room. A security guard was sprawled on the floor. Tony moved forward, examined the guard.

Dead. Then he noticed the banks of steel lockers lining one wall.

The one marked “Room 424” had been pried open. The axe used for the job lay on the floor. Tony stepped around the corpse and examined the contents of the small square locker. Agent Foy’s purse, wallet, and CTU ID were still inside, but her cell phone and the digital surveillance camera were both gone.

Tony cursed, recalling the man who’d bumped him.

Glock pointed at the floor, he chased after him, certain the Hispanic youth was the culprit.

In the corridor, Tony collided with a nurse. “Call the police,” he told her. “The security guard in the morgue has been shot.”

The woman saw the gun clutched in the dark-haired man’s hand, and her eyes went wide. The man turned his back on her, raced up the stairs and out of sight.

Alarmed, the nurse proceeded to the morgue and pushed through the door. Only after she saw the man on the ground, and checked his pulse, did the woman use the emergency phone to call the security desk.

She reported the murder, and gave the security chief a description of the dark-haired man she’d bumped into.

“He still has the gun! I saw it…”

Inside the church bus, Brice Holman sat beside a scare-crow of a woman named Mrs. Hocklinger. During the entire trip from the Nazareth Unitarian Church of Milton, New Jersey, she’d spoken only once. As they pulled out of the church parking lot, Mrs. Hocklinger used the con-descending tone of an elementary schoolteacher to order Holman to fasten his seatbelt.

Now, as the minibus rumbled along a narrow rural road, the Reverend James Wendell Ahern closed the issue of So-journers magazine he’d been reading and tapped it against his knee.

“I’m really surprised to see anyone from the press here today, Mr. Holman,” the Reverend said, turning to face him. “Outreach to other faiths and other cultures doesn’t sell newspapers, I’m told. And since the Congresswoman had to cancel at the last minute—”

“Good riddance, I say,” an older man interrupted from the back row. “We all know Congresswoman Williams is in bed with these people. She’s defended that crazy mullah or wallah or whatever they call him—”

Reverend Ahern raised a hand. “The Imam’s name is Ali Rahman al Sallifi, Mr. Simonson.”

The older man sneered. “If you know his name, then you know this Sallifi character is wanted by the law in his native country. He’s a terrorist.”

Reverend Ahern offered the man a patronizing smile.

“You have to understand, countries like Egypt and Pakistan have repressive governments. Imam Ali Rahman al Sallifi tried to practice his personal brand of Islam in peace, but was forced to flee. That’s why he came to America, for the right to practice his faith without persecution.”

Simonson waved a dismissive hand. “Fine. I’ll wait and see what the Grand Poobah has to say for himself.”

Ahern fixed his wide-eyed stare on Brice Holman.

“You see what I’m up against. There’s a tragic mistrust of the stranger, the other, even among the members of my own flock.”

“Yet you strive always to be a unifying force,” Holman said. “That’s why New Jersey Cable One sent me here, to cover this story.”

“You brought no cameras,” Ahern noted.

“I didn’t want to be too… intimidating,” Holman lied.

“I’ll certainly conduct on-camera interviews later, with you and perhaps Ali Rahman al Sallifi, if he’ll speak with us.”

“He agreed to meet with my group today, which is certainly a breakthrough. Imam al Sallifi is a private man, very spiritual.”

Holman raised an eyebrow. “So you’ve met the Imam?”

“I’m told,” Ahern amended. “I’ve met with the Imam’s disciple, Ibrahim Noor, several times. He’s a fascinating figure. A former gang leader and convicted felon who found redemption through faith. His is a story we can all learn from.”

“Indeed,” Holman replied.

“Excuse me, Reverend Ahern,” Mrs. Reed called from behind the steering wheel. “I think that’s our turn up ahead.”

“Yes, that’s the turn, Emily,” the Reverend declared,

“We’re to make a left and follow the road for about a mile, until we see the gate.”

Mrs. Reed nodded and slowed for the turn. Reverend Ahern faced the other passengers in the minibus.

“Again, I want to apologize on behalf of Congresswoman Hailey Williams,” he said. “She was quite eager to make the trip, but legislative duties prevented her from joining us.”

Brice Holman shook his head. If the Reverend had half a brain, he’d know Congress is on spring break — which is why Congresswoman Williams is in her home district, instead of Washington.

Whatever’s going on here stinks, thought Brice. But at least it will get me inside that compound.

