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.”