FIRECLOSURE How to burn down Wall Street and get away with it

By JH Gordon

Home foreclosures became epidemic in 2006. Since then banks created over 45,000,000 homeless America refugees. They’re not evacuating down roads with their belongings on their backs so they remain invisible. They're refugees of a massive fraud and government's failure to protect them. This is a story of America getting angry and even.

Fires begin to rage across America inspired by a simple work of fiction. Shocked and stunned the author welcomes help from a reporter and her muckraking newspaper. The government blames him; shadowy agents of the financial elite want him dead. And international terrorists plan to fan the flames adding genocide to America’s second revolution by fire. Time to run.

A must read for the 99%

• Language: English
• Publisher: JH Gordon
• Release date: Oct 24, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466048270

JH Gordon

Who and what am I? I'm an American expat living in South America working on my next book. In addition to Fireclosure, "Joe Detective" is a seven book noir detective series with number eight coming soon. I ventured south for a number of good reasons not the least of which is a type of isolation that frees me from California distractions. South America renews me. Ancient culture struggling with the new is interesting since all the "new" is something out of 1950's America. My background ranges from the detective business to the business of business having been an entrepreneur most of my life in diverse businesses and lifestyles. Rock m'Roll to commerce to consulting to seminars. From real estate investment to a construction outfit. I've done too many things to list and it's hard to remember some. As such, I've seen the duality of morality in the way society wrestles with being civilized and comes up wanting. It may be that somehow, by writing things about criminality and simmering violence, I prevent myself from becoming one of my characters. (Leaving the evidence in writing as it were.) My love of the underdog and the realist comes out in my stories. I'm finally doing what I love best. I'm having new adventures every day and I get to be a story teller. I write for people who know a camp fire and their imaginations are better than 70 millimeter film even with Sound Around. I can only hope they forgive my errors in spelling and my sometimes stumbling expression. I think they do. In person I display the usual human frailties. I'm neither good nor completely bad. I value my liberty more than anything else, and a small eclectic group of friends. I love life and stress on it as little as possible. I'm of an age where I'm conscious of time running out. But I look forward to what comes next. As Joe Detective said, "Death is like a traffic accident, you'd love to stay and watch, but you're out of popcorn." I always make too much popcorn and I think that's what life is about. Stories I do fairly well, I'm told. But when it comes to writing a personal description I can only say my life is a decades old run-on sentence and you'd have to have been there to understand. Lucky for me, I've outlived the statute of limitations many times and more than a few of mine enemies. Thanks to my valuable friends... JH Gordon

Book preview

Chapter One

If I were you, I’d make myself scarce. I know I’m your lawyer, but buddy, I do Wills and Trusts. So trust me on this; update your will and get out of town. Hell, I'd probably tell you to get out of town even if I were a criminal lawyer!

All Lawyers are criminals.... Cal stared at the television. CNN is reporting ARSON IN AMERICA, the screen flashing with pictures of fires and more fires. ABC and CBS are the same. He was thankful he only had basic cable.

Very funny... Listen buddy, I don’t know why you wrote the damn thing or what you thought might happen, but it’s time to duck until you figure how things are gonna shake out. Has anybody contacted you yet?

No, not yet… At that moment, he heard the call waiting beep. I spoke too soon.

Well they’ll be calling soon, that-is-for-sure. You can’t incite the whole country to arson and not expect your phone to ring, or a battering ram at your door.

It’s supposed to be unlisted.

"Sure, unlisted phone, the house in a trust, and using a pen name for your book, ...like any of that protects you anymore. Somebody’s gonna come lookin’, pal, and they’ll find you. Man…, what were you thinking?

It’s just a damn book. I didn’t think anybody would… Cal imagined the call-waiting signal was becoming more insistent.

This could be First Amendment or it could be Treason; Hell, I don’t know… I think you’re entitled to an insanity defense just for writing that screwball stuff. This is way out of my league, Cal; I’d be hidin’ under the bed.

