Robin Cook - Vector

Thursday, October 21

9:15 a.m.

Mike Compisano let his pale blue eyes rise up the face of the imposing forty-two-story Jacob Javits Federal Building. Its immensity intimidated him, as did the power of the authority it embodied. At the same time, its authority angered him.

Mike had become a skinhead because of the rage he felt as a member of a society that had left him behind like so much flotsam in the wake of a speeding ocean liner. From his perspective, the African-Americans, Hispanics, and Asians he’d been with in high school had more opportunity than he had as a true American thanks to affirmative action and a bunch of other screwy programs. And as Curt had pointed out to him, it was the government the federal building represented that made it all possible.

Unconsciously, Mike’s hand slipped into the pocket of his baggy trousers. He fingered the smoke bomb he was to set off in the vent. He understood in a way he didn’t completely comprehend that he was about to play a critical role in striking back at the people who had robbed him of a future.

Mike eyed the bureaucrats rushing past him to enter the building. They were the ones responsible for the mess the country was in. He would have preferred to stop one and smash his arrogant face had not Curt warned him not to make a scene.

Mike checked his watch. Finally it was nine-fifteen. He’d been standing in front of the building since eight-forty-five, trying to keep warm. He was dressed in the only suit and tie he had. He’d tried to brush his short blond hair to the side and make it lie flat, but it had refused to cooperate. It was standing up like a bristle brush.

Mike took a breath and started off. He was nervous and his heart was beating fast. He wanted so much to succeed, and was afraid something would go wrong.

The first challenge was security. Mike lined up and passed through the metal detector. To his chagrin it sounded.

“What’cha got, sonny?” one of the uniformed security men asked.

Mike nervously dug a hand in his pocket. He came up with a short, stubby screwdriver. He was worried a coin wouldn’t work on the vent.

“So, you’re planning on doing a little screwing today, huh,” the man said with a chuckle.

Mike nodded. He was directed to come through the metal detector again without the screwdriver. There was no signal.

“Good luck,” the security guard said. He handed the tool back to Mike.

Relieved at not being asked any questions about where he was going, Mike took the elevator to the third floor. As he disembarked he could hear the noise and feel the vibration of the machinery. He walked down the hall as Curt had directed, heading straight for a men’s room. It was exactly where Curt had said it would be. Mike entered, according to plan.

Unfortunately, the last booth was occupied. Mike had to bide his time. He washed his hands for lack of anything else to do and waited. Finally the man came out. He eyed Mike briefly before washing his hands and exiting.

Mike went into the stall and closed and locked the door. The vent was just above his head. With the screwdriver he got the cover off without difficulty. Standing on the toilet he could look into the duct. It went straight in for about three feet and then angled off.

As instructed, Mike took out the smoke bomb. He lit a match and then touched it to the wick. It caught immediately. With a sideward flick of the wrist, he tossed the bomb into the vent. It ended up coming to rest at the point the duct angled off. Mike could see that it was already putting out smoke: a lot of smoke.

After replacing the vent, Mike left the stall and returned to the hallway. Back at the elevator he pushed the button and waited. It took only a moment to get down to the ground floor. Just as he was exiting the elevator, the building’s fire alarm sounded along with a recorded announcement played over and over: everyone should leave the building via the nearest stairway.

Enjoying a sense of accomplishment, Mike went out the main entrance along with a handful of other people. Those trying to enter were told they’d have to wait until the alarm was investigated.

In the plaza directly in front of the building, a congregation began to form. Cigarettes were lit and strangers began to converse. As the minutes passed, the group grew in size as people continued to stream from the exit. Mike joined the burgeoning crowd but kept to the street-side periphery.

Within five minutes approaching sirens began to sound. A few moments later two fire trucks rounded the near corner and quickly pulled to the curb directly in front of the building. The first truck had “FDNY Engine 7” stenciled in gold letters on its side.

Mike looked at his watch. It was 9:29. Glancing back at the lead fire truck, he saw Curt emerge from the passenger side of the front seat. He was dressed in full turn-out gear, which included his combination Nomex and Kevlar jacket, matching pants, leather helmet, and boots. Strapped to his back was his Scott pack in its harness with the face mask in easy reach. In his hand was a black rubberized canvas bag.

Steve got out from the back seat carrying a red high-rise bag. Together they ran for the entrance ahead of all the other firefighters.

Mike turned and set out for the subway and the ride home. It made him feel proud to have been part of something that Curt had said might possibly save the country.

Thursday, October 21

10:15 a.m.

“What time do you think it is?” Laurie asked.

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” Jack said. He stretched and groaned. “I know I slept for a while. Did you?”

“I think so,” Laurie said. “It’s amazing how difficult it is to judge the passage of time, especially when you can’t see anything.”

They had eventually sat down diagonally from each other on the concrete floor with their backs against the respective walls. There wasn’t room to lie out straight.

“I can almost talk myself into seeing daylight when I stare up at the ceiling,” Jack said.

“We’ve got to get out of here before nine-thirty if there’s to be any chance of stopping the firemen before they get into the federal building and disperse the anthrax.”

“I don’t like to be pessimistic,” Jack said. “But as Yuri said, we could be in here for several days, maybe even longer now that he’s been shot. I think he planned to call and have us rescued so he could be sure he got the credit he coveted.”

“Wait a second!” Laurie said.

“I’ve got all the time in the world,” Jack answered.

“Shush,” Laurie said. “I think I heard something.”

They both held their breaths while they listened. They could just make out a distant yet distinct series of thuds coming from above.

“I think that’s someone knocking on the door,” Laurie blurted.

They both scrambled to their feet. In the utter darkness, they collided, then began shouting for help at the top of their lungs.

Simultaneously, they fell silent with their ears ringing from each other’s shouts and their own echo. Once again they strained to listen.

“They had to have heard us,” Laurie said.

“It probably depends on how much background noise there is outside,” Jack said.

Next they heard the faint but definite sound of glass breaking. A moment later, there were faint sounds of footsteps across the floor above.

In a chorus Jack and Laurie again yelled for help. Jack groped for the door, then began pounding on it. Suddenly the light went on. Then they could hear muffled voices of people descending the stairs to the basement. A few minutes later there was the sound of splitting wood followed by a thump. The sound of the voices increased in volume. Whoever it was had gained access to the entry room to the lab.