Vector

Chapter 6

Monday, October 18

6:15 p.m.

Curt was driving his Dodge Ram pickup with Steve riding shotgun. They’d turned off Ocean Parkway onto Oceanview Avenue and were searching for Oceanview Lane.

“My God!” Steve commented as he surveyed the neighborhood. “I’ve lived in Brooklyn my whole life and I’ve never seen this cluster of little houses. It looks like some place in the Carolinas.”

“Seems they would have been knocked down by now and some highrises put up,” Curt said. “Keep your eye out for Oceanview Lane. It’s one of these little alleyways.”

“There it is,” Steve said. He pointed through the windshield at a small hand-painted sign tacked to a telephone pole.

Curt turned into the lane and slowed appreciably. It was narrow and cluttered with trash cans and dead leaves.

The two firemen were still in their uniforms. They’d driven to Brighton Beach as soon as they got off work at five P.M. The trip had taken just over an hour. Night was falling rapidly with the overcast sky, and the lane was dark except where it was illuminated with Curt’s headlights. There were no streetlamps.

“Do you see any house numbers?” Curt asked.

Steve laughed. “This place is a slum. I don’t see any signs.”

“There’s thirteen,” Curt said. He pointed to a trash can with the address painted on the rim. “Fifteen should be the next one.”

Curt pulled up to a closed garage door and killed the engine, and the two men climbed out of the truck. For a moment they studied the house. Crammed in among the others, it was mildly dilapidated and sorely in need of paint.

“It doesn’t look too stable,” Steve said. “One little nudge and the whole thing might tip over.”

“Can you imagine how fast this would go up in flames,” Curt said.

Steve turned to glance at his friend. “Is that some kind of suggestion?”

Curt shrugged. “Just something to keep in mind. Come on, let’s pay our Russky friend a visit.”

They opened a gate in the chain-link fence that ran along the front of the house. The walkway beyond was cracked concrete just visible through a blanket of dead leaves. The tiny patch of lawn was overgrown with weeds.

Curt searched for a doorbell, but there wasn’t one. He opened the torn screen door and was about to knock when a large crash sounded from within. The two firefighters looked at each other.

“What the hell was that?” Steve asked.

“Beats me,” Curt answered. He was again about to knock when there was another crash. This time it was followed by the sound of broken glass. They also heard Yuri curse loudly in Russian.

“Sounds like our Commie friend is wrecking his house,” Steve said.

“It better not have anything to do with the lab,” Curt said. He rapped loudly on the door. He wanted to make sure Yuri heard him.

After waiting several minutes and hearing nothing from inside the house, Curt knocked again. This time there were footfalls, and the door was snatched open.

“Company,” Curt said. He tried to look past Yuri to see if he could tell what had broken.

Yuri’s expression went from anger to surprise and obvious delight as he recognized his friends. Although his face remained flushed, he smiled broadly. “Hey, guys!” His voice was hoarse.

“We were in the neighborhood,” Curt said. “We thought we’d just drop by to say hello.”

“I’m glad you did,” Yuri said.

“We heard you’d been by the firehouse,” Steve said.

Yuri nodded enthusiastically. “I was looking for you guys...”

“So we heard,” Curt said stiffly.

“You’re not supposed to come to the firehouse,” Steve said.

“Why not?” Yuri asked.

“If we have to tell you, then we’ve got a problem,” Steve said.

“Security is a big concern in an operation like we’re planning,” Curt said. “The fewer people who associate us publicly, the better off we all are, especially with you being a foreigner and all. We don’t have too many friends with Russian accents. You show up looking for us, the other firefighters are going to start to wonder.”

“I’m sorry,” Yuri said. “I didn’t think there was a problem at the firehouse, especially when you mentioned that many of your comrades think the same way you guys do.”

“We’ve our share of patriots,” Curt admitted. “But none quite as patriotic as we are. Maybe we should have spelled it out more clearly. Anyway, now you know you don’t come to the firehouse.”

“Okay,” Yuri said. “I don’t come anymore.”

“Aren’t you going to invite us in?” Curt asked.

Yuri glanced over his shoulder in the direction of Connie’s bedroom. The door was ajar. “Yeah, okay, sure.” He stepped out of the way and gestured for Curt and Steve to enter. After closing the door he guided his visitors toward the living area, where there was a low, threadbare couch and two straight-back chairs. He gathered up a collection of newspapers from the sofa cushion and deposited them on the floor.

Curt sat on the couch, with his knees jutting up into the air. Steve balanced his muscled bulk on one of the chairs.

“Can I offer you guys some iced vodka?” Yuri asked.

“I’ll have a beer,” Curt said.

“Same,” Steve said.

“Sorry,” Yuri said. “I only have vodka.”

Steve rolled his eyes.

“Vodka it is,” Curt said.

While Yuri went to the refrigerator for the drinks Steve leaned over and whispered: “Now you see why I’m concerned. The guy’s a dimwit. It never dawned on him not to come to the firehouse. It didn’t even enter his mind.”

“Take it easy,” Curt said. “He doesn’t have a military background. We should’ve known to be more explicit with a nonprofessional. We’ve got to cut him a little slack. Besides, let’s not forget, he’s doing us one hell of a favor getting us a bioweapon.”

“If he comes through,” Steve said.

A sound of a toilet flushing in the background drifted into the living room from Connie’s open bedroom door. Curt’s brow furrowed. “Did I just hear a goddamned toilet?”

“It’s a toilet all right,” Steve said. “But I’m not sure where it’s coming from. These houses are so damn close, maybe it’s coming from next door.”

Yuri returned to the living room clutching a triangle of three tumblers each half-filled with ice-cold vodka. “I got good news for you guys,” he said as he deposited the glasses on the coffee table then handed them out.

“We just heard a toilet,” Curt said. He took the drink. “It sounded like it might have come from this house.”

