The 13th Enumeration (4 page)

Chapter 6
 

Brooklyn, New York

Joe exited Interstate 278 at the Brooklyn Bridge, then crossed over into lower Manhattan. He exited
on Park Row
,
and then
turned onto Broadway,
after
a few blocks and
several turns he
slow
ed
as he pushed the remote on the visor of his truck. He turned into the subterranean entrance of a parking garage underneath a modern-looking six-story condo. He was just north of the financial district. Wall Street was just around the corner.

As he entered the parking garage he again pushed the remote, and the large commercial garage door closed behind his truck. The garage was a concrete affair that would house twenty-eight cars. When Joe had gotten out of prison, he looked up Charlie, an old drinking buddy who was a sleazy real-estate agent and developer. In the days back before prison, Charlie was always looking for handymen to help fix up his properties. He hated to pay the union wages of licensed contractors, so he looked for any scabs he could find. Charlie took him to the condo, which was in the middle of an extensive remodel, practically foaming at the mouth as he described union contractors milking the project for all it was worth. When the remodel was a third finished, the contractor demanded more money. Charlie ran him off, and the condo sat vacant for eleven months. Joe agreed to work for room and board plus expenses. Charlie checked on Joe’s progress every couple of weeks and seemed pleased at the work he was doing. He sure could not complain about the cost.

One of the first things Joe did was build a temporary wall across the back section of the parking garage. It was alongside this partition that he now pulled his truck. He opened a plywood panel in the wall and pulled out a length of one-inch black fuel hose, connecting it to the pump on his auxiliary fuel tank.

Joe turned on the pump, and the fuel began to transfer from the truck. He ducked down through the panel hole and entered the back section of the garage. In two neat rows were eight six-thousand-gallon collapsible fuel-bladder tanks he had purchased from a military surplus store in Virginia. He had been making two or three trips a day from service stations all over the New York area for over a month, amassing over forty-seven-thousand gallons of diesel fuel, and he only needed about one thousand more to completely fill the fuel bladders. He never went to the same station twice in the same week. Two more days, and he would be ready to exact his revenge. All he needed was the final go-ahead.

The eight bladder tanks each had a valve and were connected to one another with PVC pipe. Not the best arrangement, but it would last as long as he needed. In the far corner Joe had installed a three-phase twenty-HP fuel pump, one of those commercial jobs that could pump two hundred gallons a minute at a hundred psi or a hundred-and-fifty gallons a minute at one-fifty psi. The maximum pump pressure was two hundred psi. The pump suction end was connected to the bladder tank piping, and the outlet end was connected to the condo’s four-inch main water line, which was conveniently located about thirty feet away.

Most municipalities required a backflow prevention device on the main water inlet line to the buildings. These devices prevented any customer’s contaminated water from flowing back into the water distribution system of the city. In this case, the backflow preventer was contained in a small enclosure on the outside of the building just past the water meter. Municipalities required building owners to have a certified technician test the devices and certify they were working properly. In the case of Charlie’s condo, the backflow test had been done four months ago and was not due for another eight months. After the technician left, Joe had returned later that night, removed the backflow device, and installed a new section of piping.

Before filling the bladders with diesel fuel, Joe had tested his plan out by filling the bladder tanks with water from the condos’ main water line. Water pressure from the city main fluctuated between one-twenty-five and one-
thirty
psi. It had taken about five hours and twenty minutes to empty the water from all eight bladder tanks back into the city water system—a success. Since diesel fuel was a little lighter than water, Joe figured it would take another hour or so to pump that much fuel into the city water system.

The potable water consumption of downtown Manhattan dropped off by about seventy percent after eleven p.m., so he planned to start pumping at eleven-thirty. All the fuel should be in the main system by six a.m., when demand would spike. Joe remembered installing the upgraded water main to this condo about ten years ago. It was only one-hundred-and-ninety feet from the main trunk line, which ran straight down into the financial district. He estimated that ninety-five percent of the diesel fuel would make it into lower Manhattan’s water main before the spike. By the time anyone figured out what was going on, the entire freshwater distribution system of lower Manhattan would be contaminated with diesel fuel for some time to come. The financial district would be shut down until they figured out how to decontaminate the water lines all over the lower part of the city. That sure would be a nightmare for his former boss and coworkers. He laughed out loud. Well, too bad. He would teach those heathen infidels.

