Vector

Chapter 3

Monday, October 18

11:30 a.m.

“Do you think we should be doing this?” Steve Henderson asked. “I can’t imagine we’re going to learn enough to justify the risk.”

Curt grabbed his friend’s sleeve and pulled him to a stop. They were standing in front of the Jacob Javits Federal Building at 26 Federal Plaza. Crowds of people were coming and going. It was a busy place. It housed nearly six thousand government employees and was visited daily by a thousand civilians.

Curt and Steve were dressed in their freshly pressed blue class B firefighter uniforms. Their black shoes glistened in the bright October sunlight. Curt’s shirt was a lighter blue than Steve’s, and Curt had a tiny gold bullhorn on his collar. Curt had made lieutenant four years previously.

“With an operation of this magnitude, reconnaissance is an absolute must,” Curt hissed. He glanced furtively at the scurrying crowd to make sure no one was paying them any heed. “What the hell did they teach you in the army? We’re talking about basics here!”

Curt and Steve had been childhood friends. Both had grown up in the strongly blue-collar area of Bensonhurst, Brooklyn. Both had been quiet, polite, and neat loners who’d gravitated toward each other over the years as kindred spirits, particularly during high school. They had been indifferent students although they’d scored high on aptitude tests, Curt higher than Steve. Neither had played any sports despite Curt’s older brother’s being one of Bensonhurst’s legendary football stars. They had mostly “hung out,” as they explained in their own words. Both had ended up in the armed forces: Curt after an abortive six-month try at college and Steve after working for his plumber father for a year.

“The army taught me just as much as the Marines taught you,” Steve shot back. “Don’t give me any of your Marine Corps bullshit.”

“Well, we’re not going to carry the stuff in there on D-Day without having reconnoitered the place,” Curt said. “It’s got to go into the HVAC induction. We got to make sure we can get access.”

Steve nervously glanced up at the huge building. “But we got the plans,” he said. “We know it’s on the third floor.”

“Jesus Christ!” Curt exclaimed. He threw up his hands, including the one holding his clipboard. “No wonder you washed out of the Green Berets. Are you going to chicken out on me?”

In contrast to their desultory academic careers, both men had excelled in their respective branches of the service. Curt had gone to Camp Pendleton in California, while Steve had gone to Fort Bragg in North Carolina. Both had risen quickly to the ranks of non-commissioned officers. The regimentation and sense of purpose excited them, and they became model gung-ho, spit-and-polish soldiers. Of particular interest to each was any kind of ordnance, especially assault rifles and handguns. Both became decorated marksmen.

The two buddies corresponded infrequently over the years. Being in different branches of the service and stationed on different coasts was a barrier to their friendship. The only times they got together were on the rare occasions when their leaves happened to coincide, and they met up in Bensonhurst. Then it was like old times, and they traded “war stories.” Both had participated in the Gulf War.

Although neither Curt nor Steve had said as much, they both assumed the military would be their careers. But it was not to be; ultimately both were disappointed by their respective branches.

Curt’s experience was the more troubling. He’d risen to a position of leadership in the training of recruits for an elite Marine reconnaissance team. During a particularly grueling night maneuver and on specific orders from Curt to keep up, a recruit died. A subsequent inquiry implicated Curt as being responsible for a portion of the blame. Nothing was said about the fact that the man shouldn’t have been in the program. He was a “mama’s boy” who’d been accepted only because his father was a Washington bigwig.

Although Curt wasn’t punished per se, the incident tarnished his record and precluded further advancement. He was devastated and ultimately furious over the episode. He felt the government had let him down after he had given his all for his country. When the time for his next reenlistment came up, Curt took an early out.

Steve’s experience had been different. After a lengthy and frustrating application process, he’d finally been accepted into Green Beret training, only to have to drop out during the initial twenty-one-day assessment course. It was not his fault; he’d come down with the flu. When he learned he had to start the whole application process again despite everything he’d done for the army, he followed Curt’s example, and with a sense of disgust and betrayal left the military.