“Probably,” Yuri said with a disgusted shrug. “My wife, Connie, is in the other room.”

Curt and Steve exchanged an anxious glance.

“The reason I stopped by the firehouse...” Yuri began.

“Wait a second!” Curt interrupted. “You never said you were married.”

“Why should I have?” Yuri said. He looked from Steve to Curt. He could tell they were as uneasy about his marital status as they were about his visiting the firehouse.

“You told us you were alone,” Curt said irritably. “You said you didn’t have any friends.”

“That’s true,” Yuri said. “I am alone, without friends.”

“Yet you have a wife in the other room,” Curt said. He looked at Steve, who rolled his eyes in disbelief.

“There’s an expression in English,” Yuri said, “about ships passing in the night. We have the same expression in Russian. That’s me and Connie: two ships in the night. We never talk. Hell, we rarely even see each other.”

Curt rested his elbows on his knees and rubbed his temples. He couldn’t believe he was learning all this now, not after all their planning. It gave him a headache.

“Do you think your wife can hear what we’re saying out here?” Steve questioned.

“I doubt it,” Yuri said. “Besides, she couldn’t care less what we’re saying. She just eats and watches television.”

“I don’t hear a television,” Steve said.

“Yeah, because I just broke it,” Yuri said. “It was driving me crazy. All that fake laughter suggesting life here in America is so funny and wonderful.”

“Maybe you should at least close the door,” Curt said through clenched teeth.

“All right, sure,” Yuri said. He went to the door.

“Now maybe you understand what I’ve been talking about,” Steve whispered. “I’m telling you, this guy is a kook!”

“Shut up,” Curt responded.

Yuri returned to his chair and took a slug from his vodka.

“Does your wife know what you did for a living in the Soviet Union?” Curt demanded in a lowered voice. He was afraid to hear the answer and winced when Yuri responded in the affirmative.

“What about your lab?” Steve questioned. “Does she know about the lab you’ve supposedly built in the basement?”

“What do you mean, supposedly?” Yuri asked. He was offended by the implication.

“We’ve never seen it,” Steve said. “We’ve never seen anything, after all the effort we’ve expended getting all the stuff you say you’ve needed.”

“You could have seen it any time you wanted,” Yuri said indignantly.

“All right, settle down,” Curt said. “Let’s not argue. But maybe we should take a look at the lab, just for reassurance. We all have a lot riding on this operation.”

“Fine by me,” Yuri said. He stood up, put his drink down, and led the way over to the basement door.

The group trooped down in single file. Yuri pulled the outer door open by its sprung hasp.

“What happened to the lock?” Curt asked.

“My wife pried it off this afternoon,” Yuri admitted. “I’d warned her not to come down here, and she didn’t, until today. She came down here a couple of hours ago and used a crowbar to break in. But she didn’t touch anything. I’m sure of that.”

“Why today?” Curt asked while trying to maintain his composure. He didn’t like the sound of any of this, and it kept getting worse.

“She said she just got curious,” Yuri said. “Which doesn’t make sense, since I told her I’d kill her if she came down here and messed with anything.”

“We might have to do just that,” Curt said.

“You mean actually kill her?” Yuri asked.

For a moment no one spoke. Curt finally nodded. “It’s possible. As I said, this is an important operation for all of us. Maybe the most important thing all of us are going to do in our lifetime. To give you an idea of how strongly I feel, over the weekend it came to my attention that the People’s Aryan Army had an infiltrator. His name was Brad Cassidy. Today Brad Cassidy is no longer with us, and his body is missing some of his favorite parts.”

“Your wife is a monumental security risk,” Steve explained. “Does she know what you’re doing down here?”

“She thought it was a distillery until today,” Yuri said.

“Which means she no longer thinks it’s a still,” Curt said.

“That’s right,” Yuri admitted.

“That’s too bad,” Curt said. “Since she knows you were involved in the Soviet bioweapons industry, it wouldn’t be hard for her to figure it out.”

“Let’s see the lab,” Steve said.

Yuri stepped into the entry room followed closely by Curt and then Steve.

“Do you use that class A hazmat suit we got for you?” Curt asked. He nodded at the protective gear hanging on its peg.

“Absolutely,” Yuri said. “Every second I’m in the lab I’m in the suit. I don’t take any chances. When I open this inner door, don’t go in! I’d also advise you to hold your breath just to be on the safe side. You’ll feel the breeze of the air flow into the room.”

Both Curt and Steve nodded. Now that they were so close, both wondered if it was really necessary to look inside. The mere idea of the possible presence of an invisible, fatal biological agent gave them gooseflesh, and with what they had seen already, they were more than willing to believe that Yuri was holding up his side of the bargain. But before either could say as much, Yuri cracked the inner door and stepped to the side. Warily, the two firefighters leaned forward and caught a glimpse of the fermenters and other equipment.

“Looks good,” Curt said. He stepped back and motioned for Yuri to close the door.

“Would you like to see some of the finished product?” Yuri asked.

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Curt said quickly.

“I’ve seen enough,” Steve added.

“What I think we should do,” Curt said, “is go up and talk with your wife. She’s the new problem. We have to know what she knows.”

Yuri closed the door. “I’ll get these locks back in order tonight,” he said. He then led the way back upstairs. While Yuri went to Connie’s bedroom door, Curt and Steve returned to the sitting area but stayed on their feet. Each fireman took a healthy swallow from his drink while they watched Yuri lean into the room beyond. They could hear him talking, but not clearly enough to make out what he was saying, although judging by his tone, he was apparently getting angry. Finally, Yuri turned back to them. “She’s coming,” he said. “It just takes her a year and a day.”

Curt and Steve exchanged a disgusted look. The situation was going from bad to worse.

“Come on, woman!” Yuri yelled impatiently.

