“Like a turbocharger on a car,” Victor said.
Bunker nodded, even though the kid’s answer was wrong. “We’d end up with a hyper-explosive called Amatol. Something I got to use a few times when I was stationed overseas.”
“How do you light it?” Rusty asked.
“Not with a fuse, if that’s what you’re thinking.” Bunker held up the detonation cord in one hand and a thin, pencil-shaped blasting cap in the other. He assembled the pieces together. “We send an electrical charge through this wire, which in turn sets off the blasting cap. That’s the proper way to detonate TNT.”
“Oh, so that’s what the hand crank thing over there is for,” Dallas said, shooting a quick glance at Stephanie and the device sitting close to her. “I was wondering.”
Bunker was pleased with their understanding so far. “Okay boys, time for a pop quiz. Do you know why they used to call a brick of TNT a canary?”
Victor shook his head and held quiet. So did Rusty and Dallas.
“Because if you handle it a lot, it turns your skin a yellow color. In fact, I should be using gloves right now, because technically, this stuff is toxic.”
“Shit, didn’t think about gloves,” Albert said.
“There’s like ten pairs of them on Tuttle’s workbench,” Victor said.
Bunker smirked. “At this point, it really doesn’t matter.” He pointed at a spot in the dirt. “Would you do the honors, Burt?”
The man’s biceps came alive as he grabbed the blue handle of the auger and put the tip of the blade into the dirt. He cranked the T-shaped handlebar in a circle, screwing the blade into the dirt until it was buried completely. He pulled the corkscrew blade from the earth and shook off the soil before repeating the process several more times.
When the hole was deep enough, Bunker pushed the blasting cap into the center of the TNT block. “All we have to do is insert the cap like this. Then position it where we want it.” He let the block slip from his fingers, accidental like. “Whoops!”
When the explosive hit the bottom of the hole, Victor and Dallas scampered back about ten feet. Rusty never moved.
Bunker laughed; he’d hoped to get a rise out of the boys. “Remember, it won’t explode until we send a charge through the cord. That’s when you need to make sure you’re behind cover.”
“That wasn’t funny, dude,” Victor said, retracing his steps.
“Now you understand why we don’t use dynamite, especially old dynamite, because dropping it into a hole like that might have sent some body parts flying, depending on its condition. You never know with that stuff. TNT or C-4 is always my first choice.”
When Bunker sent his gaze at Stephanie, he found that she hadn’t moved from the tree line, though her arms were now crossed over her chest. He imaged her lips were pressed together in a thin line, with her eyes shooting daggers at him.
Burt filled the hole with dirt and packed the soil, keeping the detonation cord near the center.
“How big is the explosion?” Rusty asked.
“Let’s find out,” Bunker quipped, pointing at Stephanie. “Time to get in a safety position. I need all three of you over there, pronto. Get down behind that dead oak tree up on the hill. Stephanie will show you.”
“What about you guys?” Rusty asked Bunker.
“We’ll be right behind you. Now, get moving before Stephanie has my ass.”
Victor laughed as he turned his heels and ambled with a hurried step. Dallas followed second, with Rusty holding up the rear.
“Just so you know, you made my heart skip a few beats, too,” Apollo said.
“Yeah, thought the kids would get a kick out of it,” Bunker answered, gathering the detonation cord in his hands.
“Didn’t look like Stephanie thought it was funny,” Burt said. “She could probably chew nails right about now.”
CHAPTER 40
Apollo knelt down on the right side of Stephanie King, who had the three boys to her immediate left. Burt was on the far side of her, next to Rusty, Dustin and Albert.
Everyone was cowering behind the massive oak tree lying on its side, waiting for Bunker to finish attaching the detonation cord to the terminal block on the side of a high-energy blasting machine. The manufacturer’s label said it was a BART-2.
The all-black unit looked like a carrying case for a cordless drill, except for the hand crank on the side. The crank was positioned above a pair of red-colored buttons that were recessed below the surface of the plastic housing.
