An Eye For An Eye (22 page)

Charlie McGuire deftly stepped over the third rail, ducked below the small arch and stopped in front of the electrical panel. He opened the panel and pulled the meter from his belt. Standing six-foot two and topping the scales at two hundred and twenty pounds, the archway was a tight fit. He didn’t mind. A big man, he was surprisingly dexterous in the nooks and crannies and small passageways of the subterranean station.

As he connected the meter, the ground shook as a loud bang echoed through the tunnels. He braced himself in the archway as debris—dust, soot and small pieces of stone—rained down around him. Almost immediately, he heard the klaxon; the electronic whooping of the emergency alarm. An electrician by trade, he was one of hundreds of tradesmen—plumbers, mechanics, elevator repairmen—who kept Grand Central Terminal operating seven days a week. But when the alarm sounded, he became a fireman. He quickly stuffed the meter back into his utility belt and backed out of the small passageway.

Moments later, back up on the platform, he began to weave his way between the startled passengers, then turned and jogged down the passageway toward Track Fourteen. One of twenty volunteers—all certified firefighters and licensed emergency medical technicians—he was a member of the Grand Central Terminal Fire Brigade. The Brigade was the first responder to any emergency within the forty-seven-acre complex. With almost seven hundred and fifty thousand people passing through each day and over one hundred restaurants, eateries, coffee shops, and retail stores, Grand Central Terminal was a city within a city. Not surprisingly, medical emergencies were common, and the brigade responded to the frequent slips and falls of rushing passengers as well as the occasional dizzy spells and heart attacks.

And while the number of fire incidents had dropped dramatically since the brigade’s inception a quarter of a century ago—thanks to their vigilance in fire prevention—they still responded to almost two dozen fires each year. Usually the result of trash on the tracks or the occasional transformer failure or grease fire, these were dealt with swiftly and professionally, the fire often extinguished by the time the New York City Fire Department arrived.

The klaxon continued to blare as McGuire turned again. Probably a transformer explosion, he thought. As he turned another corner, he spotted a group of men and women from his unit in front of the garage that housed their gear. They were pulling on the white hazmat suits. Must be a steam pipe explosion, he thought. Installed, in some cases, almost one hundred years ago, it was assumed that the pipes were covered in asbestos.

“What’s up, Chief?” he called.

A man ten years his junior, an elevator mechanic who usually had a joke and a smile for everyone, looked up. There was no sparkle in his eyes today.

“Suit up, Charlie.” The chief ordered then paused, his eyes narrowing. “An explosion on Track Twenty-three. Francine’s over in the area. She’s picking up high levels on the PRD.”

Charlie dropped his belt in front of his locker and began pulling on his gear.
High levels on the personal radiation detector
, he thought, cursing under his breath. As he hurried to pull on the suit, he thought about his wife and sons. For the first time in his career as a firefighter, he was scared.

Sergeant Joe D’Agostino was sitting in the driver’s seat of his patrol car at the corner of East 44
th
Street and Vanderbilt Avenue. He glanced over at the rookie—the young kid he had the misfortune to be babysitting—and yelled out the window.

“With cream and two sugars!” He paused then added, “Don’t screw it up this time!”

The rookie, standing in front of the pushcart, turned and grinned. “Got it, Sarge,” he yelled back.

D’Agostino shook his head and grinned. The kid was all right. He listened. He asked the right questions. And he had a good sense of humor. But, he was a rookie officer with only four months on the job. He had a lot to learn.

D’Agostino watched as the kid paid the vendor and carried two cups back to the car. He took the coffee from the rookie without a word. He shifted in his seat and took a sip. Eighteen years on the job, he had grown immune to the long stints in the car and the hemorrhoids that came with it. He had grown immune to his doctor’s warnings about the food he ate, especially while on patrol. All great tasting—over eighteen years he had learned where to eat and where not to—it had too much fat, too much salt, too much of all the things that made food good. And he had grown immune to the silence. He could sit for hours at a time with a partner, both having figured out that they didn’t need to say anything to fill the void, and that, after all of the time they spent together, there really wasn’t much left to say anyway.

