But Nobody Wants To Die

by David M George

  Mitch’s uncle, Robert, had asked for volunteers chosen from a select pool of applicants, the first requirement being sick and more than a little twisted, the second being those about to retire, nearing retirement or old enough to even be thinking about retirement. Turns out there were three fireman who met both criteria, the rest being too young, too married, or in some cases, having too much common sense to volunteer for what could turn out to be a short cut to the unemployment line.

  One of the three, with the help of some gold tape and an X-Acto blade, was turning the numeral 13 painted in gold on both sides of the engine into number 43. Mitch met us inside and made the introductions. “Hurricane this is Filthy Frank, Filthy, this is Katrina, “Hurricane” Johnson.”

  “Filthy Frank? I probably don’t want to know right?” I said.

  “Probably not. You have a nickname too huh?” He said, trying not to stare at my too tight shirt and failing miserably.

  “Yes, but I can explain mine in mixed company. Katrina is my real name.”

  “Ahh,” he said, “I get it.” He motioned to the number behind him, “I’m using tape instead of paint because it’s quicker and from a distance, no one can tell. Besides, it will be much easier to change it back to Engine 13 once we’re done with it.”

  Double D, aka Deviant Doug, was removing the shelving from the storage compartments. Mitch explaining we couldn’t fit the hostages inside unless the shelving was removed. Double D stuck out a huge paw and grunted. I didn’t find out how he got his nickname either. Although I admit I wasn’t real curious.

  Bobby, rolling hose, was a little more talkative. “You’re the only one without a nickname,” I said.

  “Yeah,” he said, “because compared to those two sickos, I’m normal.” The gleam in his eye indicating he most likely would not be considered normal except maybe in a maximum security prison yard somewhere.

  “I’m Hurricane Johnson,” I said, wanting to forego the whole Katrina thing.

  I shook his sweaty hand and felt tainted somehow, maybe not quite like a nun turning the channel and finding an X rated movie, but close. Mitch explaining, as we walked away, that Bobby was the guy who put the Diamond Back rattlesnake in someone else’s bed.

  “What do you have to do to earn a nickname,” I said, “pour gasoline on somebody and threaten them with a lighted match?”

  “That might do it,” Mitch said.

  Robert, Mitch’s uncle, and the captain of Fire Station #13 was checking the 1,000 gallon storage tank, making sure it was still capable of delivering water under pressure. When we approached, he sized me up and said. “I think we have a turnout that will fit you.”

  I resisted the temptation to ask a compulsive gambler, ‘Wanna bet’, but only just barely. Jamie was right about my terrible habit of saying the first thing that popped into my head. Thinking of Jamie made me miss her terribly. The turnout was a little big, but fit pretty well all things considered.

  When we broke for dinner, we discussed the game plan for tomorrow. Firemen eat well. Maybe they eat better at an NFL training table, but not by much. We agreed to meet back at the station at 1500 hours and roll at 1600 and set up not far from the warehouse at 1620. We went over it again and again until everyone was satisfied that they knew their assigned role.

  After dinner, I was trained in the nuances of using a SCBA (Self Contained Breathing Apparatus) unit and even learned how to carry a fire axe without hurting myself. We said our goodbyes and Carlos and I talked it over on the way back to his apartment. The general consensus being we would need a lot of prayer and a lot of luck, maybe both, to actually pull this off.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  CALL ME

  W e pulled into the Station #13 parking lot just prior to 1500. Mitch was there to greet us, already scanning the horizon for hostiles and running his hand through his hair. He was understandably keyed up as this time the three of us were a Comanche war party. This was not a recon mission. They had something we wanted and we were going to take it from them, by trickery and deceit if possible, but by force if necessary.

  Mitch, Carlos and I would be armed with a MK3 SEAL combat knife with a 6” blade strapped to our leg, and a M11 Sig Sauer P228 concealed under our turnouts. Mitch would also have an M-79 Grenade Launcher with 3 smoke grenades ‘just in case,’ the smoke bomb concealed in the HVAC unit failed to detonate as scheduled. He also carried a tear gas grenade in order to clear the building if anyone was reluctant to leave of their own accord.