The Sheriff assumed the design kept the buttons from being pressed accidentally. Immediately below the buttons was the word FIRE stenciled in red.
Bunker cranked the handle like a madman to charge the capacitor inside. Then he turned to the group and asked, “Is everyone ready?”
Apollo ducked his head and covered his ears.
So did the rest of the crew.
“Fire in the hole!” Bunker yelled before detonating the charges.
The ground shook with the force of an earthquake, rattling everything in the vicinity. Apollo kept low as the compression wave hit his skin, arriving at almost the exact same moment as the sound tore past his hands and landed on his eardrums.
The deep resonating thunder was impressive, waking up every cell in his body, almost as if a bolt of lightning had just missed his head. Even though he knew the blast was coming, he couldn’t stop his heartbeat from surging ahead at an even greater rate than before.
“Holy shit,” he said, not able to contain the words. When it was over, Apollo brought his head up and uncovered his ears.
The boys were already on their feet and cheering with raised hands, high-fiving each other as if they were in the stands at the Super Bowl. So were Burt and Dustin, looking as juvenile as the kids next to them.
Bunker stood with them; however, he wasn’t celebrating or acting foolish like the others. Though he did have a noticeable grin on his lips.
Albert’s head remained buried behind the log. So did Stephanie’s. Neither of them moved.
“Is it over?” Stephanie asked in a muffled tone.
“You can get up now,” Bunker said, his voice calm and reassuring.
“Damn, that was loud,” Apollo said, pressing to his feet. “I hope they didn’t hear that in town.”
“I doubt it,” Bunker said. “Sound doesn’t travel that far, especially with all the mountains and trees around us.”
Apollo wasn’t so sure. “What about the vibration?”
“It’ll stay localized. Trust me, I’ve done this more times than I can count. Let’s go see how we did.”
With those words, the boys took off in a dash, tearing down the hillside with arms waving, dodging trees as they went.
* * *
Twenty minutes later, Bunker straightened the steering wheel of the Land Rover and stepped on the brake pedal after easing the truck into a position parallel with the trench. “How’s that looking?”
“That’s about it, I wouldn’t get any closer,” Apollo answered, his face filling the passenger side mirror.
Bunker peered out the driver’s window, locking eyes with Stephanie standing fifty yards away. “Am I centered?”
She gave him a thumbs-up. “Close enough. You’re good.”
Bunker turned off the motor, ending the purr of the engine. He opened the door and hopped out, walking to Apollo.
The Sheriff’s toes were dangerously close to the edge of the twenty-foot deep trench that ran from one side of the meadow to the other, its width almost as wide as its depth. “I thought for a moment the edge was going to collapse. That’s a lot of weight.”
“Wouldn’t this be better if we parked it on the other side of the trench?” Stephanie asked, looking over her shoulder at the entrance to the clearing. “Where the Russians couldn’t get their hands on it so easily. All they have to do is march right here to this spot, assuming they can get past all the mud in the middle.”
Bunker opened the rear hatch and fished out the d
etonation cord he’d already prepped for the ten bricks of TNT inside. He held it up to her. “That’s why we have this.”
“Oh, I see. You want them to get close.”
“Yep. By the time they figure it out, it’ll be too late.”
She nodded, her eyes locked onto the trench. “So the trench is a barrier to keep them from getting to the trees.”
“Among other things,” he said, not wanting to waste time explaining every detail. “We need them to run where we want them to.” He looked at Apollo. “Is the BART-2 in position?”
“Rusty hauled it over there for you. It’s by the first tree on the right. Hope that’s where you wanted it.”
“That’s perfect. Just gotta run this det cord and we’ll be ready for the next phase.”
“Then I better go relieve Dicky,” Apollo said. “It’s best if he runs the chainsaw.”
“You can wait a bit on that. Let’s get the other stuff done first. We’ll finish with the trees.”
