HAZARDOUS meaning in the Cambridge English Dictionary

That reminds me of a story.
I was sitting in the Charles H. Lounge of the Seoul Four Seasons Hotel, in the patio section, of course, drinking Singapore Slings with mescal on the side, with Tiger beer chasers, hiding from the brutish realities of this intensely foul year, two thousand and twenty, CE.
After a record-breaking stint in Best Korea, brushes with officious and covert undercover agents, an impromptu bacchanal that got us ejected ass-first and in the nick of time out of the country; I was due for a spot of rest & relaxation.
But not this enforced, ‘pandemic’ incarceration nonsense. OK, I’ll forgo my impressions of this little global overreaction and just wait for the high-pitched wails of "OK, Boomer!” to die down.
Suffice to say, we’re on the right-hand side of the bell curve and this little piece of nonsense is slowly going the way of all previous pandemic plagues. It’s burning itself out and no matter what the mask-wearing, Purell-soaking, bubble-wrapped cadre believes; it would have done so if people had done precisely nothing other than employ and exercise common-sense symptomatic medicine.
Well, you may think that quite the broad statement; and it is. But you see, I have this little thing called ‘science’ on my side. There is no control study group so that everyone jumping up and down congratulating themselves on ‘flattening the curve’ is spouting nothing but 100% USDA-grade horse, bat, and bullshit.
They don’t know that, in fact, they can’t. That’s why I dismiss them and their lack of scientific proclamations.
I, at least, have the benefit of analysis of the previous history of nearly a dozen similar outbreaks in the last 110 years which have all followed the same bell-curve. Some were worse, some were not, but all followed the same etiology. Many had vaccines developed after-the-fact. That kept them in line until the next virus Andromeda Strained its way into view. Well, that’s viral pathology for you. And no amount of mask-wearing while you drive alone in your car or distancing your socials will change that rock-solid fact one iota.
Which was why I was so surprised when a very dapper looking individual, an employee of the hotel evidently, sought me out while I was in the bar waiting for commercial jet aircraft to once again fill the air so I could once again ply my global trade.
“Dr. Rocknocker?” he asked.
“Yes?”, I replied between puffs of the massively damn fine Oscuro non-Cuban cigar the hotel somehow procured for me during my enforced overlong stay.
“I have this communique for you. I was told to deliver it personally.” He said, without so much as a quip or sneer.
He was bearing a small silver platter, about the size of a competition Frisbee™, but not near as aerodynamic, exhibiting a small envelope emblazoned: “Doctor Rocknocker. FEO”
“Hmmm”, I hmmed.
“’FEO’. ‘For Eyes Only’. This could be fun.” I mused.
I went to reach for the envelope, when the courier, resplendent in his sharp, snazzy suit sneakily backed away a step or two and said: “Sorry, Sir. I must first see your identification.”
“Fine, fine.”, I replied, “But first I want to see yours. Quid pro quo.”
“What does that mean?” he asked, genuinely curious.
“It means I’m pretentious,” I replied.
He was obviously confused.
“It means I need to see your ID before I show you mine. I need to ascertain that you do indeed work for this hotel and are not some sort of insidious secret agent of a dark, rival foreign power.” I noted shady and sincerely.
He produced a hotel ID card. Thus satisfied, I capitulated and allowed him a peek inside my red Diplomatic Passport, complete with its really awful picture of me inside.
It wasn’t the camera nor the photographer’s fault. I admit it was mine alone.
Thus satisfied, he presented the tray to me and I took possession of the envelope. I left 5,000 KRW, South Korean Won, on the tray in its place.
Thus satisfied; he smiled, executed a small bow in my direction, and withdrew without a further word.
“Well”, I chewed it over, “That was weird even by today’s standards.”
I stuffed the envelope into the pocket of my incredibly garish, and newly tailored, Hawaiian shirt. Here in Seoul, in the garment district in such places as the Myeongdong Market, Dongdaemun Market, and Lotte Department Store Myeongdong, I was able to locate many, many fine shops just loaded to the gills with bolt after bolt of incredibly horrible, polychromatic, and nausea-inducing textiles. The perfect fodder for new Hawaiian shirts.