NBC’s Special Report banner said; USA- COAST TO COAST CONFLAGRATION. Cal thumbed the mute button and tossed the remote on the couch. Ok, find me a defense lawyer. I’ll wait for your call.

I know a couple of people I can contact. That’s the best I can offer, bud. Meanwhile keep your head down. I still think it’s time for a vacation.

Yeah, and lessons on unwinding a watch… Cal said goodbye and clicked over to the incoming call.

The woman on the other end said her name was Myra something, a reporter with a Washington D.C. newspaper. She congratulated him on his book going viral on the internet. He said thanks and then realized she called him Mr. Lawrence instead of his pen name.

I’d like to fly out and interview you. I can be there in the morning. I’d really appreciate an exclusive. You may need the support of our paper. That thought had already occurred to him.

I know what you mean. I just need time to sort this out.

Look, Mr. Lawrence, I promise I’ll present your side in the best light possible. I’m sure you didn’t mean for this to happen.

My best defense, you mean.

I’m a writer, Mr. Lawrence; I know what words can do. I’m on your side. All I ask is that you wait for me to get there. Can you give me your address?

Cal hesitated as he stared at the fires on the television screen. Life had just changed drastically.

Up in smoke… he said quietly.

"What? Mr. Lawrence, are you still there? You may be in a lot of trouble. Let me help you....

Chapter Two

The one hundred and twelfth floor of the gleaming glass tower hovers over the city strewn below. For miles, the colors are muted sooty-gray. In the distance, tiny dots of flames punctuate the landscape like fireflies.

High above the city, the boardroom is filled with worried faces. The Chairman climbs three steps to the lectern, his breath is short and shallow and his pulse pounds like a muted kettledrum. The massive room is an excruciating glare. Garbled voices crash against him in waves.

So much noise he thinks, but the noise can’t drown out the pounding in his ears.

He is sweating profusely. Even in this opulent, air-conditioned room, sweat is flowing down his armpits, his shirt is soaked. His soft manicured fingers move automatically to straighten his tie and detect the cold of his damp shirt. He wonders why he still feels so hot.

For a moment, he tries to focus on the tense crowd. His chest rises and falls without taking in air and his throat tightens.

He taps the microphone with his finger and the room is suddenly hushed. All eyes turn toward him.

He’s vaguely aware that the thudding in his ears has stopped. Anxious faces swim before him and his peripheral vision darkens into a tunnel. The pain behind his eyes intensifies.

The American insurance industry, as we know it, is dead, it takes all of his last breath.

He’s obliquely aware of his knees buckling. How odd, he thinks as he collapses to the floor. His chin ricochets off the edge of the lectern. The last thing he sees is a pinhole of light. The last thing he hears is silence.

Chapter Three

On the other coast in America, a home sits empty. It’s been empty for months.

Outside, the seal on the gas main has been clipped off, and the control valve cranked wide open.

Footprints lead to the rear yard where the sliding glass door has been jimmied.

A pound of bacon in a cheap pan pops and sizzles on the stove. Blue flames lick the underside of the pan and greasy black smoke paints the ceiling.

Windows in every room have been opened about an inch, they’re turning black too.

In a matter of minutes, wisps of smoke exhale through the roof vents. It doesn’t take long. The roof soon sags and crashes in on itself.

The 911 operator’s only interest is whether the house is occupied, not even caring to know the address. The frightened caller is astonished; what difference does that make, it’s on fire!

Forcing the address on the operator, the woman slams the phone down and runs outside screeching out an alarm to her neighbors.

An hour later, a single fire truck arrives. Beleaguered firemen clamber to the ground. It’s their twelfth response of the morning. It’s too late, of course. The house is a total loss. There’s nothing left to do but wet down the ashes.

On the lawn in front of the smoldering ruin is a broken real estate sign where it reads: Foreclosure, Bank Owned. At the center of the sign is a muddy boot print smearing the agent’s smile.