* * *
Burt wrapped the last of the tracer wire around the middle of the two-foot-tall cable spindle, tucking the end of the wire under the previous revolution to hold it in place. “That’s it for these.”
“Too bad we didn’t have room for a few more,” Dustin said, standing next to the other three Burt had already set-up.
“We would have if Miss Sugar Tits over there hadn’t come along,” Burt said, lifting the bottom of the spindle and turning it onto its side. He gave it a shove. The makeshift wheel rolled a few feet on its own, then stopped. “Excellent. Not too heavy. Just need to get them into position and finish prepping.”
“You should probably let Bunker handle that,” Albert said in a snarky tone. “Unless you want us to start calling you Stumpy.”
“I plan to, Jumbo. Don’t get your panties in a bunch.”
“So we’re back to that now?”
“Like I care. This is almost over, so you can drop the whole ‘let’s be friends’ act.”
“Works for me, dipshit.”
“Yeah, fuck you, too.”
Dustin cleared his throat. “Come on guys, not now.”
Burt bent down and put his hand into what he’d call the axle, if it had one, running through the steps in his own head. He visualized the outcome, bringing a smile to his lips.
“Won’t the Russians see them and wonder what’s up?” Dustin asked.
Burt scoffed. “Not with all that tall grass out there. It’s frickin’ brilliant, if you ask me.”
“I better go get the pressure boards we made,” Albert said, walking toward the stockpile of gear they’d brought from Tuttle’s.
“Don’t forget the batteries,” Dustin said to his back.
Albert gave him quick hand wave but didn’t turn around before speaking again. “If you guys want to roll them to Bunker, I’ll meet you there.”
Burt added volume and attitude to his voice, making sure Albert got the message. “Might as well bring enough for the diesel containers too, assuming you’re not too tired yet from all your observing.”
Albert flipped him the bird, never looking back.
* * *
Rusty waited for the big kid, Victor, to grab the five-hundred-round box of .223 caliber rifle ammo before he snatched the box of three-inch framing nails.
His container had twice the number of nails they needed, but it seemed silly to empty half before carrying them to the spot Bunker had indicated. It would have been much lighter, but he thought it best not to waste time.
“What did Bunker say about your grandpa?” Victor asked as the two of them marched toward the far side of the tree line, their eyes almost level with each other.
Rusty didn’t want to sound concerned around his new friend, but he couldn’t help himself. Victor might have been a lot younger, but the kid didn’t act like it. “He’s okay, I guess.”
“What does that mean?”
“Bunker really didn’t say. I kinda get the feeling there’s more.”
“You think he’s lying?”
“Could be, but he said he talked to my grandpa. So I don’t know.”
“You should’ve asked more questions. I would have.”
“I wanted to, but we need to get this place ready. At least Grandpa knows we’re all safe.”
“Well, not everyone.”
A video of Franklin’s dead body rolling into the grave flashed in Rusty’s mind. “Yeah, poor Megan. I can only imagine.”
Victor leaned in close as they walked side by side, his voice a purr. “What about Dallas’ family?”
Rusty answered in a whisper. “Bunker said he didn’t see them.”
“You think they’re dead?”
Rusty shrugged. “Maybe, I don’t know. I get this feeling that something bad happened.”
“Yeah, me too. They’re probably dead. I’m sure the Russians killed them and dumped their bodies into a hole somewhere. It’s what they do, from what I hear. Dump people into a hole.”
Rusty wasn’t sure how to respond to those comments, so he didn’t. Right then, a new thought stormed his mind. “Hey, did you bring the screwdrivers?”
“Shit, I forgot,” Victor said, stopping his feet. He turned. “Hey Dallas, grab those fat screwdrivers! All three.”
“I was just looking for them,” Dallas shouted back, his feet only a foot from the stockpile. “Where did you put ‘em? And those stick things with the orange tape?”
“In the red toolbox. Under the top drawer. They might be buried, so dig a little,” Victor said, turning his attention to Rusty. “I wonder if Bunker will let us help this time?”