The knowledge of what he could do—no, what he
would
do—was a powerful feeling. One man could bring the financial center of the world to its knees. Likely they would recover, but it was still an amazing amount of power for one man to wield. And so easy—he had wondered many times over the past months why someone had not already done this to other cities. Even after the world saw what he was about to do, they still would not be able to stop others from doing the same thing elsewhere. There was just no way to prevent it.

* * *

The Baker opened the door to the basement under his bakery. It was midnight, and the streets of Tel Aviv were quieting down. His day was just beginning. For the past ten years, his ritual had been the same—until about twelve months ago.

He walked down the old wooden stairs and passed several doors on his way to the far wall of the basement. He unlocked a closet door and passed through, closing the door behind him. Reaching under the third shelf, which was full of cleaning supplies, he pushed a small latch, and the shelving pushed away. He entered a small room with a bare floor and dirt walls.

Twelve months ago, he had begun excavation of this small room. It had taken six months of digging and hauling dirt to finish. Against the far wall, the city’s main sewer line ran just under the edge of his building. He had exposed about six feet of it, up to the point where his building drain line connected to the sewer main. He had removed the old sewer connection for his building and installed a new sewer tap. His new connection had a couple of removable rubber couplings which allowed him to remove a section of his drain piping.

In a small alcove dug into the dirt wall was a heavy-duty battery charger. The Baker turned it on, energizing the homemade electromagnets he had wrapped around the sewer main. Each night, he would turn on the magnets. Any metallic material which flowed through the sewer main got caught in the magnetic field and remained there until he turn off the battery charger. At four a.m., when he finished most of his baking, he would come back down to turn the charger off and see if he had caught any “little fish” in his magnetic net—each one a small part of the war against the Zionist occupiers.

With a final baleful survey of the dark, dirty room, the Baker turned off the light and returned to his normal nightly duties.

Chapter 7
 

Manara Cliffs, Israel

Zane turned off the engine of the little truck he had borrowed. In the distance he could see the snow-covered peak of Mount Hermon. Before him were the Manara Cliffs. He pulled his gear out of the back of the truck, and slinging his backpack over one shoulder, set out to explore. Since he didn’t have a climbing partner, he didn’t really plan on climbing, but he’d brought his gear anyway. Sometimes you found another climber looking for a partner. If nothing else, he would document possible routes with the Climbing-Quest app his friend Sam had made for him.

It was a quiet morning, and he did not see anyone right off. There were several cars in the parking area, so he knew there were others out hiking or climbing.

About half a mile down the trail, Zane turned off and walked toward a less-explored area of the cliffs. The cliff face seemed a little rough, with loose rock in places. A little further on, he saw someone climbing one of the rough faces of the cliff. As he drew closer, he noticed the climber didn’t have a belaying partner—he was free soloing the rock face. Zane shook his head. Free soloing had become more popular the past few years, and it was considered the ultimate test of a climber’s skill. A free solo climber used no safety device at all. Only a pair of climbing shoes and a chalk bag, and even those were optional in some cases. It was foolish. No one was perfect, and free soloing required perfection. One mistake and you ended up with a quick trip to the ground. As they said, “It isn’t the fall that kills you; it’s the abrupt stop at the bottom.”

Pretty gutsy,
he thought as he looked up at the climber.
Or stupid.
One false move and all anyone would find was a corpse—and in this out-of-the-way area, even that might take a while.

His curiosity drew him up to the face of the cliff. The climber was probably eighty feet up on a narrow ledge and working his way along it.

As Zane reached the foot of the cliff, he did a double take.

Although it was becoming more common, it was still rare to see a woman free soloing.

She wore tan capri pants and a loose-fitting shirt.. Her dark hair was braided and reached just past her shoulders. He couldn’t see her face, but that girl was all woman. He shook his head in amazement. Just above her head was what looked like thin sheets of loose rock barely hanging on the vertical face. From his perspective on the ground, they looked like they were just waiting to fall.

As the woman carefully made her way along the narrow ledge, she used the overhead slabs of rock as handholds. “Does she have a death wish or what?” he muttered. Zane had seen some of the best climbers in the world pass on this type of rock. Well, he admitted, she sure seemed able to handle herself. To get where she was would take some exceptional skill, rope or no rope.