I purchased several meters for each new shirt, as I took a well-fitting and comfy Hawaiian shirt, with all my new cloth samples, to a local tailor. There, he could reproduce the existing shirt in the media of the new textiles which I had procured.
The result was a quintet of the most appalling, comfortable, and insidious Hawaiian shirts on this side of an explosion in a paint factory. That was next to an abattoir. That burned down. And swirled into the remains of an ice-cream factory that had been abandoned due to lack of sales. Along with the dairy and stockyards next-door.
They were awful. They fit perfectly and comfortably. They were perfectly awful. I intended to get more, but first, let’s see what Mr. Secretive Envelope has to say.
I open the envelope at the bar, well away from prying eyes, and the card inside simply stated: “Dr. Rocknocker. Sir, please be in your room at 1800 hours local time to accept an important phone call.”
No “From”.
No “Thank you.”
No “Live long and prosper.”
Just this enigmatic card and the overly polite exhortation for me to be somewhere for a bloody phone call.
“Well, me ol’ mucker”, I thought between puffs of my cigar and slurps of my drinks, “Here we go again.”
“When, how, and where did this old Baja Canada boy take the wrong turn in life to deserve this?” I pondered.
I decided that I required a little more old thought provoker, called the bartender over, and bought him and myself the next round of drinks. Several, actually.
Back in my suite, it was rapidly approaching 1800 hours local time. I couldn’t figure out who might be calling. I already talked to Esme back in the states. She was staying with her mother back in Brew City since it was still lockdown-central back in the Sultanate and the girls, both being ‘essentials’, were working.
I spoke with Rack and Ruin and they claimed innocence.
But, then again, they always do.
“No idea, Doctor”, Agent Rack related, “However, whoever it is, we know you’ll update their dossier or create new ones if the situation demands.”
“Hell, Racko”, I replied, “These could be nefarious uber-stealth agents from a dark and dismal land out to silence me before I spill the beans on whatever they don’t want beans upon spilt.”
“You flatter yourself, Doctor”, Agent Ruin laughed as he chimed in. Little did I know this was a conference call. “You’re important to many, but not that important.”
“Well, hell’s fire”, I said, assuming the martyr position, “Here I go and give you all that good, deep undercover intel and this is how you repay me.”
“Yeah, right”, Rack interrupted, “We had to have your reports cleaned of cigar ashes and rings from vodka and whiskey glasses.”
“Well, there’s a novelty”, I replied, “Considering I send all my reports electronically.”
“Yeah”, Ruin chirps back in, “And if we figure out how you do that…”
We all had a good chuckle. They admitted that they weren’t behind the forbidding phone call and Esme was equally innocent.
“But, Herr Doctor”, Agent Rack reminded me, “We will need updates as soon as new data are available.”
“Y’know, guys”, I said, “With all this global lockdown nonsense, I must be about the only one feeding you new and constant data. I think that deserves some form of recognition in the line of duty. Preferably monetary.”
“Once a mercenary…”, Agent Ruin continued, “…always a mercenary. We shall see. You already got your stimulus check, correct?”
“Oh, jolly joke, Agent!”, I swore mildly, “You know that we’re exempt from that. Expat, out of the country; out of sight, out of mind? Except every 15 April.”
“Not to us, Herr Doctor”, Agent Rack crooned. “Just to some of our cronies over across the way at the IRS.”
Remind me to be nasty to my agency contacts the next time we meet.
I rang off, poured myself six fingers of iced Old Thought Provoker, Oriental Division, as it was rapidly approaching call time. I needed the few minutes to get comfortable, fire up a cigar, and assume my position at the desk of taking phone calls and notes for dossiers.
Precisely at 1800 hours, my room phone rang. I let it ring a few times to show whoever was calling that I wasn’t that anxious about the whole situation.
