The Prisoner - Carlos J. Cortes [75]
“How many pounds can you load her with?” Henry was asking.
“Fifty, but we never use more than thirty-five,” Santos said, with something that sounded like pride in his voice.
Laurel neared, and the rest followed suit. “I’m sorry, but what is that?”
Santos slapped his hand on a vast circular piece of steel, several inches thick and probably maneuvered by the shiny hydraulic jacks around it. “She’s an OZM KVG-30 horizontal detonation chamber. She weighs over one hundred fifty tons and can contain the blast from fifty pounds of high explosives.”
“You detonate explosives inside?” Raul asked. “What for?”
Henry turned. “To dispose of unwanted material.” He waved to Barandus to come closer. “Barandus is a friend. He was in Astaneh-e Ashrafiyyeh.”
Santos turned. For an instant, Laurel thought he would stand to attention and salute, but he offered his hand and pumped away for an undue amount of time, his eyes bright. “It’s an honor, sir.”
No wonder, thought Laurel in awe. One hundred twelve men from the fabled Sixth Regiment of the United States Marine Corps had held a position for three days against the massed hordes of two thousand mujahideen insurgents. When relief finally arrived, there were only twelve marines alive. Having exhausted their ammunition, they had resorted to hand-to-hand combat in the city’s narrow streets.
“Let’s not waste any more time,” Santos said. “Over here.” He marched with long strides to some metal tables set against one of the walls.
The group trotted after Santos and regrouped in silence to stare at piles of puttylike tan-colored blocks. “It’s a little past its shelf life, but you know good old PETN. It will last forever.”
Henry leaned to peer at a label marked Date–Plant–Shift. “How long past?”
Santos shrugged. “A couple of years, but it’s perfectly stable. Good as new.”
“Okay, guys.” Henry reached to his back and disentangled his arms from the straps holding his backpack. “Forty blocks in each pack.” Then he turned to Laurel. “You can pack fewer.”
Laurel pressed her lips together. “I may grab a handful more.”
Santos smiled. Then he walked back to the truck, opened the cabin door, and returned with two small packs and a large roll of thin cable. “Detonators, wire, and timer.”
Barandus reached over to the packs. “I’ll take those.” Then he asked something in a hushed tone and Santos nodded, pointing to one of the packs and rattling off instructions.
Their packs loaded, they stood at the back of the truck while Henry exchanged a few last words with Santos.
“Say,” Laurel wriggled to adjust the straps, already digging into her shoulders, “should we be careful? I mean, banging against walls and the like?” She tried to empty her mind of the harrowing route they would have to negotiate on their return trip.
Barandus shook his head. “Nah. As the sergeant said, these are stable. You could burn them or hit them with a hammer, and nothing would happen.”
“But—” She was about to persist when Henry joined them.
“Don’t worry.” Henry’s beard shifted. “You wouldn’t feel a thing.”
chapter 27
16:16
“Would you like a cup of coffee? Tea? Please sit down; make yourself comfortable.” Mrs. Cole waved a hand toward the sofa.
Nikola glanced around the living room and stepped over to it.
“Something stronger?” offered Mr. Cole.
“Tea will be fine, thank you. No milk or sugar.” As Mrs. Cole nodded and shuffled on worn slippers toward the kitchen, Nikola sat on the edge of the sofa, occupying the center. “You have a beautiful garden.” He turned to the rock beds crowding a small lawn, visible through sliding glass doors.
“I don’t do much nowadays, besides keeping the weeds at bay and replacing sick plants.” Mr. Cole sat down on one of the easy chairs and massaged a knee with a gnarled