Finally, Connie’s silhouette filled the doorway. She was dressed in a monstrous pink bathrobe trimmed in sea-foam green. Her feet were stuffed into backless slippers. Her left eye was dark red and swollen shut. A dried trickle of blood came from the corner of her mouth.

Curt’s jaw dropped. Steve mumbled an expletive. Both were dumbfounded, and their expressions reflected their stunned bewilderment.

“These men want to ask you a few questions,” Yuri snapped. He then looked expectantly at Curt.

Curt had to clear his throat as well as organize his thoughts. “Mrs. Davydov, do you have any idea of what’s going on downstairs? What your husband is doing?”

Connie eyed the two strangers defiantly. “No!” she spat. “Nor do I care.”

“Do you have an inkling?”

Connie looked at Yuri.

“Answer!” Yuri yelled.

“I thought he was making vodka,” Connie said.

“But you don’t think that any longer?” Curt asked. “Even though those big silver tanks were borrowed from a brewery.”

“I don’t know about that,” Connie said. “But those other little glass dishes. The flat ones! I’ve seen them at the hospital clinic. They’re used for bacteria.”

Curt nodded imperceptibly to Steve, who returned the gesture.

“That’s enough,” Curt called over to Yuri.

Yuri tried to shoo his wife back into her bedroom, but she stood her ground. “I ain’t going back until you bring me your TV.”

Yuri hesitated. Then he ducked into his room. He reappeared moments later carrying a small television with an old-fashioned rabbit-ear antenna. Only then did Connie back out of sight.

“Can you believe this?” Curt mumbled.

“Yeah, I can,” Steve said. “And you wondered why I was voicing some concern this morning before we went into the federal building. This guy’s worse than I thought.”

“At least he did build a lab,” Curt said. “Obviously he knows what he’s doing scientifically.”

“That I’ll grant,” Steve said. “And the lab setup is more impressive than I’d imagined.”

Curt exhaled loudly in frustration. In the background the sudden sound of a TV sitcom burst from Connie’s bedroom. The volume was turned down immediately to be barely audible. The next minute Yuri reappeared. He closed the door behind him and came over to the living area. He sat down, took a drink, and eyed his guests self-consciously.

Curt didn’t know what to say. It had been one thing to learn Yuri was married, but quite another to find out he was married to a black woman. It went against everything Curt believed in, and here he was doing business with the man.

Curt had grown up in a tough, blue-collar, white neighborhood with a physically abusive construction-worker father who continually reminded Curt that he wasn’t as good as his popular, football-star brother, Pete. Curt found solace in hatred. He embraced the bigotry so prevalent in his neighborhood. It was comforting and handy to have a readily identifiable group to blame rather than examine his own inadequacies. But it wasn’t until he’d joined the Marines and moved to San Diego that his rather parochial bigotry was transformed into racial hatred with a particular abhorrence of miscegenation.

The transition had not happened overnight. It stemmed from an attitude that had its origins in a chance meeting with a man almost twice Curt’s age. It was 1979. Curt was nineteen. He’d recently finished boot camp, which had provided a dramatic boost to his self-esteem. He and several of his newfound colleagues, which included several African-Americans, had left the base to visit a bar on Point Loma. It was a bar frequented by armed forces personnel, particularly navy divers and Marines.

The bar was dark and smoky. The only light emanated from low-wattage bulbs inside old-fashioned, hard-hat diving helmets. The music was mostly from a band Curt later learned was Skrewdriver, and the man who was feeding quarters into the jukebox was sitting next to it, at a small table by himself.

Curt and his buddies crowded in at the bar and ordered beers. They swapped war stories about their recent boot camp experiences and laughed heartily. Curt was content. It was the first time he had felt at all like part of a group. He’d even excelled during training and had been selected as a squadron leader.

Eventually tiring of the thudding, monotonous music, Curt drifted over to the jukebox. He’d had several beers and was euphorically mellow. He looked over the selections and fingered a handful of quarters.

“You don’t like the music?” the man at the small table asked.

Curt looked down at the stranger. He was of moderate size with close-cropped hair. His features were sharp with narrow lips and straight, white teeth. He was clean-shaven and dressed in a T-shirt and ironed jeans. There was a small American flag tattooed on his right upper arm. But his most striking attribute was his eyes. Even in the semi-darkness, they had a piercing quality that Curt found almost hypnotic.

“The music’s all right,” Curt said. He squared his shoulders. It appeared as if the stranger was sizing him up.

“You should listen to the words, friend,” the man said. He took a pull on his beer.

“Yeah, what would I hear?” Curt asked.

“A message that might save the goddamn country,” the man said.

A wry smile crept onto Curt’s face. He glanced over at his buddies, thinking they should hear this guy.

“My name’s Tim Melcher,” the man said. He pushed an empty chair out from his table with his foot. “Sit down. I’ll buy you a beer.”

Curt looked at the beer in his hand. It was down to the dregs.

“Come on, soldier,” Tim said. “Take a load off your feet and do yourself a favor.”

“I’m a Marine,” Curt said.

“It’s all the same,” Tim said. “I was army myself. First Cavalry Division. I did two tours in Vietnam.”

Curt nodded. The word Vietnam made his legs feel rubbery. It meant real war instead of the play-acting Curt and his friends had been doing. It also reminded Curt of his older brother Pete, the Bensonhurst football star. Eight years older than Curt, he’d had the bad luck of being drafted. He’d been killed in Vietnam the year before the war was over.

Curt turned the chair around, threw a leg over it, and sat down. He leaned on the back of the chair and drained his beer.

“What’ll it be?” Tim asked. “The same?”

Curt nodded.

“Harry!” Tim called to the bartender. “Send us over a couple of Buds.”

“What’s your name, soldier?”

“Curt Rogers.”

“I like that,” Tim said. “Nice Christian name. It fits you, too.”