After a series of odd jobs, mostly involving private security, Curt had been the first to join the New York City Fire Department. He liked it from the start, with its military-like hierarchy, uniforms, inspiring mission, pride, and interesting equipment. Without any sort of ordnance, it wasn’t the Marine Corps, but it was close enough. Also on the positive side was the fact that he could live in Bensonhurst.

Soon Curt was encouraging Steve to follow suit and take the civil service test. With some wrangling after Steve had gotten himself hired, they managed to get themselves assigned to the same firehouse and ultimately to the same engine company. Their story had come full circle. They were back living in Bensonhurst and were once again best friends.

“I’m not going to chicken out,” Steve said morosely. “I just think we’re asking for trouble. The building’s not scheduled for a fire inspection. What if they call the firehouse?”

“Who’s to know they’re not scheduled?” Curt said. “And what difference does it make if someone calls? The captain’s on vacation. Besides, we’re out doing legitimate inspections, and I happened to have found out there’d been a violation on the fed building’s last inspection. If a question arises, we’re just checking to make sure the violation has been corrected.”

“What kind of violation was it?”

“They’d installed a small grill in the ground floor sandwich kiosk,” Curt said. “Probably some food service manager just thought of it as an afterthought. I doubt they even pulled a permit. It got put in without a dry chemical Ansul unit. We’re just making sure they rectified the oversight.”

“Let me see,” Steve said.

“What, you don’t believe me?” Curt questioned. He slipped the copy of the violation from beneath the clasp on his clipboard and held it up in front of Steve’s face.

“Well, I’ll be a rat’s ass,” Steve said after glancing at the form. “That’s perfect.”

“Did you doubt a former Marine?” Curt quipped.

“Screw you,” Steve said kiddingly.

The two men continued toward the entrance, moving like military men with their heads high and their shoulders squared.

“This is going to be a perfect operation,” Curt said under his breath. “The largest FBI office outside of FBI Headquarters in D. C. is in here. Just thinking about it gives me goosebumps. It’s going to be payback big time for Ruby Ridge.”

“I just wish there were more ATF agents here,” Steve said. “Then we’d be avenging Waco and the Branch Davidians at the same time.”

“The government’s going to get the message,” Curt said. “Have no fear about that.”

“Are you really sure Yuri is going to come through?” Steve asked.

Curt pulled his friend to a stop for the second time. People skirted them.

“What is it with you?” Curt asked, keeping his voice low. “How come all this negativity all of a sudden?”

“Hey, I’m just asking,” Steve said. “After all, the guy’s kind of a kook. You’ve admitted that yourself. And he was a Commie.”

“He’s no Commie now,” Curt said.

“Do tigers change their stripes?” Steve asked. “He’s been saying some weird things lately, like wanting the Soviet Union to get back together.”

“That’s just to be sure the nukes are safe,” Curt said.

“I’m not so sure,” Steve said. “What about that comment he made about Stalin not being as bad as people think? I mean, that’s crazy. Stalin killed thirty million of his own people.”

“That was weird,” Curt admitted. He bit his lower lip. There were some loose screws in Yuri’s brain, like Yuri not being content just to knock out the Jacob Javits Federal Building. He wanted to do a simultaneous laydown in Central Park so that the second agent would blow over the entire Upper East Side. His supposed rationale was to get as many Jewish bankers as possible. Curt thought that doing the Fed building was more than enough, but Yuri had been adamant.

“We’ve made a lot of effort on his behalf,” Steve continued. “We’ve had our boys steal those fermenters from the microbrewery over in New Jersey. We’ve been supplying him with all sorts of stuff. We got the Klan to send up those crazy boxes of dirt from Oklahoma which Yuri said would have the bacteria he needed in it. Those guys down in Dixie must think we’ve gone crazy asking for dirt from a cattleyard.”

“Yuri said he could isolate the bacteria from it,” Curt said. “I read the same thing on the Internet, so it’s legitimate.”

“Okay,” Steve said. “So it’s true that botulinum bacteria and anthrax bugs are in dirt, particularly in livestock areas in the South, but what do we have to show for it. Nothing! Yuri’s not shown us anything. We’ve not seen any bacteria. We’ve not even seen this lab he’s supposed to have built in his basement.”

“You think he could be taking us for a ride?” Curt asked. The idea passed through his mind that Yuri might do his Central Park laydown and leave them high and dry.

