The site boss, a swarthy giant with hands as wide as canoe paddles, observed without comment. He’d arrived three weeks before, never told anyone his name, and somehow that made him terrifyingly intimidating. Charlie and the others hopped right down, while Monroe and another fellow wrestled with the bed frame and mattress.
“Planning on a nap today, Monroe?” the site boss said.
“No, sir. I was thinking this’d make a fine test object, to measure detonation yield.”
The site boss scowled. “Doesn’t look like a meaningful control object to me.”
“Maybe not, sir,” Monroe answered, undaunted. “But it could be, if you think of it as Hitler’s bed.” He wore a jack-o’-lantern’s grin. “Or Himmler’s. Or Rommel’s. Let’s see how high we can launch one of them bastards.”
“Tell you what,” the site boss said. “You fellas hustle all day, and we’ll bring that mess up to the concrete bowl. Deal?”
To Charlie, the little cheer that went up reminded him of high school, boys riling themselves up before a game. Detonations at the concrete bowl required remote operation, and there was only one person who could build reliable triggers.
After only a few months, Charlie was well known for his wiring work. He was the one the site boss ordered to the tech buildings by Ashley Pond. “Solder me a relay,” he’d growl. “One that sends two signals at once.”
Charlie would do the math, design the assembly, and sit at a soldering table till the work was done—his workmanlike patience in full force—at ten, at midnight, at dawn. He’d deliver the device to the site boss, who invariably already had one from army supply, and who would hold the two pieces side by side in his huge hands.
“Decent job, Fish,” he’d say. “The army’s unit is sweated, though, so it’s waterproof. Maybe we’ll try yours next time.”
Another time he said, “Theirs is twice the weight of yours. I bet it’s sturdier.” He turned and dropped both assemblies on a flat rock. The army one held up. Charlie’s burst into pieces.
The site boss’s instruction was more humbling than Beasley’s. Nothing personal, just factual assessment. That’s what made today potentially special: the site boss had not pulled Charlie aside to reveal flaws in his gear. “Okay,” he said, striding away downhill. “Let’s go. Solid science, no injuries.”
Charlie followed, the batteries heavy, but he didn’t mind. His arms had grown stronger. Also he enjoyed the weather, a cooler day, high clouds. The trees shading them, he’d learned, were ponderosa pine: tall, reddish, littering the ground with needles.
“Site number one,” the site boss said, pulling out a stopwatch. “Let’s see how long it takes you fellows to set a charge and establish a safety zone. Go.”
The boys jumped into action, Charlie affixed wires to one of his batteries, and detonation day was under way.
The boys scurried to and fro like bees whose queen was gunpowder. Before each blast, the site boss sounded an air horn, and the crew scampered off behind the trees. After the lunch truck made its delivery, Monroe was first to grab his shovel and head back to the work site. Charlie tagged along.
“Thing I don’t get, Fish?” Monroe had a sway-hipped walk, like a horse on a steep downhill. “Why we’re inventing something so crazy complicated, when we already know about the Halifax.”
“The what?”
“You oughta get out more.” Monroe picked a stem of switchgrass and nibbled on it. “Only the biggest explosion in history.”
Charlie leaned against a tree, the bark warm through his shirt. “I’m listening.”
“Nineteen-seventeen, all right? Halifax is a harbor, way up in Canada someplace, and here you’ve got two ships. One’s a damn fool, driving too fast, wrong side of the highway. Other one’s snailing along, careful as a truck delivering eggs, on account of it’s carrying half a million pounds of TNT. They collide, ka-boom. But big. Killed two thousand, injured nine thousand. Blast so huge, it emptied the harbor of its water.”
“Incredible.”
“Damn straight,” Monroe laughed. “Fish flopping round and old sunk boats and who knows what. Though of course that means a tidal wave soon after, when the water comes rushing back. Anyhow, the explosion blew down every house and outhouse for three-quarters of a mile. Windows broke for ten miles around, and one sixty-one miles away.” He took the grass stem from his mouth, pointing it at Charlie. “Now I know what you’re thinking . . .”