Finally: “Hello?”
A monotone voice replied, “Is this Dr. Rocknocker. Late of the Middle East and Baja Canada. Now in unsolicited lockdown in Seoul, South Korea?”
“Yes…”, I replied, “But since you’re the one calling me, you must already know that. What’s, uh, the deal?”
“Please hang up and answer the phone when it will ring in exactly five minutes. Thank you for your understanding.” As the robotic voice called off with a click.
“OK. Shit. This is getting too weird.” I considered. “What the flying Philadelphia french-fried fuck is going on here?”
Well, five minutes later, I had my answer.
“RING!”
“WHAT!?!”
The tone simmered down once the gentleman on the other end of the line explained what indeed was transpiring.
“Dr. Rocknocker…”He began.
“Call me Rock, it’ll save everyone time.”
“Yes, indeed. Fine, um…Rock, I am Dr. Purshottama Mirchandani of the Alang-Sosiya Ship Breaking Yard in the Indian state of Gujarat.”
“I see. Hello, Dr. Mirchandani. How may I be of service? What’s cookin’?” I said, thinking enough of this cloak and dagger bullshit.
“Yes. Right”, he continued, clearing his throat, “I represent a consortium of individuals, primarily Japanese and Indian, who have executed a Memorandum of Understanding to try and bring education, safety, and sensible protocols to the Indian ship-breaking industry.”
“Interesting.” I replied, “And how does that concern me?”
Dr. Mirchandani tells me that India recently passed the "Recycling of Ships Act, 2019" which ratifies the Hong Kong International Convention for the safe and environmentally sound recycling of ships,
“Doctor”, he continued, “Traditionally, ship breaking is an extraordinarily dangerous, toxic, and very hazardous undertaking. It was customarily done with a surfeit of manpower and a lack of education and safety. We propose to reverse that situation.”
“Admirable”, I said, “And still, I am wondering why we are talking.”
“Doctor”, he continued again, “We know that much more can be done, more cheaply, more efficiently, and more safely with explosives.”
“Ah!”, I said as the penny dropped, “Now I think I have a bearing on the conversation.”
“Yes, indeed”, Dr. Mirchandani said, “We have been searching around the world for those educated and certified to handle explosives as well as capable of training and willing to do so. The candidate will have to have experience with noxious gasses, high-pressures and temperatures, hazardous conditions, and multiple cultures of a workforce; with varying, ahem, ‘degrees of education’. Every time we enquire, in several various industries, your name comes up. From Russia to Japan, South America, to Central Asia. We saw that you were last in North Korea, so you’ll please excuse our need for security and seeming subterfuge.”
“Yeah, that was a bit of a hoot.”, I had to admit, “So, Dr. Mirchandani, you got his attention. You’re talkin’ to the hookin’ bull. What do you propose?”
“As we were told to expect. No flowery dialogue, right down to business. Fine.” He replied, “We’d like for you to travel to India, inspect the yards, and do what you think necessary to implement the use of explosives in ship breaking, to develop safety protocols, and train the workforce. Would that be of any interest to you?”
“Well, Doctor”, I replied, “Since we’re being all upright, forthwith, and personable about this whole arrangement, I can tell you that (1.) Yes, I am somewhat interested, (b.) I am available right now, for the foreseeable future until this virus nonsense burns itself out and (iii). You’re going to have to agree to my terms before I lift a single stick of TNT.”
“As we were foretold”, Dr. Mirchandani said. I could almost hear him smiling. “We will send you, by courier, a packet with the proposed project prospectus. If you find it acceptable, please submit, in triplicate, your terms and conditions.”
“Nah.” I replied, “You guys handle the reproduction. I’ll send my T&C as well as my contract. You make the needed copies. We green?”
“Green, Doctor?” he said. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Are we in agreement? We on the same page? We smokin’ the same hookah? You diggin’ me, Beaumont?” I said.
He laughed heartily, “Oh, yes, Doctor. The American sense of humor. Most impertinent. Oh, yes, we are very green.”