  The first part of our multi-phase plan was for our unit to just happen to be right around the corner when the smoke bomb detonated and to immediately make our presence known via Code 3. In this way we hoped to circumvent anyone calling 911 as a fire truck with flashing lights and siren pulling into the parking lot outside the front office meant that LVFD had already responded. This was crucial in that anyone calling 911 would activate a legitimate response from another unit. We hoped to avoid that scenario as Station #13’s presence in a ‘borrowed’ outdated 2001 Pierce Quantum with an altered number as the first responder to a fire of a suspicious nature would certainly raise more questions than we could hope to legitimately answer.

  As far as the mob guys or any passing civilian observers would know, we were just regular fireman doing our job. But to any fireman with an intimate knowledge of the workings of the Las Vegas Fire Department we would stand out like a whore in church. To further obfuscate the situation Captain Robert would call in our arrival but deliberately slur the number so that Main Control would know a Unit had responded, but be undecided as to which one. Anything we could do to confuse the issue further would be to our benefit, or so we hoped.

  The second part of the plan required no one witness the removal of the hostages, which meant evacuating the mob guys from the building out of the front office door on the south side of the building and then immediately opening the overhead door to the warehouse loading dock on the east side of the building. We would then pull Engine#43 around the building up to the overhead door and conduct our operation shielded from any watching eyes. Our other concern was that we wouldn’t have enough smoke. If there was a delay in rescuing the hostages, or the smoke dissipated too quickly, we didn’t want the mob guys getting antsy. Worst case, we would use additional smoke grenades, or even the M-79 to add more smoke.

  Captain Robert was in charge of the fire truck, fire suppression and command decisions. Carlos was in charge of hostage rescue, which meant breaking down the door to the office where the hostages were held. Me? I was in charge of hostage identification and safety. Bobby was in charge of crowd control, which consisted of escorting the mob guys out of the building and keeping them out. He would be armed with a fire axe and a surly attitude; and given that even mob guys have enough sense to stay out of a burning building, we hoped that would be enough. If not, he could call Mitch for back-up, and we all knew Mitch had much more than just a surly attitude.

  Filthy Frank’s assignment was to find the control panel and open the overhead door. Once that was accomplished his secondary assignment was to assist Double D. The schematic indicated the panel was on an interior warehouse wall only about eight feet from the doorway leading from the offices. Double D’s job was to drag in hose to prevent the possible combustion of the HVAC Unit from spreading and to minimize damage to the building. We didn’t want this turning into a train wreck.

  Since the mob guys had seen Mitch and Carlos previously when they had ‘serviced’ the HVAC unit, they were to both remain seated in Engine #43’s rear compartment behind tinted windows until it pulled around the building out of their line of vision.

  Captain Robert came up to us as we finished dressing, “After the planning session last night,” he said, “the crew added 100’ of 1 ¾ inch Attack Hose to the Front Bumper Hose Bed and 150’ of 1 ¾ inch Attack Hose to the Cross Lay Hose Bed so we could be certain to knock down any fire that resulted from the heat and smoke.”

  Mitch nodded at the hose and said, “I think t
hat was a good idea.”

  “What do you mean?” I said.

  “Well, I added a small charge next to the smoke bomb. I figured the additional heat produced by the charge just might set the HVAC Unit on fire, make it more realistic,” Mitch said.

  “Do you mean more realistic as in generating enough smoke to kill all the hostages before we can get them out?” I said.

  “No,” Mitch said, “I mean more realistic as in the mob guys deciding to get the hell out of the building before they get their spaghetti and meatballs fried.”

  “I think you boil spaghetti,” I said.

  “Boiled, fried, what’s the difference? It’s cooked right?”

  “Yeah, it’s cooked,” I said as he turned to walk away. “Just as long as my Dad, Jamie, Rick and Mikey aren’t cooked also.”