“You do?”
“Sure. That last window must have been mighty weak to give out from an explosion sixty-one miles away.”
Charlie chuckled. “Now that you mention it.”
“Must have been cracked already, is what I figure. Elsewise some kid put a baseball through it and blamed it on the blast.” Monroe inspected the tip of the stem. “Thing I want to know, though?”
“What’s that?”
“Why we need to build a big Gadget here, us folks slaving away, when all we oughta do is christen a new ship the Halifax II, fill its hold with hell yes, and sail it where we want to do our business. Am I right?”
“Well,” Charlie grinned. “One problem might be Germany. They’d torpedo anything that entered their waters.”
Monroe glared at him. “Well damn, Fish.” He threw the grass stem away. “Why you gotta be a spoilsport?”
“It might work on Japanese ports,” Charlie offered, but Monroe had already stomped away.
“Let’s go, fellas,” he yelled up the hill. “Back to it. We got us a bed to blow up.”
The afternoon moved briskly. At day’s end no one was injured, though Monroe had forgotten his hat and managed to get a sunburn on his dome.
When the tests were complete, the technicians collected their gear and gathered around the site boss on the hill, where he stood watching with crossed arms. Monroe came last, almost shy, dragging his feet till he reached the outside of the group. “Hey, Mister Charlie, what time you got over there?”
“Let me see.” Charlie made a show of lifting his sleeve to check his watch.
“All right,” the site boss growled. “We all know it’s quarter till five. If you boys run the equipment back to the trucks, you can blow up the damn bed.”
The crew let out a huzzah, and suddenly the long day’s fatigue vanished. They hurried back for the rest of the gear.
Charlie delayed, sidling over to the site boss. “Sir, I was wondering—”
“What is it, Fish?”
Charlie patted his rucksack’s side pocket. “Maybe we could try one of mine?”
He sighed. “Put me in, Coach. Something like that?”
“For fun,” Charlie said. “For the whole crew.”
The site boss opened and closed his giant hands. “You seem like a nice kid, Fish. Probably all your life, you’ve been a guy who did a good job, who stood out. But I don’t think you understand the situation here on The Hill. I don’t think you realize what standing out can lead to.”
Charlie felt he was in another of those moments when he had no idea what someone was talking about, and the best approach was to say nothing. He watched as the boys hauled equipment up the incline to the road.
“All right,” the site boss sighed. “Give us a three-way charge.”
“Yes, sir,” Charlie said, lifting his batteries again. “Thanks so much.”
“But if it leads to other things, remember. You asked for it.”
Charlie was already running to the trucks. The crew piled in back for the half mile to the concrete bowl. Charlie rode in Monroe’s passenger seat, urging him to drive slowly for once so he could choose the right device.
“Relax,” Monroe said. “Worst that can happen is we all get killed.”
Rounding the bend above the bowl, they saw deer in the clearing. Monroe sighted down one finger. “If I had my twenty-two right now, damn but we’d have a fine dinner.”
The bowl was a circle two hundred feet around, made of concrete a foot thick. It was concave to help in recovering exploded materials
. Safety dictated that observers stand well back, making remote switches the only way to detonate.
By the time they parked, the does were long gone. The crew’s enthusiasm remained high as they unloaded matériel, arranged explosives in three piles, helped Charlie set his wires. The site boss stood on a rise above the bowl.
Monroe picked two fellows to help him carry down the bed, placing the mattress precisely. The metal frame spanned only inches above the explosives. He savored the moment with a grin. “Now, Brunder,” he said. “Don’t you wish you’d got with that gal like you bet me, instead of it coming to this?”
As Charlie unspooled wires, walking backward, Monroe brought a handful of sticks to the crown of the ridge. The site boss watched him stab the sticks into the ground, adjusting their height with a tape measure.
“What are you up to now?”