She had almost reached the end of the narrow ledge when her right foot seemed to slip. As her foot came off the rock, she compensated by increasing her hold on the narrow overhang above her head. Just as she regained her footing, the ledge above her head started to give way. Instinctively, she shifted her weight and moved her right foot two feet further down the ledge. The slab of rock fell straight down onto the ledge where she had just been standing, completely obliterating six feet of it. Zane expelled the breath he had been holding. She wouldn’t be going back the way she came, that was for sure, but at least she hadn’t been knocked off the rock—thanks to her quick thinking.

He was just about to call out to her when one more piece of the overhanging rock gave way and fell, slicing the calf of her left leg. Somehow she managed to maintain her hold on the rock, but even from his place on the ground, he could see that blood was already running down over her left foot and onto the cliff, leaving a growing crimson stain. Zane didn’t know what he could do. He only had his rope and quick draws. He had no free-climbing gear with which to anchor himself in the rocks. And even if he had, there was no one here to belay him anyway. The flow of blood had not slowed, and it was now a two-foot streak on the rock. These thoughts flashed through Zane’s mind in seconds as he stood in silent horror, watching the girl’s life drain out.

Like a bloody ballerina, she calmly pivoted on her right foot, lifting her injured left leg straight up in the air until her toes were touching the ledge over her head. This section of the overhang seemed a little more stable. Somehow, she managed to wedge the toes of her injured leg into the overhead crack, thus freeing up her left hand. Reaching into her pants for her pocket knife, she flicked it open and cut away a large portion of her pant leg. Carefully she tore a strip of cloth, and using her teeth and her left hand, tied it around her bleeding wound. It looked like she might have bought herself a few more minutes of precious time.

Pulling out his cell phone, Zane called the MDA, the Israeli Magen David Adom paramedic service, and explained the situation. The operator said they would send an ambulance. Telling them to hurry, Zane ended his call and tore open his backpack. She was not going to be able to hold on until they arrived. Slipping off his boots, he put on his climbing harness and shoes, then tied a large loop in the end of his rope.

Removing his ATC from his harness, he threaded his rope through it about ten feet down from the loop and clipped it back into a large carabiner on the main harness loop. He hung the looped end and the extra ten feet of rope over his right shoulder. The remaining one-hundred-and-seventy feet he hung over his left. In the sixty seconds it took him to accomplish these tasks, part of his mind was telling him this was a futile effort. The other part was telling him he had to try something.

Zane had never been able to justify the risk of free soloing before. Now he was going to attempt a free solo ascent on a treacherous rock face he had never climbed before to try to help a foolhardy young woman.
I should have my head examined,
he thought in frustration. In reality, though, he really didn’t have a choice. He would never forgive himself if he didn’t at least try to help.

“Hold on,” he called up, “I am going to try to climb up to you!” He plunged his hands into his chalk bag one at a time, the white powder flying everywhere. He decided to make his ascent from just below and to the right of her. The first handhold was just above his head, and he reached for it with his left hand. Wedging the three small fingers of his right hand into a head-level crack, he drew up his legs to a slight protrusion which he was able to smear with his shoes. His feet taking some of the weight off his hands, he reached with his right hand, found the next hold, and powered himself higher.

He made pretty fast progress for the first sixty feet. He refused to think about what he was doing and just looked for the next hold. He knew he was running out of time. The crimson streak was just above him and to the left now. It had run twenty feet down the rock face, and the metallic smell of it was strong in the warm air. How she had managed to hang on for the past four minutes he had no idea.

With a damaged leg and her left climbing shoe slippery with blood, she could not move at all. He could see the tremors in her arms and legs as she fought to maintain her tenuous hold on the cold, hard rock.

Just twenty feet below her now, he was in trouble himself. There was nothing on the rock face he could reach—just hard, bare rock. With calculating eyes, he searched the rock for anything that would provide a means to reach the young woman. The only real prospect was an impossibly small protrusion of rock two feet over and three feet higher on the rock face. Just below that was a tiny crack, which looked even more difficult to reach. He would have to leap from his precarious perch and nail the hold on the first try—there would be no second chances here, no practice tries, no rope to catch him if he missed. Only a fast ride down and an abrupt stop. From sixty feet up, the rough rocky ground below would surely break many bones in his body if it didn’t outright kill him. If the two fingers of his hand reached the mark, they would have to hold the entire weight of his body while he found a place for his left hand.

The young woman, her voice heavy with the stress and pain of her predicament, finally spoke. “Don’t be foolish; you can’t make that move.”