  The newly named Engine #43 had four SCBA seats. The gear was cumbersome and required extra space in the rear cab behind the driver. Filthy Frank, since he was to be the first one in the building would wear one, as would Carlos and I, as once Filthy opened the overhead door we would enter the building to rescue the hostages. Double D, in charge of dragging in the hose and monitoring the fire would wear the last of the four SCBA Units.

  At 1555 hours Captain Robert gave the firehouse equivalent of saddle-up, and we assumed our assigned stations on Unit #43. Once everyone gave the thumbs up signal he activated the overhead door and off we went. The Captain then asked all hands for a radio check. The gloves were bulky and it was difficult to push the ‘Talk’ button on the radio. Since I was assigned Lucky #7, I was the last to respond, so I had time to figure out how to hold the button down. I was surprised that my voice sounded almost normal. I didn’t want Carlos and Mitch to know how nervous I was, since I had largely exaggerated the necessity of my coming along.

  So I was here based on what exactly? Over forty amateur and a couple of professional fights, growing up a Marine Corps brat and having an attitude? That and a dime, as they say in the Marine Corps, will get you a cup of coffee. But I felt I paid my dues, left in the desert to die I had survived, but mostly it was simply that my Dad needed me, and that was enough. And besides, you wanted to be the hurricane, right? Well, this is your chance. I’m so glad we had this little talk I thought, I feel so much better.

  We drove up to our previously discussed embarkation point and rolled to a stop. We were maybe 500 yards from the warehouse and a few minutes ahead of schedule. Another radio check.

  “Filthy, you’re first in, Bobby you’re right behind him. Any questions?” Captain Robert said. There were none. “Alright Mitch, why don’t you call and ask if they’d like to make a donation to the fireman’s fund?”

  “Aye, aye sir,” Mitch said, and he pulled out his phone and dialed the number.

  “As soon as we see smoke,” Captain Robert said, “we punch it.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  SGT. WU GOES TO THE BANK

  S gt. Wu disliked banks; they usually had several firewalls and upgraded safeguards that made hacking their accounts difficult. Chief Sergeant 3rd Class Wu had been in the People’s Liberation Army almost sixteen years, the last four with the Persistent Threat Unit in Shanghai. He had enlisted as soon as he graduated from high school and got married to his childhood sweetheart the day after he made Corporal.

  They had two children which he missed terribly during the long days and even longer nights it took to finally penetrate the banks security. It turned out that the new account, named Lee Wong Gaming, Inc., had all the makings of a dummy corporation, set up solely as a conduit for incoming funds.

  Three of the account principals were listed as, C.R. Johnson, CEO, Katrina Johnson, President, International Operations, and Rick Wilkinson, Chief Information Officer, all with the same Scottsdale, Arizona home address which turned out be nothing more than a Howard Johnson’s Motel on Indian School Road.

  According to the newly filed paperwork, their required Macau address consisted solely of a PO Box at the General Post Office building lobby on Rua das Lorchas. Sgt. Wu had an operative in Hong Kong take the hydrofoil to Macau and using a forged master key, empty the contents of the PO Box at the post office.

  He found nothing but a copy of the receipt for the annual rent on the box. Rick Wilkinson was listed as the signer. He made a copy of the receipt, forwarded it to Wu, and less than ten minutes later, had the original receipt back in the box.

  The next step was to cross reference the names on the many social media sites that Americans seemed so enamored with. Katrina Johnson was the only one that was even on Facebook, where we she was listed as Katrina, ‘Hurricane’ Johnson, an amateur boxer. Her last entry was over six months ago. There were only two pictures of her, one stepping into the ring, and the other, standing in the center of the ring, the referee raising her hand in victory after a fight. She did not have any pictures of C.R. Johnson on her Facebook account and he was not listed on her Friends List.

  C.R. Johnson was noted several times in newspaper articles, namely the Las Vegas Review-Journal in connection with a criminal court case over five years ago involving an Alfred Vietri, and a Tony Battaglia. There was also a small blurb several years later, announcing his retirement from the Las Vegas Police Department.