Curt shrugged. He didn’t quite know what to make of the stranger, especially with his intense eyes.

With a fresh beer, Curt began to relax again.

“You know, I’m glad I met you,” Tim said. “And you know why?”

Curt shook his head.

“Because I’m forming a group that I think you and a couple of your buddies ought to join.”

“What kind of a group?” Curt asked skeptically.

“A border brigade,” Tim said. “An armed border brigade. You see, the regular Border Patrol who are supposed to be protecting this country from illegal aliens are not doing their job. Hell, the Mexican border just ten freaking miles away is like a giant sieve.”

“Really,” Curt said. He’d not thought much about the border. He’d been much too preoccupied with the rigors of boot camp.

“Yes, really,” Tim said, mocking Curt’s response. “I’m telling you, this is a serious situation. You and I and the rest of our Aryan brothers and sisters are soon going to be the minority around here.”

“I’d never thought about that,” Curt said. It was the first time he’d even heard the word Aryan and had little idea of what it meant.

“Hey, you’d better wake up,” Tim said. “It’s happening. This country is on the brink of being taken over by niggers, spics, slanty-eyes; and queers. It’s going to be up to people like you and me if our God-fearing, self-reliant culture is to survive where people work for a living and queers stay in the closet. I tell you, not only are these other races seeping in here like water through a sponge, but they’re reproducing like flies. This is one hell of a problem. We just can’t sit around on our asses anymore. If we do, we only have ourselves to blame.”

“How are you going to arm the border brigade?” Curt asked. “If you got some crazy idea that people like me could help, think again. We can’t take our ordnance off the base.”

“Weapons are not a problem,” Tim said. “I’ve got a goddamn arsenal in my basement, including fully automatic M1s, machine pistols, scoped sniper rifles, and Glocks. I even have uniforms for us cause I already got about ten navy guys involved. We’ve already been on patrol.”

“Have you come across any aliens?” Curt asked. Awed by the firearms Tim described, Curt’s estimation of the stranger soared.

“Bet your sweet ass,” Tim said. “We’ve interdicted almost a dozen.”

“What do you do with them once you catch them, turn them over to the Border Patrol?”

Tim laughed scornfully. “If we did that, they’d be back the next night. The Border Patrol’s idea of interdiction is to slap their wrists, scold them, and then turn them loose.”

“Well, then what do you do with them?” Curt asked although he sensed the answer.

Tim leaned over and whispered. “We shoot ’em and bury ’em.” He wiped his hands rapidly as if brushing off dirt. “That way, it’s over and done. There’s no second chance.”

Curt swallowed. His throat had gone dry. The idea of shooting illegal aliens was both arousing and scary at the same time.

“I got some copies of a magazine here in my briefcase,” Tim said. “I’ll be happy to give them to you if you hand them out to people like you and me. You understand what I’m saying when I say people like you and me?”

“Yeah, I suppose,” Curt said. “What kind of magazines are they?”

“The one that I happen to have today is called Blood and Honor,” Tim said. “I’ve got others, but this one is particularly good. It’s from England, but it talks about the stuff we’re discussing. Western Europe has the same problems we do. I also have a novel you can read. Do you like to read?”

“No, not much,” Curt admitted. “Except gun manuals and stuff like that.”

“Maybe this book will turn you into a reader,” Tim said. “Reading is important.” He bent over, unsnapped his briefcase, and lifted out a sizable paperback. “It’s called The Turner Diaries.” He handed it to Curt.

Curt took the book. He was skeptical. He’d only read one novel since high school: a pornographic story about a college call girl from Dallas named Barbara. He cracked open The Turner Diaries and read a few lines. He couldn’t know then that it would become his favorite book.

Curt ended up taking six copies of the magazine Blood and Honor in addition to The Turner Diaries. After reading both he became progressively excited and concerned about the issues Tim had brought up. Curt made it a point to get the reading material to people Tim thought were appropriate. Soon he had amassed a cadre of like-minded Marines that began to share meals.

Curt’s relationship with Tim Melcher blossomed. He spent a good deal of his free time with the man, helping to organize the border brigade, which he himself joined. Several Marines Curt had recruited joined as well. When Curt eventually got to see Tim’s arsenal in his basement, it aroused him erotically. He’d never seen such a collection of guns and ammo outside of live-ammo Marine maneuvers. Tim even had a stash of Kalashnikov AK-47s. They weren’t as technically good as the fully automatic M1s, but they had a romantic appeal.

Curt’s first operational border brigade excursion had been disturbing. It had started auspiciously with lots of laughter. Everyone was drinking beer from ice chests in the back of the SUVs as they drove south in a convoy of three vehicles, hop-skipping down Interstate 5. Each vehicle was playing Skrewdriver cassettes, which Tim had gotten from England, at high volume. It was a festive atmosphere.

North of the border they’d turned east into the desert. At a site preselected by Tim, they stopped and bivouacked. They put up tents and started a fire. As night fell, they cleaned up their dishes, doused the fire, and set out toward the border. Dressed as they were in desert camouflage, they blended in except for their drunken hilarity.

Curt was having the time of his life. Finally he was truly a part of a group that was, according to Tim, racially pure and of like mind. He also felt they were doing something important, although he doubted they could sneak up on anyone. If nothing else they’d scare any aliens back the way they’d come.

Tim divided the group up into twos. He positioned the pairs at set intervals spread out about a quarter mile back from the border. He chose Curt as his partner, a fact that made Curt proud. It was also good because Tim had made sure he and Curt had the best location. They were on top of a mesa-like rise that was the highest point of the whole area.

They hunkered down on a patch of sand with the sandstone conveniently jutting up behind them. Leaning back against the rock, they broke out fresh beers from their portable thermos pack. The metallic snap of the tabs as they broke in unison was a delicious sound in the dark, arid wilderness.