Zane tried to ignore her and muster his strength for the leap. She continued, “Don’t do it; you’re needlessly risking your life.”

With frustration and a touch of fear, Zane replied, “Shut up; you’re wasting your strength and mine. I am going to do my best to reach you, and you are not helping.”

She did not respond. The shaking in her arms and legs was noticeably worse, and Zane wondered
again
how she had not already fallen. Not one in a thousand climbers could have held her perch under these circumstances.

Zane tuned out all other thoughts and focused all his energy on what he was about to do. Quickly, he said a silent prayer:
Father, please help and strengthen me for what I am about to do. Thy will be done.
He bent his knees slightly and tensed the muscles in his arms and legs, and then he leaped.

Time nearly stood still as his body covered the distance between where he was and where he needed to be. He knew he was not going to make it as soon as his hands and feet left the face of the rock. He was going to miss by several inches. As his right hand scraped past his intended mark, the hard rubber soles of his climbing shoes sliding down the rock, he desperately reached for the lower crack with his left hand. Just as he thought he had missed that too, his fingers slid three knuckles deep into the crack. He felt the sharp pain as the full weight of his body tried to tear his fingers out of the crack. Instinctively, his right hand reached up for his intended mark, and as he found purchase, he pulled the entire weight of his body up with the two fingers of his right hand. With his injured left, he reached further up for another hold. This time he found a good grip, and letting go with his right hand, he pulled himself up with the left and placed his foot on the protrusion of rock where his right hand had just been.

The final fifteen feet to the young woman he made without any trouble. He found a good place to stand on the ledge just beside her. She had turned markedly pale from blood loss, hanging on by pure guts and determination without a whimper or a cry for help. With his free right hand, he took the main coil of rope off his left shoulder and let it fall to the ground. From his right shoulder he removed the short end of his rope with the loop in it. Looking further up the rock wall, he searched for the protrusion of rock he had seen from below—a small knob some climbers called a chicken head. Just a small protrusion from which to use straps or webbing to hang an anchor point. He found it straight up, about ten feet from where he now clung precariously to the cliff. Carefully, he flung the loop over it. Taking up the slack in his ATC breaking device, he gently tested his full weight. The rope held, and he carefully shifted his body in order to reach for the young woman.

He spoke quietly. “Hang in there. I’m going to reach my left arm around your waist. Try to hold on as best you can.”

She looked into his eyes. “Thank—” was all she got out before she collapsed, her entire weight held by his left arm. With his right hand on the rope braking their now-combined weight, he slowly lowered them to the ground.

Laying the young woman gently down, he unclipped himself from the rope and knelt beside her, feeling her neck for a pulse. It was weak, but she was still alive. Tearing strips of cloth off his shirt, he rebound the wound on her leg, slowing the flow of blood still further. Picking her up in his arms, he started off for the parking lot as fast as he could go. Her pale face was turned against his chest, the strong, determined look she’d shown on the cliff replaced by the fragile look of a vulnerable girl.

His arms burning with fatigue, Zane reached the parking area. In the distance he could hear the lonely siren of the MDA. Opening the gate of his pickup, he gently laid the young woman down again, once more feeling her neck for a pulse. He could barely discern it through the tips of his fingers.

Two minutes later, the paramedics arrived. As they checked her vital signs, he briefly explained what had happened, leaving out his part in rescuing her. He could tell by the way the paramedics talked that they were concerned. Her blood pressure was very low and in the danger zone. Quickly they loaded her into the ambulance, and as they readied to leave, Zane asked if he could ride along. They said no and abruptly left.

Zane was left standing in a cloud of dust. The adrenaline which had been coursing through his veins had begun to dissipate, and he started to shake. He stood there for a few minutes, his thoughts going over the events of the past hour. Finally he decided to retrieve his climbing gear. Along the way, he realized he had not even asked where they had taken her. Hopefully the young woman would be okay.

As he drew near to the area where the accident had taken place, he could see the crimson streak, like a ribbon, hanging thirty feet down the cliff. He marveled again at how she had managed to hold on to the cliff after such an injury, and with the loss of so much blood. His rope was still where he had left it on the rock, so he walked up and shook it loose. Picking up his remaining gear, he noticed her small backpack against a rock. Maybe it would provide some means of identifying her. Retrieving it, he set out a final time for the parking area, his truck, and the long drive back to the dig site.