Jack Bauer examined the mangled wreckage in the glare of spotlights. Emergency beacons flashed around him. A number of local fire companies as well as the New Jersey State Police Bomb Squad had converged on the scene.
When Jack showed them his CTU ID, they allowed him to pass through the police line to view the devastation.
The truck from Kurmastan had plunged almost two hundred feet off the ramp and slammed into a Conrail switching station. The cab had been crushed beyond recognition; the dead driver was still inside. Though its tank had ruptured, and the smell of diesel fuel permeated the area, there was no fire. Still, firemen spread flame-retar- dant foam on the spillage to reduce the chance of accidental conflagration.
When it struck the switching station, the trailer had cracked open like an eggshell, spilling its deadly contents onto the railroad tracks. The aluminum shell was so twisted, Jack could hardly make out the Dreizehn Trucking logo on its hull. Plastic-wrapped bricks of C–4 were scattered like confetti. The cargo bay had been stuffed with enough explosives to bring down the roof of the Lincoln Tunnel, or level much of Times Square, if either attack had been part of the terrorists’ plan.
Among shattered crates of C–4 and an armory of guns and ammunition, Bauer counted two mangled bodies. A third corpse dangled from the top of a nearby telephone pole, where the crew of a Weehawken Fire Department ladder truck was preparing to bring it down.
Across from the tangled wreck on the railroad tracks was Waterfront Terrace Road. Its large marina complex and luxury restaurant were now being evacuated via the Hudson River. Jack could see a fleet of police and fire boats bobbing in the dark water, the lit-up Manhattan skyline rising beyond.
Jack turned away from the glare, gazed at the liquid crystal display on the PDA in his hand. The device had once belonged to the Hawk. Jack had found it, along with a cell phone, in the pocket of the man’s black utility vest, which Jack now wore over his blue jumpsuit. Bauer had already forwarded the contents of the device and the Hawk’s cell phone to Morris O’Brian for further analysis.
While he awaited the results, Jack studied a series of road maps stored in the PDA’s memory. He was interrupted when his own cell phone vibrated.
“Bauer.”
“It’s me,” said Morris. “You’re looking at the maps?”
“Yes,” Jack replied. “There are six of them—”
“That’s right, Jack-o,” Morris interrupted. “Two match the routes taken by the truck that hit Carlisle, and the vehicle you just took down—”
“So the other four maps might indicate the routes taken by other trucks that we have yet to locate,” Jack said, thumbing through the PDA’s index.
“
“
“Good point.”
Jack squinted at the tiny screen. “Looks like one map outlines a route to Atlantic City. And another’s going to a location outside of Rutland, Vermont.”
“There are two trucks heading for Boston, too.” Morris paused. “Director Henderson has ordered me to alert the proper state and local authorities. Thanks to you, we have a chance of stopping these trucks. A good chance.”
But Jack remembered what Brice Holman had said before he’d expired. He’d seen twelve trucks,
Morris seemed to read his mind. “Don’t worry, Jack.
You’ll stop them.”
Jack shook off his anxiety and redirected Morris. “What about the contents of Farshid Amadani’s cell phone?”
“Nine numbers are stored there,” Morris replied. “Eight of them are for cell phones with bogus accounts.”
“And the ninth?”
“An unlisted number for the West Side apartment of one Erno Tobias, a citizen of Switzerland. Mr. Tobias is an executive officer for Rogan Pharmaceuticals.”
Jack flashed back to the stockpile of steroids and amphetamines at Kurmastan. They’d all come from Rogan Pharmaceuticals.
“I’ve just pulled up the passport photo for Mr. Tobias from the State Department database, and I’m forwarding it to you,” Morris continued. “You might recognize him.”
The PDA beeped in Jack’s hand, and he retrieved the digital image. Surprise struck him at the sight of the pale white face.
“It’s the Albino,” Jack said. “The man who killed Fredo Mangella in Little Italy.”
“I have an address,” Morris announced. “Nice digs, too.
It appears Mr. Tobias occupies an apartment on Central Park West.”
The address flashed on the PDA screen.
“Got it,” said Jack. “I’m going there now.”
On this wood-lined stretch of Route 4, just a few miles from Pine Hill Park, rush hour occurred three times a day, coinciding with the shift changes at the massive General Aviation Electronics manufacturing plant.
At seven a.m., three p.m., and again at eleven p.m., a steady stream of cars, pickups, and minivans flowed off Columbian Avenue, onto a short driveway that led into the access-restricted parking lot.
Because of the classified nature of the devices manufactured here, which included vital components for the U.S. military’s fleet of high-performance jet aircraft, there was only one way in or out of the plant. That road was straddled by a gated security booth and manned by two armed guards.
While there was always a delay at rush hour, tonight’s was worse than usual because of a security alert issued by the Federal government less than thirty minutes earlier.
Most days, gaining admittance to the employee parking lot was a simple process. The electronic pass glued to the workers’ windshields allowed them to be waved through.
But tonight the two guards inside the glass booth had been instructed to stop each vehicle and check the IDs of all occupants. The security officers were also advised to be on the lookout for suspicious vehicles, especially large trucks.
It was Officer Darla Famini and her partner, Archie Lamb, who were taking the heat for the delay, mostly from workers rolling in at the last minute for the night shift.
“Come on, Darla, what’s the problem?” complained a corpulent man behind the wheel of a late-model GM pickup.
“You ought to know me. I’m your damned cousin.”
“Sorry, Billy,” Darla said, handing him back his employee ID. “Tonight we have to check everybody. We have a situation.”
“
Darla frowned. “We’ve got one tonight.”
Billy adjusted his ball cap. “Lucky me. I’m at the end of the line.”
“You have plenty of time to clock in,” Officer Famini replied, waving him through.
As the gate went up, Billy glanced into his rearview mirror. “Here comes someone else you can harass,” he said. Then he pulled away in a cloud of exhaust smoke.
Darla watched two headlights bounce up the driveway.
Her partner appeared at her shoulder.
“That’s a truck,” said Archie Lamb.