  There were only two links between Alfred Vietri and C. R. Johnson. One was the court case, the other was that on The Articles of Incorporation filed with the bank for Lee Wong Gaming, Alfred Vietri was shown as Chairman of Lee Wong Gaming, complete with his signature. His listed address was the Global Hotel and Casino in Las Vegas

  He finally found Rick Wilkinson on LinkedIn, where he listed his occupation as Head of Network Security at Enterprise Technology Services in Phoenix. Rick stated that he earned a Master’s degree in MIS from Stanford University. If Sgt. Wu was looking for a person capable of siphoning funds from the Global Casino, he didn’t have to look any further.

  Sgt. Wu was not privy to all the details regarding the arrangement between his superiors and Alfred Vietri. But he knew enough to figure out that the big question was did Rick Wilkinson hack the account with Alfred Vietri’s approval? All four of them, meaning the Johnsons, Wilkerson and Vietri were authorized to withdraw funds from the account. But if Vietri knew nothing about the additional account, it was all a smoke screen. Professionally done, Wu had to admit, and luckily, not his decision to make. If it was merely a diversion, that call would have to be made by those in a much higher pay grade than his. Wu finished his report, happy that he could now resume his regular work schedule. That meant no more drinking liters of badly burnt coffee every night to stay awake and that his kidneys might actually recover, and more importantly, his wife would quit complaining about his never being home to help with the children.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  HOUSE CALL

  I t didn’t take long, as the smoke soon rose thick, black and oily against a cloudless blue sky, and we hit the lights and siren and Engine #43 roared around the corner towards the warehouse.

  We pulled through the open gate into the driveway and Filthy and Bobby jumped out. It looked like the heat and smoke from the HVAC unit had traveled right through the ductwork and was billowing into the offices. The four mob guys were already outside hacking and coughing. Filthy went right through the open door into the building. We all knew that Bobby’s first question was supposed to be ‘Is there anybody else in the building,’ and even though we were already in reverse, backing up, I watched as one of the mob guys shook his head, no.

  Captain Robert was backing up so he could swing around to the other side of the building to the soon to be opened overhead door while simultaneously calling in our arrival to Main Control. He gave a wonderful imitation of a drunk counting backwards from one hundred by threes at a late night traffic stop, followed by what could have been Unit 949 Out. I would have applauded except I was too worried that the smoke and heat was traveling through that same ductwork into the office were my Dad was.

  Engine #43 jerked to a stop and Carlos and
I jumped out and headed for the now opening overhead door. I ran past the HVAC unit which was totally engulfed in flames; even wearing the heavy leather turnout I could feel the heat glance off me. Double D was going to have his hands full.

  The door to the small office was locked. Carlos hit it with the axe, nothing. He hit it again and the wood splintered. The third time was the charm as it gave way and we were inside. The smoke was thick, but I could see that Jamie had tipped her chair over so she could breathe the thin sliver of air that remained just above the worn tile floor. The others had done the same. I used the MK3 to cut through the clothesline that bound her to the chair and dragged her outside the office into the hallway where the air was a little better and saw Carlos drag Rick past me as I went back inside.

  The third hostage was Mikey and I left him for Carlos and went over to the last remaining figure. I turned him over. It wasn’t my Dad. I studied his face. Why did he look so familiar? I grabbed him by his shirt collar and drug him into the hallway. He started coughing and I finally figured out who he was. It was the face that belonged in the family photographs next to the computer the night Rick and I hacked Alphonso’s computer. It was Big Ears Alphonso himself. But why was he here passed out on the floor? And where was Dad?

  Mitch had already carried Jamie to the rig and was coming back for Rick when Carlos dragged Mikey past me into the hallway. I gathered the clothesline that had bound Jamie and used it to tie Alphonso’s wrists together and drug him through the hallway and out into the warehouse. Double D was manning the hose, pouring water on the HVAC Unit, knocking down the blaze. I saw that Mikey was okay, coughing from the effects of the smoke, but up and mobile and I watched as Mitch led him to the rig. What was left of the HVAC Unit was steaming, but giving off white smoke rather than the thick black smoke it was producing when we first arrived. There was water everywhere, the warehouse floor a lake. Carlos was beside me, saying it was time to go.