“I await your curried bundle”, I said, “Now if you’ll excuse me, it’s way past Happy Hour and I’m behind schedule.”
“Yes, of course, Doctor.”, Dr. Mirchandani said, “You will have our prospectus by this time tomorrow.”
“Groovy.” I replied, “Looking forward to it.”
He laughed again, said good-bye, and hung up.
“Yeah. Here we go again” I said to no one in particular as I chose a ghastly new shirt, grabbed a cigar, and headed for the lounge.
Later, I told Esme of my next little job.
“Shouldn’t be too long. At least it gets me out of this fucking hotel and back in the field.” I said.
Es agreed and was pleased that now she could stay in the states a while longer and not worry about going shopping with her mother. Hell, I was gainfully employed and working while the rest of the world was under lockdown.
The parcel arrived the next day and was hurried to me in the bar. Just how they knew where to find me remained a mystery.
I zip it open and there’s a very, very official sheaf of papers for me to digest. I take it, my cigar, and drink over to a booth in the back in the corner in the dark, away from prying eyes. This is official shit. Time for security and introspection.
OK, fairly standard sort of project. Teach people how not to kill themselves, with and without explosives, and safely reduce large sea-faring craft to smaller bits. Actually, it sounds like it has the potential for some real fun. Plus, I get to blow up ship-loads of shit.
Now, I have a go at modifying my usual pirating-forms, ah, contract, to conform especially to this particular situation. This is so much more fun than doing taxes, I muse. I get to go all carte blanche here, but no too far overboard. They let it slip that I was Numero Uno on their hit parade, so that little slip is going to cost them.
Hey. It’s business.
I spent the better part of that night and into the wee hours of the next day modifying my typical contract. There were some new things added, at which they may balk. However, they want me to ramrod this little project for them; the contract, besides being iron-clad, is more or less non-negotiable.
Once finished, I run it past Rack and Ruin and get their input.
“Jesus, Doctor”, Agent Rack said, “Are you wearing an eyepatch and have a parrot on your shoulder?”
“Ah, you’re just jealous”, I snickered back.
“Fuckin-A, Bubba”, Agent Ruin retorted.
I see I’ve trained my agency boys well in the vernacular of the industry.
They had no objections and were pleased with the new intel. Of course, now I had to provide dossier-filler on everyone above the rank of Tea-Boy for them.
Thus sated, I sent the contract back to Dr. Mirchandani. I collapsed in bed and slept the sleep of the wrongfully sleep deprived.
I fully expected to be awakened by a phone call.
I wasn’t.
Shower, shower scotches, and down to breakfast. Still no call.
Back to the suite and go about updating my field notebooks. New code here, new dossier entry there. It’s almost noon and still no call nor Email.
“Fuck it”, I said. I grabbed the latest issue of the Journal of Explosives Engineering, grab a bottle of Korean high-octane hooch, a couple of cigars, and draw a nice, foamy bath in the Jacuzzi.
“If that doesn’t generate a phone call”, I said as I settled back in the frothy foam, “Nothing will.”
A few hours later, and still no call.
“Ah, well”, I commiserated with myself, “Looks like they had champagne tastes and a near-beer budget. Guess I was too pricy for ‘em. Oh, well. Go cheaper. Think hiring a professional is expensive? Wait until you hire an amateur.”
The phone began to rig at that very moment.
“Yes?” I said into the raprod.
“Dr. Rocknocker?”, the voice on the other end of the telecoms device inquired.
“Yes?” I said, slightly annoyed. Who else would be at this number?
“This is Dr. Mirchandani.” He said.
“I surmised as much”, I replied, “How may I help you?”
“Um. Yes. Your contract”, he continued, “It’s very, um, explicit.”
I’ve had my contracts called lots of things: “Piracy via paper”. “The ramblings of a crazy man”, and “Outright legal theft.”
“Explicit” was new.
“Yes”, I replied, “I suppose it is. Beyond that, any further observations?”