“Angles, sir.” Monroe pushed the last stick a fraction of an inch deeper. “I can sight down these sticks, and see which matches the peak of the bed’s flight. A little geometry and we’ll know right off how many feet high it went.”
The site boss tried to suppress a smirk. “You’re measuring the yield.”
“Exactly, sir.” He adjusted a stick. “See, and all them other fellas said you was a stiff know-nothing, but I always disagreed with them.”
Now the site boss smiled openly. “No matter how often they insisted.”
Also grinning, Monroe shook his head. “All day long, it seems sometimes.”
“Okay,” Charlie said, arriving on the ridge. “Almost there.” He attached wires to the battery’s positive and negative bolts, then to a switch he’d pulled from the rucksack.
The site boss’s smile faded. “How much powder did you boys set there?”
“Whatever all we had left, sir.” Monroe shrugged. “I don’t rightly know that anyone weighed it.”
“Well, damn,” he said. Then he cupped his hands around his mouth. “You boys take better cover. Move it back.” He waved the crew farther into the trees.
Charlie checked the last connection. “Ready, sir.”
The site boss pursed his lips. “We ought to be back by now. It’s Saturday night.”
“All due respect, sir,” Monroe said. “But we done a good week’s work. It’d make our whole weekend to blow a little harmless steam off here.”
“It won’t be harmless if someone gets hurt.”
“Sir?” Charlie squatted beside the switch. “I am ready to make a detonation with my trigger, my very first.”
“Oh hell,” he conceded. “Probably be a dud anyway.” Raising the air horn up with a straight arm, the site boss gave a long blast. Charlie unlocked the switch, then paused.
Monroe dropped to his belly, behind the row of sticks. “Nighty-night, Adolf.”
At that, Charlie drove the switch closed with his full weight.
The explosion shot dirt and debris in all directions, a blast of gravel and dust. It roared, too, louder than the air horn and with greater percussion, its echo returning from the cliffs behind them.
But the true surprise was the bed: It soared higher than anyone had expected, end over end with a balletic poise, mattress stuffing flung every which way like a pillow burst in barracks horseplay. The frame pieces landed on the concrete bowl with a clang that made the boys’ ears ring.
Charlie stood over his device. In the excitement he had bent the firing arm. But it had worked. He couldn’t wait to tell Brenda. Smoke lingered at eye level, acrid and gray.
The boys were laughing, applauding. Someone lifted the bed frame, its slats curled like a handlebar mustache, and threw it in the air. It landed with another clang.
Only then did Charlie notice the truck inching down the rough trail behind them. It was not a battered rig like their crew used. It was new, rust-free, and a yellow light on the roof circled as if it were some kind of police car.
The effect was immediately sobering. The crew tightened into a cluster on the bowl, except for the three men still on the ridge.
Monroe rubbed his chin. “We’re gonna catch it now.”
“Don’t you do any talking,” the site boss said. “Not one word.”
The truck swayed as it crossed the open scrub, not hurrying, its pace conveying a regal kind of power, as if to say of course the subjects will wait, while that yellow roof light turned steadily like a slow alarm. When the vehicle reached the ridge, the driver halted, and they could hear the hand brake drawing tight.
The passenger door opened and a man in black shoes emerged. Slender, his hair brushed hard back from his face, he had a forward lean, as if he were in the middle of an argument. He wore a gray suit, and stepped with care to keep his shoes clean.
The site boss squared his shoulders. “Good afternoon.”
“Hello,” the new arrival said, though to Charlie it sounded like hail-lo, with a click in the middle. The diversity of nations represented on The Hill—Germany, Denmark, Norway—had turned everyone into an expert in accents. This man, Charlie would have bet a Russian, rubbed his hands together, then clasped them tight. “I am Bronsky.”
“Good to meet you, sir,” the site boss said. “How can I help you today?”
“You are authorize? For this just now detonation?”
“Not exactly, sir. We’d finished our assignments for the day—”
“Your boys will cleans up mess.”
“Of course, sir.”
“You betcha, right quick we will,” Monroe interjected, which brought a silencing scowl from the site boss.