The night was gorgeous and mild as the rock radiated its stored warmth. Above, the Milky Way appeared as if strewn with a million diamonds. A soft wind blew in from the Pacific, just strong enough to be felt on open skin.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Tim commented. He unhooked his communicator from his belt and placed it on a flat rock. He used the radio to keep in touch with the other teams.

“It’s unbelievable,” Curt said. “When I grew up in Brooklyn, I never knew something like this existed.”

“It’s a great country,” Tim said. “Too bad it’s going to the dogs because of the freaking government.”

Curt nodded but didn’t say anything. As mesmerized as he was by the surroundings and numbed by beer, he didn’t want to get into another discussion about the Zionist Occupied Government.

A few minutes passed in silence. Curt took another sip of his beer. “Have you ever been to this location on previous sorties?” Curt asked. At Tim’s insistence they used military terms whenever possible.

“Several times,” Tim said.

“Did you see any action?”

“Oh, yeah,” Tim said. “The enemy was very cooperative.” He laughed. “It was like a turkey shoot.”

“Where did you see them?”

Tim pointed. “Coming along that gully that looks like a notch on the horizon.”

Curt strained his eyes in the darkness. He needed a bit of imagination to believe he was looking at a ravine end on. There was no way he could see anyone approaching until they were practically on top of them. Curt wondered what it would be like if a group of men did suddenly spill out of the darkness. By reflex, his hand dropped down to his holstered Glock automatic. He unsnapped the cover. He didn’t want to be fumbling with it if a need for the gun arose.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Tim said. “Let me show you something.”

Tim unzipped his canvas gun bag that he’d put on the ground next to him and pulled out a weapon. Even in the darkness Curt could tell it was one of Tim’s that he’d never seen.

“This here’s my favorite,” Tim said proudly. “I don’t take it out except for real ops, like tonight.”

He extended the weapon toward Curt. Curt took it and held it up close to his face. He recognized it immediately although he’d never held one. It was a Marine-modified Remington .308 sniper rifle.

“Where the hell did you get this?” Curt asked with awe.

“You can buy pretty much whatever you want from the survivalist mags like Mercenary. All you have to do is look in the ads in the back.”

“But this is Marine issue,” Curt said. “How could someone get one in the first place?”

“How should I know?” Tim said. “I suppose someone probably stole it at some point or maybe somebody traded it for something else. You’ll learn that there’s a lot of bartering going on in the military.”

“They modify these things at Quantico,” Curt said. He ran his hand affectionately along the stock.

“Yeah, I know,” Tim said. “It’s got a floating barrel and fiberglass bedding. And the trigger pull has been adjusted to one pound.”

“God, it’s fantastic,” Curt said. He could only dream of owning one. He’d come to love guns of any sort but especially high-tech ones.

“The best thing is the scope,” Tim said. “Notice its size. It’s a night-vision scope. Give it a try.”

Curt lovingly lifted the weapon to his shoulder and sighted through the telescopic sight. The black night was miraculously transformed into a hazy green transparency. Even at a distance of several hundred yards Curt could make out details of the arid environment.

All of a sudden Curt’s eyes caught movement and he turned the rifle slightly to his left. In the center of his field of vision were two men picking their way through the darkness, heading toward Curt on the diagonal.

“Holy crap!” Curt exclaimed. “I got two wetbacks in my sights. I can’t believe it.”

“No shit!” Tim said excitedly. “Don’t take your eyes off them. You might not be able to find them again. Tell me: what are they wearing? They’re not uniforms, are they?”

“Hell, no!” Curt said. “Looks like plaid shirts, jeans, cowboy hats, and they’re carrying what look like old vinyl suitcases.”

“Congratulations, soldier!” Tim said. “You got yourself a couple of turkeys. Pull off at least two rounds quick-like to make sure you get both. Of course if you can line them up maybe you can get away with one shot.” Tim giggled.

“You want me to shoot them?” Curt asked nervously. He’d purposefully avoided thinking about this moment, especially since he was aware the men in his sights presented no immediate danger to himself. It wasn’t like a battle situation where he was confident he’d react by reflex. This was more like bushwhacking two unarmed people he didn’t even know. Curt could sense he was trembling since his field of vision had begun to jump around.

“No, I want you to walk out there and have an argument with them,” Tim said sarcastically. “Of course I want you to shoot them. Hell, it’s your right. You’re the one who spotted them.”

Curt felt perspiration appear on his forehead. He swallowed. An anxiety of indecision spread through him. He’d never done anything like this before.

“Come on, man,” Tim said. “Don’t let me or your country down.”

Curt had no intention of letting Tim down. The past month or so had been the first time in his life that he was a member of a tight-knit assemblage whose ideology he truly believed. He’d found a home emotionally and intellectually, and he knew he owed it all to Tim. Taking in a breath and holding it, Curt squeezed the trigger.

The rifle recoiled but not enough for Curt to lose sight of his targets. The lead man went down like he’d been tripped. He didn’t spin around or stagger as Curt had seen in the movies when people were shot. One minute the man was walking, the next he was gone. The second man had stopped, frozen in his tracks as the sound of the rifle echoed around the dark, harsh landscape.

Curt felt an orgasmic rush of adrenaline and a tremendous sense of power. Without another thought, he drew a bead on the second man and smoothly pulled the trigger. The gun again jumped and the second man disappeared. Curt lowered the rifle. For a brief moment there was a refreshing smell of cordite in the air before the breeze dispersed it.

“Well?” Tim asked expectantly.

“Both are down,” Curt said.

“Fantastic!” Tim said. He gave Curt a pat on the shoulder before reaching for the radio. He told the other teams that he and Curt were going out to dispose of a couple of targets. He told them not to fire on anything until they heard from him again.