“Anything’s possible when you’re dealing with a foreigner,” Steve said. “Especially a Russian. They’ve hated our guts for seventy years.”

“Ah, I think you’re being paranoid,” Curt said with a wave of his free hand. “Yuri is not mad at us. And I know he wants to hit this Fed building. He’s pissed at our government just like we are. They’ve refused to acknowledge his education. After all the years of schooling he’s had, he’s still driving a cab. Hell, I’d be pissed, too.”

“But we don’t know he’s had all the schooling he says he’s had,” Steve said.

“That’s true,” Curt said. There had been no way to check.

“Maybe this isn’t the time to be talking about all this,” Steve said. “But now that we’re on the brink of putting ourselves at risk going into this building when we are not supposed to, I wish we had more to go on to prove Yuri’s doing his part.”

“Do you think there’s a chance Yuri didn’t work in the Soviet bioweapons industry?” Curt asked.

“I think he did,” Steve said. “He knows too much about it to be making it up, especially the personal stories like about his mother’s death. But what I’ve been asking myself is why the CIA wasn’t more interested in him when he got to the U.S. Maybe all he did was mop the floor instead of working on the production line like he’s told us.”

“It was because he got to the U.S. too late,” Curt said. “Remember he told us about those two bioweapons big shots who’d defected a couple of years before he got here. Apparently they told the CIA all they wanted to know, including how much the Soviet Union had violated the 1972 bioweapons treaty.”

“All I’m saying is I’d like to see some proof of what Yuri’s doing,” Steve said. “Anything.”

“Last week he said he was close to testing the anthrax,” Curt said.

“I’d settle for that,” Steve said. “Provided the test works.”

“You’ve got a good point,” Curt admitted. “But I still think we should go ahead with this site visit. We’re not risking anything. especially with the captain out.”

“I guess you’re right,” Steve said. “Especially with that violation notice you found.”

“So, you’re game?”

“I’m game,” Steve said.

The two men entered by way of the revolving door. They had to wait in line to go through the metal detector. Once through, they were directed to the maintenance office by the head of the security detail.

“So far so good,” Steve whispered.

“Relax,” Curt said. “This is going to be a breeze.”

The maintenance door was ajar. Curt preceded Steve and presented himself in front of a secretary’s desk. The office was busy with people answering phones and typing into word processors.

“Can I help you?” the secretary asked. She was a heavyset woman who was perspiring despite the air conditioning.

Curt opened his wallet and showed his lieutenant’s Fire Department badge. The only time he wore the badge was with a black ribbon at funerals when he dressed in his class A uniform.

“Fire inspection,” Curt said.

“Of course,” the secretary said. “Let me get the chief engineer.”

She disappeared into an inner office.

Curt looked at Steve. “Piece of cake.”

“Can you feel the amount of air movement in here?” Steve asked.

“I do,” Curt said.

Steve gave him the thumbs-up. Curt nodded. He knew what Steve was thinking. The more the air moved around inside the building, the more efficiently the agent would be spread.

The chief engineer appeared a few moments later. He was a middle-aged African-American, dressed in a dark suit, white shirt, and tie. Curt was taken aback. He expected coveralls and grease stains. Curt glanced briefly at Steve to see if he was equally surprised. If he was, he didn’t show it.

“My name is David Wilson. What can I do for you gentlemen? I’m surprised you are here. There was no fire inspection scheduled for today.” David’s tone was not confrontational, just questioning.

“That’s correct, sir,” Curt said. “This is a nonscheduled visit to check up on the violation noted on the last inspection involving the grill downstairs. But as long as we’re here, we’d like to run down the normal list and check the stand pipes, extinguishers, sprinklers, hoses, smoke detectors... you know, the usual.”

“The Ansul unit was installed immediately,” David said. “We sent the paperwork to the fire department directly.”

“We’d like to check the unit itself,” Curt said. “Just to be on the safe side.”

“Will it be all right if I send one of my maintenance workers with you?” David asked. “I’m in the middle of a meeting.”

“That would be fine,” Curt said agreeably.