As the exhausted firemen drive away, their eyes sweep over dozens of foreclosure signs dotting the neighborhood. They know they’ll be back.

Chapter Four

Across the country, thousands of alarms in firehouses sound almost simultaneously that first day.

Firefighters respond to call after call. Acrid smoke fills the air in cities and small towns across America.

The early morning light brightens and then the sky is obscured almost everywhere. Sirens and air horns on emergency vehicles blot out the usual sounds of dawn, the birds, and all normality. The first fires have begun. It was just the beginning of the conflagration. Tomorrow will bring thousands more.

Before noon in a small central California town, the antique bell hammers out the fifteenth alarm since dawn. Manned with only weary volunteers, the Chief calls for additional support from other communities. There is none to be had. Fires are everywhere. He calls in former volunteers, some of whom are in their sixties. The older men are game enough but tire easily. Tired men can get hurt.

The whole community is responding. He’s very proud of his little town. But untrained, fatigued help is sometimes worse than none. It’s a tough call and it’s his responsibility. He’s a worried man.

Mostly, he set the older guys on mop-up jobs leaving them at knocked down sites with linked garden hoses from neighboring houses. They serve willingly and are appreciated; If only new fires would quit popping up.

Lieutenant Stewart is refueling the grimy pumper truck. Two injured men means he’s doing triple duty; he’s not the only one. As the alarm bell jangles, exhausted firefighters shuffle back to the trucks. Dragging their equipment behind them, they haven’t had time to sit down.

There must be an army of firebugs out there, the Chief thinks angrily.

He climbs back onto the command truck and has to yell over the din of diesel motors, District two has seven alarms, so we’re still on our own. Be careful out there!

Chapter Five

Harry’s job is simple. He watches television all day. He works for Homeland Security in an obscure division called Commercial News and Information Analysis.

He supposes it’s a step up from his old security job at the refinery. He worked hard to pass his Civil Service Exams and spent three evenings a week taking Law Enforcement classes at the junior college.

And yet, here he is again, sitting in front of monitors. Only now he watches news programs all day; CNN, NBC, CBS, ABC, even FOX. Twenty screens locked on to news from MSNBC, GOOGLE, BBC, NPR, Al Jazeera, and more, all flickering in the crowded little room. No guard gates, or pipelines, or valves to watch.

His dream was to live in the world of secret agents, black ops, clever escapes, and gorgeous sexy spies. He dreams of brave deeds, of feats of strength in wild combat; saving beautiful heroines, and defeating America’s enemies.

He’s fully aware that he becomes winded climbing a flight of stairs. Still his Walter Mitty world flourishes in his imagination. He’s also aware that the closest he will ever come to an act of heroism, is opening a can of tuna for his cat; an ungrateful cat at that.

Harry finds solace in fast food and the Federal Employee Retirement Pension he will receive in only 18 more years.

But today, an unusual pattern is developing. The monitors have congealed into a focused message. Program interruptions on all channels are blaring out reports of fires across the nation. The number of fires can’t be counted. It seems like thousands.

Fire departments everywhere are issuing calls for assistance. Commuter traffic is snarled, shops and schools are closed. In some areas, police and city workers are being conscripted to help fight the fires and direct traffic. FEMA and the Red Cross are on full alert and in a headlong response.

The wire services are cranking out the same information. Harry quickly clicks a command out to the dot-matrix printers next to the wall behind him and checks the extra hard drives.

Grabbing the interoffice phone, he punches the button for his supervisor. Miss Brimley, Harry yells into the phone, you need to see this, and hurry!

Chapter Six

Mr. President, we’re under attack. Ashen faced, the Chief of Staff looks stricken. He tried his best to keep calm but he was not succeeding.

Terrorists are attacking every city in America. There are fires everywhere! The state governors are calling out militias and we’ve got multiple requests for federal troops. He waves a thick sheaf of faxes as evidence. And sir, the FBI Director is outside.

