New York City, New York State //
The audacious City Hall infiltration plot
Claiming the showpiece of the NYC Subway
Date September 2009
Posted December 2010
Posted December 2010
For the hundredth time that night Shane's laughter reverberated across the room. With Johnny Cash thundering from the overfed jukebox as her soundtrack the vivacious barmaid, dressed up in questionable attire, shimmied along the bar top in her cowboy boots deftly stepping over glasses and bottles whilst balancing two cans of Coors on her head. She made it to the other end and the bet was lost but it seemed to make no difference: a crazy cocktail of various substances was pushed forth from behind the bar and together we toasted anything and everything. By now we were headed towards being out of control and Eric's ankle, propped up on a bar stool, was approaching the size of a basketball. If this is the American Way then who'd want to be anywhere else?
Two hours earlier standing on a nondescript NYC Subway platform somewhere in Manhattan's midtown, the four of us had tried hard to avoid looking as 'shook' as we really were. Fresh news of terror raids in Queens adorned recent front pages of the New York Times, occasionally supplemented with comments about subway security being stepped up. The 21st century is a jumpy time for the West and nowhere moreso than in New York City. "After 9/11, everything changed" remarked Shane a few days earlier as we'd eyed one of New York's bridges. There's the higher chance of being caught, and then the greater penalty to be paid.
The unmistakeable sound of a diesel locomotive could be heard from along the tunnel, throttling up the slight incline before bursting through the station. Bright yellow and manned by MTA workers this vacuum or track inspection train was hardly a good sign: the night shifts were starting, and evidently work would be taking place nearby. The other passengers littered around the station barely paid any notice - this was only really of interest to ourselves. The four of us looked at each other in disbelief, the others also thinking of the night before when our attempt had been cancelled thanks to swarms of track maintenance staff down in the tunnels.
Compared to those whose intent is to wreak death and destruction, our motivations are relatively harmless. There is though the chance that infiltrating active subway tunnels could spark an out-of-proportion response, suspended train services and a high police presence. For myself and dsankt as foreigners there were more questions to contemplate. Would capture lead to deportation? Fines? Imprisonment? Or maybe even a ban from returning to the US? Whilst I pondered such consequences, there was no doubting what must happen next. This would be more risky than any of the bridges, sitting beneath the closely guarded City Hall from which the disused IRT (Interborough Rapid Transit) station takes it's name. In fact, security concerns of this nature are what put an end to the occasional public tours.
Shane nodded and we began walking towards the end of the platform. As there were no signs to indicate when the next arrivals would come hurtling down the tunnel we had to guess, each carefully descending the steps and stepping onto the blackened ballast, attracting only half-interested glances from passengers waiting for trains. There was no need for them to be alarmed - this was something they witnessed several times a week because most work parties gather on the platforms and then descend onto the lines as one.
Keeping to the shadows we moved further from the lights and noise of the station. If we had been rumbled then it was too late - our fate was sealed. The prize should be claimed anyway. We kept going. Our next way-marker was a junction between the Lexington Avenue Line and a single track loop that carries the 6 Train round beneath it, sending the cars rattling back northwards in the direction of The Bronx. We took stock in an alcove and waited.
A loud banging began to eminate from the darkness beyond the junction, quickly joined by a bright white light forcing us to shield eyes and squeeze closer to the wall. Ten seconds later the train crashed past, continuing down the main line and out of sight. Very soon afterwards a second train raced into earshot, audibly slowing down before veering across complicated pointwork and sparking past us, mere meters away, and into the loop. Lights from the windows highlighted red and white boards at the entrance to the tunnel, and the text painted upon them: Zero Clearance. Seconds later we raced along behind the trailing lights of the rear cab, once again leaving it to chance to ensure no guard was sat inside gazing out onto the track. Steel toecap boots dodged third rails, sleeper ends and wires; arms avoided cable racks and signals. Our window provided for less than a minute of this, and we ran like we knew it. Upon reaching the platform a few steps took us up onto it, and now we ran hard to where the stairs lead up to the sealed passenger entrance. Already we could hear the next train hammering its way towards the start of the loop.
The next train passed and now we emerged. Standing on the platform of the long disused station that we sought would not bring cheers, monetary prizes or a crate of malt liquor. It would not lead to promotion, a pay rise, holiday, new car or other rewards generally considered by society as being worth sweating for. Instead each would claim a few snaps of the station between trains, hope that cops were not already sealing off the streets above and evacuating City Hall itself, and that the exit were as trouble-free as the entrance. More importantly all would feel the high of completing a puzzle, because that's what this is about. Take away the nerdy history angle (rest assured this disused station has already been comprehensively 'documented') and you're left with a problem. You see the photo, hear the rumours, the stories, look at the maps and plans and you ask: How the hell do we get into that? What would it be like to try it? This is the motivation for such escapades, and so the driver and the 'why'.
As it turned out the exit was to prove a little more difficult than the entry. If you go there for yourself then you'll realise why the escape window is about half as wide as the entry one, and that's before factoring in that you're now running 'against the flow'. Eric landed badly on the track and rolled his ankle, and towards the loop entrance we could already see the glow of the next train's light illuminating the main line. We tripped and stumbled out of the zero clearance tunnel just in time, dropping back into the alcove to wait for the train to go past and into the loop. From this point Eric had to keep stopping to rest before hobbling onward, completing about 50m between trains. Upon reaching the platform we couldn't dither, and shoved Eric up the steps and told him to act as normal as possible. Meanwhile a group of workers on the opposite platform turned silent and looked over at us. Shane saved the day, grinning and shouting "Hey guys!". There were a few half-convinced murmurs in reply, and then we were through the barriers.