“I observe this detonation has three-part device. How you did trigger it?”
He pointed to Charlie. “Our team has a specialist.”
Bronsky turned. “May I please see?”
Charlie handed him the assembly. As the man examined his work, tilting it this way and that, he could not keep his tongue. “I got too excited, sir, and damaged the firing arm. But it’s only my first one.”
Bronsky raised his eyes to examine Charlie too. “What your name is?”
“Listen,” the site boss said. “We’re sorry, sir. This was only a prank after a long week. I apologize if we wasted any munitions.”
“Please to answer,” the man insisted. “What your name is?”
Charlie swallowed. “Fish, sir, Charles Fish.”
“Fishk. Well done.” He cleared his throat. “Rest of crew will please to police site.”
With the device still in his hand, he minced back through the dirt and climbed into the truck. After the driver turned around, they swayed up to the trail with the yellow roof light still slowly spinning. No one spoke till the truck was out of sight.
“Who was that?” Charlie asked.
“Igor Bronsky,” the site boss replied. “My director’s boss’s boss. And exactly what I was warning you about.”
“You warned me?” Charlie said. “When?”
“Ninety-four,” Monroe interrupted, bumbling up the ridge. His sunburned head radiant, he waved the longest of his measuring sticks like a miniature flag. “Can you believe it?” he cackled.
Arms high, Monroe faced down the hill and shouted to the crew. “We done blasted Hitler ninety-four feet in the air.”
Dear Brenda,
I had the most amazing day. Your Charlie may be in trouble, but it might turn out to be a good kind of trouble.
He wiped a bit of dirt off the page, frustrated because he had already scrubbed his hands. A shower would really do the job, but that was still a full day away. Charlie took in his surroundings: the barracks a whirlwind of activity, boys washing themselves, or folding laundry, or mock-sparring. Saturday night and the pressure of the week was about to release.
For him that meant square dancing at Fuller Lodge: a string band, a caller, older folks ready to teach the steps to beginners like Charlie. He liked how wholesome it felt.
Some tech workers were already outside, meanwhile, deep into their beers. Others sat on the floor, a bunk between them, playing two-bit poker and passing aro
und a bottle. One checked his hair in a locker mirror, while another splashed on cologne, so everyone knew they had dates.
All week we work for as long as there is daylight, with only Sundays off, so nights like this have extra meaning. I suppose it might be like the prom, back in high school. I went stag and it was not much fun. But I bet a pretty girl like you had guys begging for a dance. I bet you wore a smashing dress, too, your hair done up with that French braid I can’t forget.
If you had been my prom date, I would have danced every song with you. But all I would have been thinking about all night was kissing you. That, and maybe—
The lights went out. A groan came from up and down the barracks so immediately, it seemed rehearsed. Power failures were a fact of life on The Hill, the slender wires installed for a boys’ school no match for the demands of thousands of people and dozens of labs. But blackouts always seemed to come at the least convenient times. The barracks master lit a lantern by the door, its dim light casting long shadows. Charlie brought his face close to the page. He could barely make out his handwriting, and he hadn’t gotten to the detonation yet. Much less how he missed her.
“Enough, Charlie.” Giles strolled over with a beer. “Finish your love letter tomorrow.”
“I wanted to tell her about today while it was fresh in my mind.”
“You can’t mail it till Monday anyway.” Giles took a long drink. “Have a beer on your way to the dance. The guys want to celebrate your first detonation.”
“Honest?”
“Well.” Taking a swig, he ambled away. “I do, anyway.”
On The Hill a beer cost pennies, and no matter what other shortages occurred, the supply remained plentiful. As Charlie approached the bonfire, Giles handed him a cup of beer and made space for him in the circle. Most of the fellows were concentrating on a drinking game, drumming on their laps and taking turns making fast hand signals. An error meant someone had to chug.
“You’re not playing?” Charlie asked Giles.
“Monochopsis,” Giles said. “Know what I mean?”
Universe of Two Page 14