The President had been watching the news so he knew about the fires. Out of the Oval Office window, he can see smoke crawling like a blanket over Washington. To say something is horribly wrong would be an understatement. But who is doing this? The President’s demeanor remains cool and deliberate.

The Director of the FBI enters, and the President nods an acknowledgement,

Thank you for coming. Tell me what you’ve got.

The Director places a thin folder on the polished desk. This is what we know so far Mr. President.

How many killed? the President asked as he draws the folder toward him.

"Oddly enough sir, there’s an estimated 15,000 fires but there are only 11 reported casualties, and 3 of those have been firefighters. The others are mostly traffic related or heart attacks as far as we can tell. And the smoke has shut down several major airports. There’s chaos everywhere.

This doesn’t make sense, 15,000 fires? the President can’t hide his surprise. His brow furrows deeply as he opens the folder.

How can this be? Who’s behind this?

The Director shakes his head and looks longingly at the visitor’s chairs in front of the gleaming desk. He feels shaky. His stomach is churning with acid and his bowels are turning to water. He has to sit down. With an invisible shrug, he sits in the nearest chair.

We just don’t know yet. he manages to say, and with a sigh, his body slumps.

The President ignores this breach in protocol and continues to stand. The few terse sentences in the report contain little more than he already knows himself; except for the stunning numbers that is.

What else do we know? while his eyes narrow at the Director.

We believe these fires are connected, the Director’s fingers swept his moist forehead as he tries to sit up straight. And we know there aren’t enough terrorist cells on the planet to pull this off. Not even if they emptied the Middle East and shipped Al Qaida over here by the boatload.

We know these fires are deliberate. We know the attack is coordinated. We know the fires are occurring in vacant bank-owned properties. And that’s what baffles me. Why would terrorists only set fires to empty buildings?

An emergency cabinet meeting was called for 1:30 PM. There was a delay because the Secretary of State had deplaned at Dulles but the chopper had trouble getting clearance to take off. And then it had difficulty landing on the White House helipad because of the smoke. The smoke made all air traffic dangerous. There had been a Secret Service communications glitch as well. The Vice President was still en route.

The meeting started at 2:45 but no one seemed to notice the time. Everyone’s attention was riveted on the bank of TV monitors from the major networks.

The BBC reported America under attack making 9/11 look like a campfire.

Al Jazeera was vehemently denying the attacks were the beginning of a Jihad.

CBS, ABC, NBC, and CNN all jumped from affiliate to affiliate; San Francisco, LA, Seattle, Denver, Boise, Dallas, Tallahassee, Atlanta, New York, Boston, Chicago, all covering hundreds of fires each. Local stations were going crazy covering the fires. Traffic was being diverted away from the worst areas. Surprisingly, the casualties remained unbelievably low.

The availability of water for fighting the fires was becoming a critical issue everywhere. Helicopters along both coasts were resorting to seawater drops and claims of fish and seaweed falling from the sky were an interesting side-note.

The low number of fatalities nation-wide made it clear; if this is a terrorist attack, it is a very strange one indeed.

FOX commentators reported several attacks by turbaned men invading homes; that an un-named Washington source had hinted Osama bin Laden was coordinating the attacks from a Caribbean island 90 miles from US shores; they also reported the President was on holiday at Camp David.

Chapter Seven

Tommy Johansson had been a volunteer fireman since he was 18. Tall and powerfully built, he was now stooped due to fatigue. He tugged at the heavy fire hose as it pulled back at him. Cold night air and icy water numbed his back and feet. His face stung from the searing heat. The flaming energy was only slightly softened by the fog of spraying water.

Tommy had a strong body and was no stranger to work. He’d seen his share of danger too.

He’d been called in for his second 12-hour shift without a break. His arm and back muscles screamed. He staggered as the high-pressure spray shot at the flaming ranch-style house.