Not pausing for thought or breath we charged through the station in the direction of our exit. At the top of the steps we bustled out into the night air dragging the casualty with us, flagged a taxi and were gone. "Driver, to The Patriot!"
Two hours earlier standing on a nondescript NYC Subway platform somewhere in Manhattan's midtown, the four of us had tried hard to avoid looking as 'shook' as we really were. Fresh news of terror raids in Queens adorned recent front pages of the New York Times, occasionally supplemented with comments about subway security being stepped up. The 21st century is a jumpy time for the West and nowhere moreso than in New York City. "After 9/11, everything changed" remarked Shane a few days earlier as we'd eyed one of New York's bridges. There's the higher chance of being caught, and then the greater penalty to be paid.
The unmistakeable sound of a diesel locomotive could be heard from along the tunnel, throttling up the slight incline before bursting through the station. Bright yellow and manned by MTA workers this vacuum or track inspection train was hardly a good sign: the night shifts were starting, and evidently work would be taking place nearby. The other passengers littered around the station barely paid any notice - this was only really of interest to ourselves. The four of us looked at each other in disbelief, the others also thinking of the night before when our attempt had been cancelled thanks to swarms of track maintenance staff down in the tunnels.
Compared to those whose intent is to wreak death and destruction, our motivations are relatively harmless. There is though the chance that infiltrating active subway tunnels could spark an out-of-proportion response, suspended train services and a high police presence. For myself and dsankt as foreigners there were more questions to contemplate. Would capture lead to deportation? Fines? Imprisonment? Or maybe even a ban from returning to the US? Whilst I pondered such consequences, there was no doubting what must happen next. This would be more risky than any of the bridges, sitting beneath the closely guarded City Hall from which the disused IRT (Interborough Rapid Transit) station takes it's name. In fact, security concerns of this nature are what put an end to the occasional public tours.
Shane nodded and we began walking towards the end of the platform. As there were no signs to indicate when the next arrivals would come hurtling down the tunnel we had to guess, each carefully descending the steps and stepping onto the blackened ballast, attracting only half-interested glances from passengers waiting for trains. There was no need for them to be alarmed - this was something they witnessed several times a week because most work parties gather on the platforms and then descend onto the lines as one.
Keeping to the shadows we moved further from the lights and noise of the station. If we had been rumbled then it was too late - our fate was sealed. The prize should be claimed anyway. We kept going. Our next way-marker was a junction between the Lexington Avenue Line and a single track loop that carries the 6 Train round beneath it, sending the cars rattling back northwards in the direction of The Bronx. We took stock in an alcove and waited.
A loud banging began to eminate from the darkness beyond the junction, quickly joined by a bright white light forcing us to shield eyes and squeeze closer to the wall. Ten seconds later the train crashed past, continuing down the main line and out of sight. Very soon afterwards a second train raced into earshot, audibly slowing down before veering across complicated pointwork and sparking past us, mere meters away, and into the loop. Lights from the windows highlighted red and white boards at the entrance to the tunnel, and the text painted upon them: Zero Clearance. Seconds later we raced along behind the trailing lights of the rear cab, once again leaving it to chance to ensure no guard was sat inside gazing out onto the track. Steel toecap boots dodged third rails, sleeper ends and wires; arms avoided cable racks and signals. Our window provided for less than a minute of this, and we ran like we knew it. Upon reaching the platform a few steps took us up onto it, and now we ran hard to where the stairs lead up to the sealed passenger entrance. Already we could hear the next train hammering its way towards the start of the loop.
The next train passed and now we emerged. Standing on the platform of the long disused station that we sought would not bring cheers, monetary prizes or a crate of malt liquor. It would not lead to promotion, a pay rise, holiday, new car or other rewards generally considered by society as being worth sweating for. Instead each would claim a few snaps of the station between trains, hope that cops were not already sealing off the streets above and evacuating City Hall itself, and that the exit were as trouble-free as the entrance. More importantly all would feel the high of completing a puzzle, because that's what this is about. Take away the nerdy history angle (rest assured this disused station has already been comprehensively 'documented') and you're left with a problem. You see the photo, hear the rumours, the stories, look at the maps and plans and you ask: How the hell do we get into that? What would it be like to try it? This is the motivation for such escapades, and so the driver and the 'why'.
As it turned out the exit was to prove a little more difficult than the entry. If you go there for yourself then you'll realise why the escape window is about half as wide as the entry one, and that's before factoring in that you're now running 'against the flow'. Eric landed badly on the track and rolled his ankle, and towards the loop entrance we could already see the glow of the next train's light illuminating the main line. We tripped and stumbled out of the zero clearance tunnel just in time, dropping back into the alcove to wait for the train to go past and into the loop. From this point Eric had to keep stopping to rest before hobbling onward, completing about 50m between trains. Upon reaching the platform we couldn't dither, and shoved Eric up the steps and told him to act as normal as possible. Meanwhile a group of workers on the opposite platform turned silent and looked over at us. Shane saved the day, grinning and shouting "Hey guys!". There were a few half-convinced murmurs in reply, and then we were through the barriers.
Not pausing for thought or breath we charged through the station in the direction of our exit. At the top of the steps we bustled out into the night air dragging the casualty with us, flagged a taxi and were gone. "Driver, to The Patriot!"
