Operation Hell Gate - Marc Cerasini [104]
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 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.