I may as well be pissing at it, he said over the roar. The sound of the big motors and the crackling fire was intense. He doggedly waved the huge fan of water trying to compensate for the wind.

Tired to the bone, he knew the structure was doomed, a complete loss, finished. All he could do was try to keep the fire down enough to prevent flames from spreading to the house next door.

I’d kill for a cup of coffee, he said to no one. He soon got his wish. A gloved hand thumped his shoulder and he heard a muffled voice say, break time, I got it.

Gloved hands reached under his left arm, grabbing the nozzle’s shank and handle. Tommy let go and sidestepped away.

Thanks! Tommy yelled without turning, and trudged toward the tailgate of the command truck.

Coffee and donuts waited under the open tailgate. Pulling off his gloves, his numbed fingers gingerly held a plastic cup under the dented thermos. Out came the steaming sleep substitute he so desperately needed.

With his aching back conformed to the fender of the command truck, he sipped his coffee. He felt the delicious pain of relief in his shoulders. The spasms in his spine were slightly relieved.

Tommy hurt everywhere. Even his hair hurt. He yawned deeply as his stinging eyes wandered toward his hose team.

Shocked, he saw the wide fog-spray become a sharp narrow stream. The stream hit the roof and flaming shingles burst from the surface flying high onto the roof of the house he’d been trying to protect.

What the…! Hey!! No one could hear him and it was already too late. The dry Oak tree hanging over the house next door went up like a road flare. There was no way they could add lines quickly enough, or fight two fires at once. He slumped to the ground and leaned against the tire.

Holy shit, he mumbled to himself. It was a good thing they were at the end of a block. There was nothing more to burn.

As a builder, Tommy hated to see houses burn. He’d joined the Local at the age of 18 and had framed up hundreds of houses. With the sour economy, he’d been laid off. Work prospects looked bleak.

His unemployment benefits were gone and he had considered moving somewhere else. The tough part was, as with most of his friends, that his house was worth less than he’d paid for it. He couldn’t sell. Upside-down, they called it. And now, he was watching his town burn. One by one, for three days running, over 150 fires had wiped out houses in a 5-mile radius. He felt numb.

Jack Toomey hunched down next to him. Sitting in silence, they glumly stared through the mist at the fires. The mist picked up the light from the whirling red and blue emergency flashers and had a hypnotic effect on the men.

The rising flames licked the sky, turning red and then yellow as they emitted a black tongue of smoke. And the smoke obscured the stars.

Who’s the moron on hose 2? He blew that fire totally across the property.

Tommy ignored the question.

Jack was a carpenter too. A couple of years older than Tommy, he was the Shop Steward where Tommy used to work. Jack was raising three kids on his own and doing a damn good job of it. It was just one more reason why Tommy liked him.

As the two men relaxed into an aching reverie Jack said, There’s going to be plenty of work soon.

Chapter Eight

The Vice President sat with his fingers tightly clenched on his desk. He’d spent the last hour listening closely to the reports from the heads of Homeland Security, FBI, and CIA. The VP didn’t particularly like any of them.

Ok, so far you’ve told me exactly nothing. This is a concerted effort; it’s organized, coordinated, and it’s probably not the work of one specific group.

Leaning forward, teeth glinting, eyes narrowed as they moved from face to face. His words came out almost menacing.

Don’t let my affable smile fool you guys. I’m not here as decoration. The President has a problem. If the President has a problem, then I have a problem. If I have a problem, you will have more than you can handle.

He half rose from his desk and leaned closer.

"I do not want the President handed half assed answers, guesses, conjectures, or fucking statistics. I want real answers now. Not tomorrow, now! You get out there and find out who is lighting this country on fire. I ... we want them yesterday! Now get out! Be back here with answers by the time AF1 rotors down on that mole infested lawn. And if you don’t come up with real answers, you’ll be looking for lobbying jobs by morning, and-you-won’t-find-them."