He glanced over at the rookie and sighed. Unfortunately, he couldn’t remain silent today. The kid had to learn, and the only way that was going to happen was if someone like him—a seasoned veteran who knew his way around the streets and around the department—took the kid under his wing and taught him what he knew.

But that could wait until he finished his coffee. He watched the stream of pedestrians heading up Vanderbilt, passing the MetLife Building, and glanced down at the doors to Grand Central where the stream began. It would be like this until shortly before nine, when it would start to trickle but never quite stop. Then, in the afternoon, the stream would reverse, starting shortly before four as the commuters headed back to Grand Central to catch trains to Stamford and White Plains and God knew where else.

He grinned as the young woman in a very short skirt began to cross Vanderbilt, heading directly toward their car. Despite the cool weather, her jacket was open, and he could see the plunging neckline of her blouse. The rookie, he noticed, had spotted her too. The kid was catching on. He was about to say something when there was a muffled boom and he saw the young woman flinch, a confused expression on her face.

“What the hell was that?” the rookie asked.

Ignoring him, D’Agostino scanned the street, searching for the source, his eyes drawn to the doors of Grand Central a block away. Startled, pedestrians had stopped mid-stride, some glancing over their shoulders, others turning and hurrying away. Several ran. Seconds later, people began to pour out of the doors.

One handed, D’Agostino hit the lights and the siren then slammed the gearshift into drive. He handed his coffee to the rookie.

“Call it in,” he said as he turned onto Vanderbilt and sped down the block. “Possible Ten-Thirty-Three. Explosion in Grand Central Terminal. Unknown source,” he added as he chirped the siren, scattering pedestrians in the process. The rookie, unsure what to do with the coffees, dropped them out the window then reached for the radio. As he made the call, D’Agostino crossed the double yellow line and pulled up to the entrance across from East 43
rd
Street.

“Let’s go,” he yelled to the rookie then shot him a warning look. “Stick with me.”

The kid nodded.

D’Agostino climbed out of the car and took two steps when the radiation pager on his belt started to vibrate.
Oh, shit!
He stared down at it for a moment to make sure the pager wasn’t malfunctioning, then reached for his radio.

He looked up just in time to see the rookie disappear into the terminal.

Seven blocks north of Grand Central, Anthony McGrath, sitting in his office on the second floor of the firehouse, glanced at the calendar then bowed his head. It had been thirty-four years ago to the day, but not a day went by when he didn’t think about Vinny Demarco. And each year on the anniversary, regardless of where he had been stationed over the years, he visited the cemetery on Long Island where Demarco had been buried and he said a prayer. Today, he would do so again at the end of his shift.

Thirty-four years had done nothing to soften the image. He could still see the stairway, he could still smell the smoke—hell, he could still
taste
it. He could still hear the roar of the fire and the screams for help as if it had been yesterday. Chief McGrath had been a probie then, just nine months out of the academy, just nine months since he had graduated from
The Rock
. They had responded to a routine call—a Ten-Seventy-Five—for a structural fire in Queens. He had been following Demarco up the steps of the burning building, behind the nozzle, humping the hose, when Demarco stopped and turned to explain something. Suddenly the ceiling caved in. Had Demarco not stopped, had he not taken a moment to explain something to the probie, it would have been him, not Vinny Demarco, who had been buried below the burning rubble. And it would have been him who thousands of firefighters had donned their dress uniforms for, to pay their final respects. One second and some luck had been all that had mattered and, as a result, the fire had taken Vinny Demarco instead of him.

His radio crackled, interrupting his thoughts. As he reached for it, the alarm sounded in the stationhouse. He took the call. A moment later, he grabbed his hat and coat and hurried down the steps to the watch center. Over the loudspeakers, he heard the watch officer’s voice telling the station what he already knew.

