by Robin Cook
“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 micro-brewery 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 mainte
nance 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 on 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 hatchlike 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 prevent 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 g
eneral 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 a 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.”