Five minutes later Curt and Steve were accompanied by a tall, thin, taciturn individual who was dressed in the coveralls Curt had expected to see one David Wilson. The maintenance man’s name was Reggy Sims. He was an electrician’s assistant.

The first thing they checked was the grill in the sandwich kiosk on the ground floor. It was full of sizzling franks and burgers, since the noontime lunch rush was about to begin. It took about two seconds for Curt to declare that the Ansul unit was fine.

For the general inspection Curt and Steve just went through the motions, and they certainly didn’t try to see everything. If the maintenance man was suspicious, he didn’t show it in the slightest. Nor was he in any hurry to get back to his shop.

“What about the HVAC system?” Curt asked.

“What about it?” Reggy questioned.

“We should take a look at it,” Curt said. “We’ve got to know how to turn it off or at least isolate areas if need be. If there was a fire, we wouldn’t want to spread the smoke all over kingdom come. Where’s the main control console?”

“It’s in the machinery spaces on the third floor,” Reggy said.

“How about the main air induction. Where’s that?”

“Same place,” Reggy said.

“Good,” Curt said. “Let’s take a look at it.”

“How come?” Reggy asked.

“There’s supposed to be smoke detectors both for the new air coming in and the recirculated air,” Curt explained. “We’ve got to at least eyeball them. Actually, we’re supposed to give them a test.”

Reggy shrugged and led the way.

The noise level in the machinery spaces was horrendous. It was a huge room that was filled with all manner of equipment, including massive electrical panels, huge boilers, compressors, and pumps. A bewildering array of pipes, ducts, and conduits angled off in all directions. Few people ever paused to think of what it took to warm and cool a building the size of the Jacob Javits Federal Building or for the elevators to function or even for water to come out of a faucet on the thirty-second floor. It all required a lot of power and machinery, and it ran twenty-four hours a day.

The main air ducts were so large they didn’t look like ducts. They ran along one wall of the oversized room before branching off like a large, felled tree. At intervals there were hatch-like doors that were dogged like those on a ship.

Reggy had to shout to be heard. He pounded the side of one of the ducts and yelled that it contained the fresh air being pulled in from outside. He showed where it mixed with recirculated air.

Reggy walked along the duct, then pounded it again. “Here’s where the filters are located,” he yelled. “What part of the duct do you want to see?”

“The part downstream from the filters,” Curt yelled back.

Reggy nodded. He walked over to a huge circuit breaker switch and threw it. A portion of the cacophony of machinery noise in the room wound down.

“That’s the switch to the main circulating fan,” Reggy explained. Then he walked over to one of the hatch-like doors and undogged it. It opened into the room on creaky hinges.

“We’re upstream of the main circulating fan,” Reggy said. “When it’s running you can’t open this door. There’s too much suction.”

Curt moved to the door and glanced into its dark interior. He slipped his flashlight from its holder on his belt and turned it on. First he directed the beam back at the filters. Steve tried to see over his shoulder, but the door was too narrow.

“Step inside if you’d like,” Reggy suggested.

Curt ducked down and stepped over the lip. He shined the light back at the filter. Steve leaned in from the doorway. Reggy went over to the HVAC console to turn off the alarm announcing a fall in the system’s pressure.

“See what I mean about the need to reconnoiter,” Curt said. The insulated duct shielded most of the noise coming from the machinery room.

“I forgot about filters,” Steve admitted.

Curt swept the light in the opposite direction. The huge blades of the main circulating fan were still slowly revolving. Angling the light up to the ceiling, Curt found the smoke detector. He’d need a ladder to test it.

“That’s the one we’ll want to go off,” he said. “We’ll have to find an accessible air return on this floor for one of the troops to set off a smoke bomb.”

“You think there’s a specific designator for this smoke detector on the fire control annunciator panel?” Steve asked.

“I’ll be surprised if there isn’t,” Curt said. “And even if there isn’t, the panel will tell us the activated smoke detector is in the HVAC system. One way or the other you and I will have a reason to come in here.”

“Provided we beat Engine Company Number 6 from Beekman Street,” Steve said.