“Box Zero-Seven-Eight-Nine, Park and Forty-Second,” the loudspeaker crackled. “We’ve got a report of an explosion at Grand Central Terminal. Everybody goes.”

He took the ticket from the watch officer.
A transformer explosion?
he wondered seconds later, when he stepped onto the apparatus floor.
Or a steam pipe?
He had seen his share of both over the years. He glanced at the men as they hurried to pull on their bunker gear. They wore the serious faces of a brotherhood that so few understood, one that put their lives on the line daily in a never-ending battle against death. He had attended too many funerals, had buried too many brothers over his thirty-five years on the job to take anything for granted. Even routine fires could turn ugly real fast. The difference between life and death, he knew all too well, often came down to seconds and sometimes, despite the skill, training, and unparalleled bravery of the firefighters responding, to sheer luck.

Now though, he thought with a sigh as he watched the men, it wasn’t just burning buildings they had to worry about. Now, hazardous materials, accidentally spilled or otherwise, as well as terrorists and the threat of all of the chaos and destruction they could bring kept him awake at night. He exchanged a glance with the captain as he headed for the door. The captain nodded. The message was always the same:
Let’s bring our boys home safe from this one.

Thirty seconds after the alarm was received, Engine Eight pulled out onto East 51
st
Street. Two firefighters stood in the middle of the street, blocking traffic. Ladder Two, referred to as Two Truck by the men in the firehouse, came next. The chief, already in his Suburban, glanced at his aide as he reached for the radio.

“Battalion Eight to Manhattan. Box Zero-Seven-Eight-Nine.”

As the chief waited for the reply, he watched as the last two firefighters hopped onto the back of Two Truck. His aide pulled out behind them.

“Battalion Eight,” the radio said in reply. “Engine Sixty-Five is first due. You’ve also got Engine Twenty-One, Four Truck, Rescue One, Engine Eight and Two Truck responding.”

“Contact the Transit Authority and Metro-North,” the chief ordered. He needed information, the more the better. A transformer or a steam pipe explosion could be tricky. A high-voltage third rail, narrow platforms and tunnels, and the high likelihood of asbestos added to the challenge. He would need to speak to Con Ed as well.

The aide chirped his siren as the light turned red. Ignoring it, he leaned on the horn as he followed Two Truck, turning south onto Lexington Avenue. Like the trucks he followed, the aide alternated between the horn and the siren, a vain attempt to move the traffic out of their way. A minute and a half later, they crossed 45
th
Street when there was a cackle on the radio.

“Engine Sixty-Five to Battalion Eight.”

“Battalion Eight,” McGrath responded.

“Battalion Eight, we’re getting hits on the rad meter.”

“Ten-Five?” The chief asked as he glanced at his aide. The aide frowned.

“We’re getting hits on the rad meter. Both at the main entrance at Park and at Vanderbilt.” There was a hiss. “Very high readings, boss.”

“Shit!” the chief swore under his breath. “Hold your position, Sixty-Five.” He pictured the scene in his mind. The Park Avenue overpass created a canopy over the main entrance on Forty-Second Street, but the south side of the station was also accessible at the corner of Vanderbilt Avenue on the west side, both at Forty-Second Street and at Forty-Third. It was also accessible from below ground.

“Engine Sixty-Five. Establish a perimeter. Take readings at the subway entrances.” Those, the chief knew, were across the street. He made another call, instructing Engine Eight and Two Truck to stop at 43
rd
Street. The Graybar Building had a passageway that led to the main concourse. Seconds later, as his aide pulled to the curb, men were already hopping out of the fire trucks in front.

As the chief climbed out of the Suburban, the firefighters were jogging toward the entrance. Suddenly, they stopped short and the captain began waving them away from the doors. The chief could hear the shouts.