Beside Mrs. Hocklinger, a teenager named Danielle Taylor fidgeted nervously. Holman had originally estimated her age at fifteen or sixteen, but upped it when Reverend Ahern mentioned she would be attending Columbia University in the fall.

Dani was here because of an incident that had occurred several months ago.

Her dog had broken from its leash and wandered into the compound. Dani had gone in after it, and found the dog dead — shot — and two men with guns standing over the corpse. When she demanded to know why they had killed her pet, one of the men sneered and declared that

“soon all dogs will die.”

Instead of being intimidated, Dani had filed animal cruelty charges against those two men. A court date was still pending.

The minibus swerved onto a narrow road that was pitted and bumpy. Emily Reed switched to low gear, and they climbed a short rise. At the crest of the hill, the front tire bounced off a particularly deep pothole.

“With all the taxes they charge us, you’d think they could fix these roads,” Mr. Simonson grumbled.

“It’s the trucks from the cardboard factory,” Mr. Cranston explained. “Those semis really tear up the highway.”

Joseph Cranston told Holman he was a retiree from New York City, who used to be an engineer for the Bridge and Tunnel Authority.

“I really hope to get a look inside that factory,” Cranston continued. “It’s the oldest paper fabrication facility in the country.”

Abby Cranston pointed. “Look, there’s the front gate.”

“Does that man have a gun?” Emily Reed cried.

Reverend Ahern swallowed hard. “Slow down and I’ll have a word with him.”

But as the bus approached the gate, the old man with the rifle slung over his shoulder smiled and motioned them forward. Another man limped out of the guardhouse, offering them a toothless grin. He carried no rifle, but there was a.22-caliber handgun tucked in the belt around his shalwat kameez. Together, the two men swung the chain-link and barbed-wire gate open to admit them.

Ahern visibly relaxed. “I told you they were expecting us.”

Holman studied the guards as the bus passed through the gate.

In weeks of surveillance, he’d never seen the main gate guarded by anyone but tough-looking former felons in their prime, all of them Americans. But these two guys looked Middle Eastern, and they were probably pushing eighty.

Reverend Ahern pulled a copy of Ibrahim Noor’s e-mail out of the pocket of his black shirt. As he read, he adjusted his clerical collar.

“Just go straight ahead until you reach the Community Center,” he told the driver.

The bus bumped through the center of town. To Holman the place seemed abandoned. Of course, the men were probably working at the factory, but the women should have been out and about.

Finally, a man with a rifle slung across his back stepped in their path, waving his arms.

“I think he wants us to stop,” Ahern said.

The bus halted in a cloud of dust, in front of a large building made of unpainted cinder blocks. The aluminum screen door opened, and a woman in a black burka exited the building. Though her features were obscured, she carried a bundle of flowers in her tattooed hands.

“That’s nice,” Mrs. Cranston said.

Emily cut the engine, and Reverend Ahern opened the sliding door. Before he could step out, a howling mob of people burst from the Community Center and charged the bus. Another mob rushed out of the communal baths next door. They were women, mostly, along with a smattering of young boys and girls and old men. The males had guns.

The women carried knives, clubs, axes.

The mob swarmed the bus, threatening to tip the vehicle over on its side. Reverend Ahern was assaulted and pummeled into unconsciousness. Emily Reed tried to restart the engine and drive away, but an old man fired an ancient pistol at her through the windshield. The bullet struck her right eye, killing the woman instantly.

Brice Holman kicked the first person to reach for him.

The woman howled and fell to the floor. Clawing and screaming like animals, the rest of the pack crushed her in an effort to get at the passengers.

Holman heard Dani scream. Mr. Simonson lunged at the women attacking the teenager, knocked them aside.

Then someone stuck the man in the throat with a machete.

He went down spewing blood.

Holman lashed out again, his fist striking flesh. Then someone struck him on the back of the head and his world went dark…

Tony Almeida ducked behind a pillar and observed the white-smocked kid he fingered for the murder of the guard. The Hispanic youth was standing near the ER, talking into a cell phone. No doubt he was reporting his situation, which was dire.

Fifteen minutes ago, Tony discovered that hospital security and the Newark Police had sealed the hospital exits, effectively trapping the murderer inside the facility.

Almeida had located the punk at around the same time, but decided not to move against him in the crowded lobby.

Tony watched while the killer drifted over to an emergency fire exit, preparing to push through. He got a surprise when the door suddenly opened from the outside, and two uniformed cops entered — and walked right past him.