“I don’t want those crazy guys shooting at us,” Tim said. He took the sniper rifle away from Curt, who gave it up without comment. Tim then got out a folding shovel and pick. “Come on,” he said to Curt. “But keep your Glock handy in case you just winged the bastards. We might have to give them a ‘coop de grass’ or whatever the saying is.”

Curt stumbled after Tim without saying a word. After the initial euphoria, he was flooded by self-doubt. Now that he’d actually shot someone, he didn’t know how to deal with the idea that he might have killed another human being. The mental fog created by the many beers he’d consumed didn’t help. The fact that Tim was acting as if he’d merely swatted two pesky flies didn’t help, either.

“Come on, soldier!” Tim called over his shoulder when he became aware Curt was lagging behind. Tim had gone ahead with the flashlight, moving over rocky terrain in a slow jog.

Curt pushed himself forward and squared his shoulders. He was embarrassed that Tim might suspect his “candy ass” state of mind.

It took them almost half an hour to find the Mexicans since they had to crisscross the general area a number of times. As Tim’s flashlight beam played over their bodies, he whistled in admiration. “I’m impressed,” he said. “You drilled both of them through the head.”

Curt looked down at the corpses. He’d never seen a dead person before outside of a funeral home. Both bodies had small entrance holes on their foreheads but were missing large chunks of scalp in the back. The ground in the area was sprinkled with bits and pieces of brain. The man in the front still had his hand wrapped around the handle of his suitcase.

“Oh my God!” Curt murmured.

Tim’s head snapped up and he glared at his recruit. “What’s the matter?” he demanded.

“What did I do?”

“You killed a couple of wetback illegal aliens,” Tim snapped. “You did your country a favor.”

“Jesus,” Curt mumbled as he shook his head. The Mexicans’ eyes were still open, and they were staring at him. Curt swayed a little on rubbery legs.

Tim reacted swiftly. He stepped over to his partner for the evening and slapped him hard. Tim then swore at the pain and shook his hand as if it were wet.

Curt recoiled and for a moment he saw red. He touched his stinging face, then glanced at his fingers as if he expected to see blood. He glared at Tim.

“I’m right here, tough guy,” Tim jeered. He gestured with his tingling hand for Curt to come and try to hit him back.

Curt stared off into the black night. He didn’t want to fight with Tim because now that he’d had a moment to think, he knew why Tim had hit him.

“You were going soft on me,” Tim explained.

Curt nodded. It was true.

“Listen,” Tim said. “Let me tell you something you don’t know about me. I was ordained just this year as a minister in the True Believers Christian Church, which happens to be a local branch of the much bigger Christian Identity Church. You ever hear of that?”

Curt shook his head.

“It’s a church that has used the Bible to prove that we white Anglo-Saxons are the true descendants of the lost tribe of Israel. All the other races are, spawns of Satan or mud people, like these spics here.” Tim nudged one of the Mexicans with his black boot. “That’s why we have white skin and they have black, brown, yellow or whatever you want to call it.”

“You’re a minister?” Curt asked incredulously. The man had so many different sides it made Curt’s head spin.

“Full-fledged,” Tim said. “So I know what I’m talking about. The key thing is that God’s word in the Bible says that the means to bring about divine judgment is not limited to actions of the body politic. It means that violence is not only okay, but it’s necessary. The fact of the matter is that you’ve done God’s work tonight, soldier.”

“I’ve never heard anything about all this,” Curt admitted.

“That’s not surprising,” Tim said. “Nor is it your fault. The Zionist Occupied Government doesn’t want you to know about it. They keep it out of the schools, out of the newspapers, and off the TV, all of which they control. The reason is that they want to neutralize us by diluting us genetically. It’s just like in The Turner Diaries. Remember?”

“I’m not sure,” Curt said. He was impressed with Tim’s vehemence as much as his erudition.

“It was part of the Cohen Act,” Tim said. “It stipulated that the human relations councils it set up were to force Aryan whites to marry mud people. That kind of marriage is called miscegenation. Have you ever heard of that term?”

“No,” Curt said.

“Then you get my point,” Tim said. “It’s a ZOG conspiracy. They don’t even want kids to learn the term because encouraging miscegenation is the most insidious sin of all that ZOG is guilty of, And to God it’s an abomination. It’s Satan’s attempt to do away with God’s chosen people. It’s the Holocaust in reverse.”

“All right!” Curt spat, returning from his brief reverie. “It’s time we put the cards on the table.” He looked at Steve. Steve nodded in agreement. Curt looked at Yuri.

“What cards are you talking about?” Yuri questioned. He could tell that his guests were livid, particularly Curt.

Curt rolled his eyes in frustration. “It’s an expression, for crissake. It means explaining everything to everybody so there are no surprises.”

“Okay,” Yuri said agreeably.

“I mean like you’ve shocked us tonight,” Curt snapped. “Not only are you married, but you’re married to a nigger woman. Calling that a surprise is putting it mildly.”

“I needed a green card,” Yuri explained.

“But you should not have married a black woman!” Steve barked.

“What difference does it make?” Yuri asked, although he thought he knew the answer. Over the four years he’d lived in the United States he’d become well aware of social prejudices.

Curt held his tongue despite the foolishness of Yuri’s question. He thought for a moment of explaining the whole issue to Yuri the way Tim Melcher had explained it to him some twenty years earlier. But he decided against it, because looking at Yuri with a more critical eye, Curt couldn’t decide if he was Aryan or not.

“Marrying between the races, particularly when one member is white, is against God’s word,” Steve said.

“I’d never heard that,” Yuri said.

“What’s done is done,” Curt said with a wave of his hand. “More important at the moment is the question of what we are going to do now. Your wife knows you are screwing around with bacteria downstairs and she knows that you worked in the Soviet bioweapons industry. Chances are she knows you’re making a bioweapon.”

