Collateral Damage - Marc Cerasini [60]
Eden flashed Chappelle a feral grin. "Nope. Never heard of no Jack Bauer. And, for the record, Delta is an airline."
The men around Chappelle chuckled. Ryan frowned, not understanding why the others were laughing.
"Yo, check the gate," the man named Moe Howard called from his position near a bronze statue of colonial hero Robert Rogers, the founding leader of America's first special ops unit, back in 1756.
Joe Smith squinted in the distance. "I see lights. Looks like a truck. Let's see what the driver does."
Martin Eden raised night vision binoculars. "It's an eighteen-wheeler with a long frailer. Logo's too small to read from here. D... R... something. Wait a minute! The truck just smashed through the front gate. Now that wasn't friendly."
"Take position, everyone," Joe Smith commanded.
A half-dozen men fanned out down the hill, vanishing in the shadows among the frees and brush of the landscaped hillside.
"What do you want me to do?" Ryan Chappelle whispered.
"You came here for some hands-on counterterrorism experience, so I'll hand you this." Joe Smith thrust a Glock into Ryan's limp grip. "If I point at something and say 'shoot there,' you do it. Otherwise stay out of the way."
Ryan chewed his lip and gave the man a nod.
The truck was rumbling up the hill now, close enough for Ryan to hear the growl of its diesel engine. He tucked the gun in his belt and lifted his microbinoculars.
Under the streetlight, Ryan thought he saw a dark figure dart into the roadway beside the truck. If it was one of the special ops men, he was gone before Ryan could be certain.
Suddenly Chappelle was blinded by a yellow flash — an explosion that blew the back wheels off the frailer. The cab kept moving, dragging the tottering cargo bay with it, until a second explosion went off under the engine block. That blast blew off the front tire, shattered the truck's windows, and sent the engine cover flying into the air.
"The squids were right," Martin Eden said in the tone of a professional evaluating a new product. "Those magnetic mines blew the hell out of that truck. I'd love to see what they do to a boat."
On the narrow road, the semi's blasted cab came to an abrupt halt when the axle dug into the asphalt. Then its frailer jackknifed, and the whole rig tumbled on its side, breaking in half as it smashed a section of the stone fence.
The din faded, and for a long moment all was silent. Then the cargo doors opened with a loud bang. Red tracer fire cut through the night. Men rolled out of the truck, into a fusillade of fire and a rain of concussion grenades. Howling, the terrorists fell, one by one, until there was no one left alive.
In the darkness around the ribbon of road, voices cried out. "Clear!"
"Clear here."
"All clear!"
"Anybody hurt?" Joe Smith called. A chorus of negatives greeted him. Only then did he realize the ambush was over — and he hadn't fired a shot.
Martin Eden rose from his hiding place and ran toward the wreck, Ryan Chappelle on his heels. Other men emerged from hiding and swarmed over the smashed truck, checking the bodies, then the contents of the cargo bay.
"I got nine unfriendlies down, no survivors," Moe Howard declared. "There are some maps and stuff in the cab. Might be intel. Might be crap."
"I don't know about intel, but there are enough guns and ammo here to start a war," Larry Fine said, shaking his head.
"There must be a ton of C-4, too, manufactured with easy-set timers and ready to go," Smith observed, his facade of calm suddenly cracking.
As they fumbled through the wreckage, reality began to dawn on all of them as the magnitude of the threat was slowly revealed.
Finally, Martin Eden faced Ryan Chappelle. "Jack Bauer says there are eleven more trucks on the prowl just like this one, right?"
"That's right."
Eden frowned. "Then God help us."
15
THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 9:00 P.M. AND 10:00 P.M. EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME
9:10:20 P.M. EDT
Eight hundred feet above Interstate 495
New Jersey
Jack Bauer leaned through the door of