“There’s no way they could get here before us,” Curt said. “Engine Number 6 has to come from the other side of City Hall. We’ll be in this duct before they even reach the scene. If we have to worry about anybody, it’s our own ladder company. We just have to be sure they keep themselves busy getting all the elevators down to the ground floor like they’re supposed to.”

“So what do we do when we get in here?” Steve asked. “Where do we put the stuff?” He glanced around at the floor of the duct. There was no place to hide anything.

“Yuri says it will be in the form of a fine powder in impervious plastic bags. We’ll just place them in here and set the little timed detonators. When they go off, we’ll be long gone.”

“You don’t think we have to hide the bags?”

“I don’t see why,” Curt said.

“What if someone comes in here after we leave?” Steve asked.

“Did you hear the hinges on the door when Reggy opened it?” Curt asked. “Nobody comes in here. Just to be sure we’ll disarm the smoke detector as well as turn off the fire control system.”

“That’s a good idea,” Steve said. He shrugged. “I guess it’s going to work.”

“Bet your ass it’s going to work,” Curt said. “Come on! Let’s locate a good air return on this floor and then finish our sham fire inspection. We should be getting back to the station.”

Finding an appropriate air return was easy. After leaving the machinery room, Curt had asked for the closest men’s room. While Reggy waited outside, Curt and Steve found a convenient grate that would be easily removable. They imagined the duct was a straight shot back to the smoke detector they’d just seen.

“All one of our guys has to do is pop this grate off and toss in a smoke bomb,” Curt said. “That will set off the alarm for sure.”

A half hour later Curt and Steve recrossed the plaza in front of the Federal Building. The sun had gone in behind a bank of clouds, and gusts of wind were buffeting the local pigeons. Curt had to keep a tight grip on his clipboard to keep the papers from blowing off. The two men climbed into their official car that they’d parked by the curb.

Curt started the engine and pulled out into the traffic. “Have you made any more progress on our route of retreat?” he asked. The way they’d divided up the planning was for Curt to concentrate on the event itself while Steve worked on their escape.

“It’s done,” Steve said. “I’ve been on the Internet every night for hours. I’ve got safe houses arranged for us all the way to Washington State and then up into Canada if need be. Every one of the militias I’ve contacted has been more than willing to help.”

“Have they been curious about what’s going down?” Curt asked.

“That’s an understatement,” Steve said. “But I haven’t told them anything other than it’s going to be big.”

“It’s going to be like the Turner Diaries coming true,” Curt chortled.

He was referring to his favorite novel, one widely circulated among the violent far right. In it the protagonist, Turner, started a general rebellion by bombing the FBI Headquarters in Washington, D.C.

Curt was feeling euphoric over his luck in having a weapon of mass destruction dropped into his lap. Now he finally had the power to strike back appropriately and dramatically at the government. Those Zionist bastards in Washington were going to learn the hard way that they shouldn’t make war on their own citizens with the FBI and the ATF à la Ruby Ridge and Waco, nor should they conspire to take away people’s cherished rights such as the right to bear arms, nor should they have backed abortion, gay rights, or affirmative action, or tolerated miscegenation. On top of all that was the illegality of the IRS and support for the United Nations. The list was almost endless.

Curt shook his head when he thought how far the government had wandered from its constitutional mandate. It deserved what was coming. Of course there were going to be civilian casualties. But that couldn’t be avoided. After all, there had even been civilian casualties in the American Revolution. Like the “shot heard around the world,” Operation Wolverine was going to be momentous, and if it succeeded in ushering in the new “Fifth Era” the way the Battle of Bunker Hill augered the birth of a new government, he realized he would probably be considered a kind of modern-day George Washington. It was all almost too heady to contemplate.

“A general revolt could start before we reach the West Coast,” Steve said. “All the militias are waiting for some sign to start coordinated action. Even if only half the people Yuri expects die with Operation Wolverine, this could be it.”

“I was just thinking along the same lines,” Curt said. A self-satisfied smile spread across his face as he imagined how he’d be lionized on the far right’s Internet bulletin boards.

“If there is a general uprising,” Steve continued, “I think we should hole up in Michigan. From what I’ve learned the militias there are the most organized. It would be the safest place.”

“How have you planned for us to get out of the city?” Curt asked.