“She doesn’t concern herself with what I’m doing,” Yuri said. “Trust me.”

“But she could suddenly change her mind,” Curt said. “And that would be very bad.”

“She could say something to her family,” Steve suggested.

“She doesn’t talk with her family,” Yuri said. “Except for her brother. He’s the only one who cares about her.”

“So, suppose she says something revealing to her brother,” Curt said. “One way or the other, we can’t take the risk. Like we mentioned earlier she might have to go. Do you have a problem with that?”

Yuri shook his head and took a healthy swallow from his tumbler of vodka.

“Okay,” Curt said. “At least we agree on that. The problem is how do we do it without calling attention. I assume she’d be missed if she were just to disappear.”

“She’d be missed at work,” Yuri agreed. “She’s a taxi dispatcher.”

“The key point is that we have to do it so that the police are not involved,” Curt said. “Does she have any medical problems?”

“Something besides obesity,” Steve added.

Yuri shook his head. “She’s pretty healthy.”

“Hey, maybe we could use her obesity,” Steve offered. “As fat as she is, no one would question it if she had a heart attack.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Curt said. “But how do we make her have a heart attack?”

The three men looked at each other. No one had a clue how to simulate a heart attack.

“I could make her die of respiratory failure,” Yuri suggested.

Both Curt and Steve raised their eyebrows.

“A lot of overweight people die of respiratory failure,” Yuri said. “I could say she had asthma when we got to the hospital.”

“How would you do it?” Curt asked.

“I’d use a large dose of my botulinum toxin,” Yuri said. “Hell, I need to test it anyway. Why not on Connie? This way I can be sure of the dose.”

“But wouldn’t the doctors figure it out?” Curt asked.

“No,” Yuri said. “Once someone is dead and you don’t know the initial symptoms, there’s no way to suspect it. And you have to suspect it, otherwise it’s not thought of. There are too many other things that cause respiratory failure.”

“Are you sure?” Curt asked.

“Of course I’m sure,” Yuri said. “I was involved with a lot of the testing of the toxin back in the Soviet Union. With a big dose the person just stops breathing and turns blue. The KGB was very interested in it for covert assassinations because what constitutes a big dose is actually a very, very small amount.”

“I like it,” Curt said. “There’s a certain poetic justice to it. After all, Connie is threatening the security of Operation Wolverine. When could you do it?”

“Tonight,” Yuri said with a shrug. “One thing I never have trouble getting her to do is eat. Later on, after she calms down, I’ll just call in some pizza and that will be that.”

“Well,” Curt declared while allowing his first smile of the evening. “With that bit of unpleasantness out of the way, let’s go on to greener pastures. What’s the good news you have for us?”

“I tested the anthrax,” Yuri said eagerly. He moved forward in his chair. “It’s as potent as I expected.”

“Who did you test it on?” Curt asked. In light of current events involving Connie, security was Curt’s first concern.

Yuri described how he’d picked Jason Papparis, a rug merchant, who was at risk for contracting anthrax from the merchandise he imported. Yuri explained that by doing so he’d certainly avoided any possible suspicions by the authorities for what they were planning.

“Very clever,” Curt said. “On behalf of the People’s Aryan Army, I commend your shrewdness.”

Yuri allowed himself a self-satisfied smile.

“We’ve got some news for you as well,” Curt said. He went on to describe the visit he and Steve had made to the Jacob Javits Federal Building that morning. He told Yuri that it was set up perfectly to put the bioweapon in the HVAC induction duct.

“Will you need an aerosolizer?” Yuri asked.

“No, not if the weapon comes in a fine powder,” Curt said. “We’ll use timed detonators to burst the packaging. The circulating fans will do the rest.”

“That means you’ll have to use the anthrax,” Yuri said.

“That’s all right by us,” Curt said. “Is that a problem? You told us both agents would be equally potent.”

“No, it’s not a problem,” Yuri said. “It’s just that I’m having trouble getting the bacteria that makes the botulinum toxin to grow fast enough. I’m less than a week away from having plenty of anthrax, but more than three weeks away from having enough botulinum toxin.”

“I don’t think we want to wait three weeks,” Curt said. “Not with the security problems we’ve been having.”

“Why not just go with the anthrax for both targets?” Steve said. “Forget the toxin if the bacteria aren’t cooperating.”

“Because with the amount of anthrax we’ll only have enough for one laydown, not two,” Yuri said.

“Maybe Providence is telling us we should only hit the federal building,” Curt said. “How about forgetting Central Park?”

“No!” Yuri said with emphasis. “I want to do the park.”

“But why?” Curt asked. “The federal building is going to make a much bigger statement against the government, and it’s going to get at least six or seven thousand people.”

“But it’s only government people,” Yuri said. “I want to strike just as much against the fake American culture, particularly all those Jewish businessmen and bankers who’ve caused all the economic turmoil in Russia today.”

Curt and Steve exchanged a disgruntled glance.

“This is a rootless culture,” Yuri continued. “People are supposed to be free, but they’re not. They’re all scrambling for status and identity. We Slavs may have had some trouble down through history but at least we know who we are.”

“I don’t believe I’m hearing this,” Curt said. “Why haven’t you voiced this before?”

“You never asked me,” Yuri said.

“America has some problems,” Curt agreed. “But it’s because of ZOG supporting gun control, miscegenation, nigger drug dealers, welfare cheats, and queers, all of who are eroding our original roots. That’s what we’re fighting against. We know we’ll have some civilian casualties in the struggle. It’s to be expected. But it’s the government we’re targeting.”

“There are no civilians in my war,” Yuri said. “That’s why I want the laydown in Central Park. With a proper wind vector it will take out a large swath of the city. I’m talking about hundreds of thousands of casualties or even millions, not thousands. That’s what a weapon of mass destruction is supposed to do. Hell, for your narrow objective you could use a regular old bomb.”