“Probably not. They’ll say it’s too dangerous.”
“It’s more like we’re just slave labor,” Victor said with attitude. “But they should at least let you. You’re way older than us.”
Rusty agreed, but didn’t want to admit it. “I think they’re just trying to protect everyone.”
“Yeah, but Bunker can’t do it all himself. He’s gonna need help.”
“He has the Sheriff and Burt. They’re not afraid to get their hands dirty.”
“Yeah, but not Albert and the other guy. They’re pretty useless.”
“Don’t forget, they did their part back at Tuttle’s. Now it’s up to the rest of us.”
“Except Miss Sugar Tits,” Victor said, laughing.
Rusty couldn’t hold back a grin. “She doesn’t seem too enthused.”
Victor’s tone turned sour. “Always sticking her nose in and asking questions. And Dicky, just sitting up there on that ridge, looking all tough with that gun.”
“Somebody’s got to do it,” Rusty said. “At least they showed us some stuff about explosives. That was pretty cool.”
“Yeah, totally intense. I can’t believe how big that explosion was. Holy shit.”
CHAPTER 41
Dallas watched Bunker jam a screwdriver into the soil, pushing it lower until the full length of the blade disappeared. Then he twisted it with his fingers like he was putting a cap on a bottle. Victor stood at attention next to Dallas, with Rusty on the other side, all three sets of their eyes locked on Bunker’s demonstration.
“Once you have the hole made, check the depth like this,” Bunker said, pulling the screwdriver from the dirt and sliding in a wooden dowel to replace it. The diameter of the dowel matched that of the hole—a perfect fit.
Bunker pointed at the orange tape wrapped around the dowel, bringing extra attention to the line of black ink drawn across it. “Use this mark to know exactly how deep you need to go.”
“What if it’s too deep?” Victor asked.
“Simple,” Bunker said, removing the wooden rod and pushing some loose dirt into the empty hole. “Just be sure to tamp it down flat with the end of the dowel.” He demonstrated the packing procedure, then pointed at the black line again after inserting the dowel. “Once you have it perfect, then put a nail in with the head down. It’s important that the tip be sticking up and centered.”
&
nbsp; Bunker took the dowel out and put it aside, then held out his hand. Rusty gave him a framing nail from the box. Bunker put it into the hole with the head down. Like the dowel, it fit snugly down the shaft. “If you made the hole properly, the size of the head should just fit inside.”
“Here’s the bullet,” Victor said, holding out a .223 round.
Bunker took it and held it above the hole with the tip of the bullet pointing to the sky. “They go in with the nose up like this, but I’m going to wait until later to take care of these. You three focus on the making the five hundred holes we need and putting the nails in. Be sure to check the depth carefully with each one. There’s a screwdriver and dowel for each of you.”
“What does the nail do exactly? I’m confused,” Dallas said.
Bunker turned the .223 round horizontal, with the back facing Dallas. He aimed his finger at the rear of the bullet. “This is what’s called a centerfire cartridge. When you pull the trigger, the firing pin on the rifle makes contact with the primer right here, in the middle, which sets off the propellant inside. That’s how a bullet gets fired. In this case, the tip of the nail takes the place of the firing pin. It’s what sets off the primer.”
“Oh, I see, when someone steps on it,” Dallas said, nodding his head.
“Exactly. That’s why the depth has to be perfect. Otherwise, when the enemy steps on it, his boot won’t press the round into the nail. We could have used a .762 round for more firepower, but the diameter of the .223 is closer to the size of the head on the nail. It fits the hole tighter. Fewer misfires.”
Rusty nodded. “Makes sense.”
“In the Vietnam War, the NVA made life hell for US troops with this booby trap. It’s their version of what we called toe-poppers. The Russians will never expect these. Not from a bunch of civilians in Colorado. They think we’re nothing but fat, lazy Americans who don’t know anything about booby traps.”
Bunker: Boxed Set (Books 4 and 5) Page 32