The close call obviously spooked the youth. Still on the phone, he slipped into a nearby stairwell. Tony followed, pausing at the steel door long enough to turn off his own cell — the last thing he needed was the phone to ring.

As soon as he entered the stairwell, Tony heard the man’s muffled voice, his footsteps on the stairs. Cautiously, Tony climbed, Glock in hand. It took five flights before he finally caught up with the kid. The youth had just ended his call and was heading back the way he came.

Tony leveled his gun on the punk, who stumbled backward, tripping on the steps. The kid fell onto the fifth-floor landing.

“Don’t move or I’ll shoot,” Tony said evenly.

On his back, the kid threw up his arms. He couldn’t have been more than seventeen or eighteen, and he seemed very frightened. Tony had to remind himself that this fresh-faced kid was old enough to murder a security guard in cold blood, then steal evidence of a possible terrorist plot.

Tony slowly approached him. “Show me your weapon and get up,” he commanded.

Eyes twitching, the kid shook his head. “I already dumped the gun. In a garbage can,” he said, getting to his feet. The youth had high cheekbones; narrow, catlike eyes; and so many twitches, Tony thought he might be overdosing on cocaine.

“Colombian?” Tony asked, one hand covering him while the other rifled through the pockets of his white smock.

Head shaky, the youth nodded. Tony located Foy’s digital camera and cell phone and pocketed both.

“Okay,” Tony said. “Now we’re going downstairs.”

Tony gestured with his Glock. As soon as the barrel wavered, the Colombian bolted. As the teenager raced up the final flight of stairs, Tony drew a bead at his broad back—

but didn’t pull the trigger.

Better to take him alive. CTU can’t interrogate a dead man.

Deep inside, Tony knew the truth. He didn’t want to cap someone so young.

Taking the stairs two at a time, Tony reached an emergency exit and burst through the door, expecting to come out on the roof. Instead, he emerged on a narrow, dead-end catwalk six stories above the parking lot.

When the Colombian heard the door open, he whirled to face Tony. The youth was panting, his face shiny with sweat — almost as if he was coming off some kind of drug high. Tony aimed the Glock at the punk’s heart.

“Come on, kid, give it up,” he called. “This time I will shoot.”

The youth wavered. Then he yanked the smock off his shoulders and leaped onto the rail. As the white coat flut-tered to the concrete below, the youth threw up his arms.

“No! Wait!” Tony cried.

Stumbling forward, Tony spied a tattoo of the number 13 on the Colombian’s forearm. He dropped the Glock and reached out to snatch the youth — too late.

Without uttering a sound, the Colombian dived headfirst off the catwalk. A moment later, his body slammed into a Cadillac parked in the physicians-only lot. The impact crumpled the roof and triggered the alarm.

Tony pulled the cell phone out of his pocket to call Agent Delgado, but as soon as he activated it, he discovered an urgent message from Morris O’Brian back at CTU

Headquarters in New York.

Frowning, he played it back.

“I understand,” Rachel Delgado said into her cell. “I’ll take care of everything here. You don’t have to worry about it.”

Rachel had been lingering outside Deputy Director’s Foy’s hospital room for almost an hour. Scrupulously following Tony Almeida’s last command, she hadn’t let anyone in or out of room 424.

Now she’d received new instructions. Agent Delgado closed the phone and tucked it into her purse beside the 9mm handgun. She scanned the area.

The doctors had made their rounds; the nurses had administered the afternoon meds. Most of the staff was gathered around the nurses’ station, waiting for the shift change at three-fifteen. With luck, Rachel Delgado would be finished by then. Finished and long gone.

Rachel peeked through the tiny window in the door of the private room. Judith Foy was asleep, her bandaged head lolling on the pillow. Quietly, she slipped through the door and approached the bed.

Rachel dropped her purse in the chair and leaned close, to examine the woman. Foy was definitely asleep. Her breathing was even, and she was snoring a little.

Circling the bed, Rachel looked around for the right tool for the job. She grinned when she fingered the IV tube running from the clear plastic bag into Judith Foy’s arm.

Rachel gently disconnected the plastic tube at the flow meter joint. Then she pulled the long tube free from the IV bottle. While the solution trickled onto the faux-hardwood floor, Rachel wrapped the plastic around both hands, to create a garrote.

Rachel paused for a moment while an orderly drifted past the door, heading for the nurses’ station. When the man was out of sight, Delgado loomed over Judith Foy.

In one quick motion, Rachel slipped the strangling cord around the sleeping woman’s throat and pulled it tight…