The three men left his office in a hurry. He sat for a moment, recovering. Fucking bureaucrats.

The VP picked up his private phone, touched the fingerprint recognition plate and punched a single button. His call was answered on the first ring. His side of the conversation was jovial.

Hello Charley, how about slapping a ball around? I’ll spot you five holes. He listened to the reply.

No, you’re not on the payroll. Pause.

OK, I’ll buy lunch then. Pause.

OK, and drinks too. Just bring your crystal ball with you. There was a slightly longer pause.

No Charley, mine are diamond plated.

Chapter Nine

The VP’s motorcade of armored SUVs made their way out of the city easily. The Secret Service had a wonderful working relationship with the Capitol Police.

Traffic was slowed or diverted, often for only a few seconds, but long enough for the big gray vehicles to slip out of the city smoothly. As motorcycle security shot forward, the motorcade cruised at a comfortable 80 mph. The pallor of smoke from the fires lessened outside the city. And the cold countryside flashed by.

The sky was a crisp blue away from the city. Over Washington, it was a greasy gray-brown. Twenty-nine minutes later, the motorcade came to a country lane and three miles of fieldstone wall. Soon, the motorcade disappeared through a non-descript entrance.

A long private road wound through tree lined meadows and crossed over little brooks on field stone bridges.

The huge estate appeared to be a country club, or a robber baron’s mansion from the 19th century. It had become an ultra private institution long before WWI.

The few people who were even aware of it speculated privately that it was a training facility for Wild Bill Donovan’s first batch of spooks during WWII, or a nuclear weapons lab, a psychic research facility, a think tank, and even the burial ground of Jimmy Hoffa. To the casual observer in a light plane it simply looked like a great little antique golf course and working farm.

No one knew who owned the place, and if scrutinized, the tax records were indecipherable.

The VP slid into a comfortable booth at the rear of a private dining room. Charley was already there.

Did I keep you waiting? the VP said surprised.

No, I wasn’t waiting said Charley lifting his cocktail as proof. And what’s this about golf? You know I don’t waste my time with that shit. Catch me chasin’ some damn ball around.

The VP shared his most winning smile, I just didn’t want any listeners to think I was doing anything other than nothing.

Charley’s round face had seen many decades. He was still strong and even at his age, not someone you’d want to anger in an enclosed space. Charley’s gruff manner alternated between curmudgeon and comedian. His thick frame still stood straight, his eyes were penetrating, and his smile was both merry and malevolent. The VP liked him a lot.

Charley’s eyebrows arched. They got your office bugged?

Of course not Charley, I’m the VP; who would dare?

How would you know? Charley said.

The VP ignored him.

A waiter appeared, placing cocktails on the table and just as quickly disappeared.

So Charley, who’s trying to burn down America?

Not me, I’m too old for that crap. Why don’t you ask the boys at the Bureau, they know.

Apparently not Charley, I think they’d have coughed up the information by now.

They just don’t have enough imagination to believe what they know. said Charley.

How would you know that?

I know everything, Joe. Didn’t you know that? Want me to get your Hoover file so we can make it into a book? Charley grinned back.

The VP made a cross with his fingers and mugged a look of horror.

Seriously Charley, if they knew, they’d be dumping their guts. You know the skinny on everybody back to the Civil War. And I know you’ve got J. Edgar’s personal scrapbooks. I ... we need your help. It’s what’s happening now that’s got us baffled. We’ve got a terrorist conspiracy going on.

Not really, Charley said simply.

Shit, said the VP just as simply, and slapped his palm on his forehead. Charley just watched him for a moment.

OK Joe, said Charley. "You are buying the lunch and the drinks. So here’s how it goes."

"All your super-cops are lookin’ under rocks for bin Laden, the Mafia, the Columbians, me, you, that dumb ass Bush, and maybe the fuckin’ tooth fairy. But it ain’t gonna do