“By a PATH train from the World Trade Center,” Steve explained. “As soon as we get back to the station after we’ve planted the stuff we quit. We walk into the captain’s office and say sayonara.”

“He’s going to blow his top,” Curt said. He’d not heard about this part of the plan and hadn’t given it much thought.

“It can’t be helped,” Steve said. “We have to get out of the city, particularly after Yuri does his laydown, which he says he’s going to do at the same time we do ours. I don’t feel as confident as he does that it’s just going to blow over the Upper East Side.”

“That’s a good point,” Curt said. “But why don’t we just disappear? Why say anything to anybody?”

“Because that would cause too much attention,” Steve explained. “They’d be looking for us right away, maybe even worried we’d been the victims of foul play. Yuri says that using a bioweapon gives a two-to five-day delay until all hell breaks loose. I want us to be far away by then.”

“I guess you’re right,” Curt conceded.

“We’ll tell the captain we’ve had it with the bureaucracy and the lack of discipline. That won’t be a lie. We’ve both been complaining how the department has been deteriorating.”

“What if the captain says he’s not going to accept our resignations?”

“What is he going to do?” Steve asked. “Put us in leg irons?”

“I guess not,” Curt said. He still felt uncomfortable about having to face an irate captain. “But maybe we should give this part some more thought.”

“Fine by me,” Steve said. “As long as we’re on a PATH train to New Jersey ASAP, I don’t really care what we tell anybody. I’m confident of our getaway. I’ve got an old pickup truck over there in a garage near the first stop. That’s going to take us to the first safe house, in Pennsylvania. There I’ve arranged for another vehicle. In fact, we’ll be using a different vehicle after each stop.”

“I like that,” Curt said.

Curt turned into the Duane Street firehouse and pulled the car to the side so it didn’t block any of the gleaming red fire trucks. He and Steve locked eyes for a moment and gave each other a thumbs-up.

“Operation Wolverine is on track,” Curt said.

“Armageddon here we come,” Steve said.

As the two men alighted from the vehicle, Bob King, one of the latest recruits, looked up from polishing engine #7. “Hey, Lieutenant!” he called.

Curt gazed over at the rookie and raised his eyebrows.

“There was a cabbie in here a little while ago asking for you,” Bob yelled. “He was a short, squat guy with an accent that sounded Russian.”

Curt glanced at Steve. Steve stared back, aghast. Obviously he didn’t like this news any better than Curt did. There’d been an understanding that Yuri was never supposed to come to the fire station. Their contact had been limited to phone calls and meetings at the White Pride bar.

“What did he want?” Curt asked hoarsely. He had to clear his throat. With an operation of this magnitude, slipups were unacceptable.

“He wants you to call him,” Bob said. “He seemed disappointed you weren’t here.”

“What did you do to him?” another firefighter called out from behind the truck. “Forget to tip him?”

Laughter erupted from a group of four firemen playing cards near the juncture of the firehouse and the sidewalk. The overhead doors were open to the October afternoon.

“Did he leave his name or phone number?” Curt asked.

“Nope,” Bob said. “He just said to have you call him. I thought you’d know who he was.”

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” Curt said.

“Well, maybe he’ll be back,” Bob said.

Curt motioned for Steve to follow him. They climbed the stairs to the living quarters. Curt pushed into the men’s room. Once inside, he checked the stalls and the shower to make sure they were alone.

“I don’t like this,” Curt spat in a forced whisper. “What the hell did he come here for?”

“I told you the guy was a kook,” Steve said.

Curt paced back and forth like a caged animal. He had his mildly prognathous jaw clamped shut. He couldn’t believe Yuri could have been so stupid.

“I’m worried the guy is a kind of a loose cannon,” Steve said. “I think we have to have a talk with him. At the same time, I’d like to see some proof that he hasn’t been taking us for a ride.”

Curt nodded as he paced, then stopped. “All right,” he said. “After work we’ll go by his house in Brighton Beach. We’ll talk some sense into him about security. Then we’ll demand to see his lab and demand some proof he’s doing what he says he’s doing.”

“Do you know his address?” Steve asked.

“Fifteen Oceanview Lane,” Curt said.