“We wouldn’t be able to get a bomb big enough into the building,” Curt said. “That’s the whole point. We’ll have no trouble with four or five pounds of flour-like powder. I mean, that’s how you described the weaponized anthrax.”

“That’s right,” Yuri said. “A very, very fine flour that’s so light it stays suspended.”

For a few moments the three men stared at each other. All were aware of the tension.

“All right,” Curt said, waving his hands in the air. “We’re back to square one. We’ll do both laydowns. The problem boils down to getting enough stuff.”

“Where’s my pest control truck you guys promised?” Yuri asked.

“The troops have located one,” Curt said. “Don’t worry.”

“Where is it?”

“It’s parked behind a pest control company out on Long Island,” Curt said. “It’s used for the potato crop in-season. There’s no security. It’s there for the taking.”

“I want it in my garage,” Yuri said.

“What’s this new belligerency?” Curt questioned. “With the surprises you’ve had for us tonight, we are the ones who should be mad.”

“I just want the truck in the garage,” Yuri demanded. “That was the deal. It was supposed to be there already.”

“I think you’d better watch your tone,” Steve said. “Otherwise we’ll be sending the shock troops to pay you a visit.”

“Don’t threaten me,” Yuri said. “Otherwise you won’t get anything. I’ll sabotage the whole program.”

“Hey, hold up, you guys,” Curt said. “This is getting out of hand. Let’s not argue among ourselves. There’s no problem here. We’ll see that the truck is procured, brought into town, and put into your garage. Will that make you happy?”

“That was our agreement,” Yuri said.

“Consider it done,” Curt said. “Meanwhile on your end you’ve got to take care of Connie. Fair enough?”

“It will be done tonight,” Yuri said. He visibly relaxed and polished off the last of his drink.

“Good,” Curt said. He rubbed his hands in a show of eagerness. “Then let’s talk about scheduling. What if you gave up on the toxin and converted the second fermenter to anthrax? Wouldn’t that mean we’d have enough product sooner?”

“Probably,” Yuri said.

“What’s the time frame realistically?” Curt asked.

“By the end of the week or the beginning of the next if all goes well,” Yuri said.

“That’s music to my ears,” Curt said, forcing himself to smile. He stood up. Steve followed suit.

“I have a question,” Yuri said. “What’s a medical examiner?”

“It’s a guy that looks at dead people and figures out why they died,” Steve said.

“I thought so,” Yuri said. He got to his feet.

“That’s a curious question,” Curt remarked. “Why do you ask?”

“When I went back to the rug dealer’s today to find out if he’d died, there was a man there taking cultures who said he was investigating the case.”

“Wait a sec,” Curt commented. “I thought you said that your ruse of infecting a rug dealer would preclude any investigation by the authorities.”

“I didn’t say that,” Yuri responded. “I said that the authorities wouldn’t suspect the release of a bioweapon.”

“But the authorities know anthrax is used as a weapon,” Curt said. “What will keep them from getting suspicious?”

“Because they’ll have a logical explanation for the episode,” Yuri said. “They’ll be congratulating themselves for figuring it out. That’s the way those people think.”

“What if they don’t find any source?” Curt asked. “Or did you leave something for them to find on one of the rugs?”

“No, I didn’t do that,” Yuri admitted.

“Could that be a problem?” Curt asked.

“Possibly,” Yuri said. “But I doubt it.”

“But you can’t be a hundred percent certain,” Curt said.

“Not a hundred percent but very close to it.”

Curt let out an exasperated sigh. “Suddenly there seems to be so many loose ends.”

“It’s not going to be a problem,” Yuri said. “And we had to test the product. There’d be no sense in releasing it if it wasn’t pathogenic.”

“Let’s hope you’re right,” Curt said in a tired voice. He stood up and started for the door. “We’ll be in touch. Some of the boys will come by late tonight to deliver the pest control truck.”

“What if I’m not here?” Yuri asked.

“You’d better be here,” Curt said. “You’re the one making all the ruckus about this goddamn truck.”

“But I have to take care of Connie,” Yuri said. “I’ll have to call emergency after she’s had her fit. I might be at the hospital.”

“Oh, yeah,” Curt said.

“I know what I’ll do,” Yuri said. “When I go out with Connie I’ll leave the garage door unlocked.”

“Perfect,” Curt said. He waved and went out the door. Steve followed closely behind.

The two firemen trooped out of Yuri’s house and climbed into the Dodge Ram without talking. Once the doors were closed Curt pounded the steering wheel with a closed fist. “We got ourselves involved with a goddamned fruitcake,” he snarled.

“I’m not going to say I told you so,” Steve said.

“Jesus Christ, he’s out to kill civilians, not government people,” Curt complained. “Here we are, patriots, trying to save the country, and we’re forced to deal with a terrorist. What’s this world coming to?”

“I think his wish for the Soviet Union to get back together involves a lot more than wanting to protect the nukes. I think he’s a Commie.”

Curt started his truck and pulled out into the lane. It was like a slalom course trying to avoid all the trash cans. “Maybe he is a Commie. But whatever he is, he has no concept of security. It’s too bad, because if the authorities get even a hint of what’s coming, we’ve got to reevaluate the whole operation. When we first started planning this, it seemed like it would be so easy.”

“What are we going to do about him?” Steve asked.

“I don’t know. The trouble is we’ve got to play along in order to get our hands on the bioweapon. He made that pretty clear with his threat to sabotage the whole setup, which I suppose means he’d trash the lab.”

“So we’re going to get him the pest control truck?”

“I don’t see where we have much choice,” Curt said as he pulled out onto Oceanview Avenue. “We’ll get him the truck, but we’ll also keep the pressure on him to come up with the eight or so pounds of anthrax powder as soon as possible. The sooner we can launch Operation Wolverine the better.”