“Yes. Dr. Rocknocker”, Dr. Mirchandani said, “However it’s explicitness, we agree. When can you begin?”
“As soon as you can arrange a flight for me, minimum Business class, from here to there,” I replied.
“We can have an Air Force plane at your disposal this time tomorrow. Will that suffice?”
“What kind of plane? I’m not keen on aging Russian transports.” I said.
He bristled a bit, but I knew of the Indian Air Force. Many of their planes had instruments that were marked in Cyrillic.
“We were able to arrange a Gulfstream G700 for you. It is normally reserved for star-class military individuals. But, this was an unusual situation. Will that suffice?” he asked.
“It’ll do, “ I replied, “I will need, as per my contract, transport from the hotel to the airport and in this case, directly to the aircraft. You sort all that out, and I’ll pack.”
“Yes, Doctor”, Dr. Mirchandani said, “Everything you desire done will be done.”
“Good”, I replied, “Cable me the itinerary and I’ll be ready to go. In the meantime, I’ll send you a list of equipment that I will require upon arriving. Will that be acceptable?”
“Of course, Doctor”, he said, brightening somewhat, “I look forward to meeting you.”
“Same here, Dr. Mirchandani”, I said, “Now, when I send my list, no short-sheeting me. I need the best supplies available. We’re not making chapattis here. I am the best only because I work with the best. I’ll also need an assistant. One educated in the geological sciences, and a speaker of English and Hindi. We green?”
“Army green!”, he replied.
Not my favorite shade, but I guess it will just have to do.
I had a few hours, so after a ski-ball tourney down at the lounge, I’m later in my suite, going over explosives companies catalogs. Say what you will, but going from primitive, near-dial up internet connections in Best Korea and the lightning-fast, rip-your-lungs out fiber-optics here in the south is like going from the Neolithic to 2001: A Space Odyssey.
I pondered and paused. I leered over some new devices and got to know some old friends, many in new togs. I was going to cut apart ocean liners, VLCCs (Very Large Crude Carriers), ferries, military transports, and ships of many shapes and sizes. I am going to be training a crew of locals who will in turn train more locals. I’m not going to be in-country long, a week or two max. I not only want the best, but I must also have the best.
Like Grandad always said, “Shoot once; you might not get another shot.”
I finally shut down my laptop at 0200. I was tired. Really bone-deep tired. I had a 15-page email that I transmitted to Dr. Mirchandani.
“Damn.”, I thought as I prepared to hit the rack, “Just the bare necessities. I hope we can find more once we get in-country.”
The next morning, I showered, had only two shower beers before breakfast, packed, and went down to the restaurant. It’s going to be a long, flighty day and I don’t like to eat much on days like that.
So I had a couple of Greenland coffees, a brace of buttered scones, and a nice light Maduro cigar from the hotel’s walk-in humidor.
“That’s right”, I remembered, “I’m going straight to the plane where they’ll doot my passport and take my luggage. No duty-free this time. Best stock up before I hit the airways.”
Back in the room, after last-minute calls to Khris, Tash, Esme, and my Agency buddies, I was waiting for my call that my ride to the airport was here. I was already essentially signed-out, as I wasn’t the one paying for the suite. The UN and other such agencies would be handling that.
I decide to call a bellhop and have him transfer my luggage downstairs, where I would await my ride. I officially checked-out, tipped everyone who had made this part of the trip most enjoyable, and sat outside, under the veranda, awaiting transportation to the airport.
OK, here’s the drill. It’s a balmy 21⁰ C. I’m in Cargo shorts, ‘“Protest Dinoflagellates” Mesozoic Society Against Perverted Practices’ T-shirt, ghastly Hawaiian shirt, field vest, field boots, Scottish knee-high woolen socks, complete with tassels, and my Black Stetson.
Yep. Field clothes. Check. Ready to travel.
Oh, I also had a large, very dark, very ominous looking cigar lit. Plus, the bartender topped off my emergency flasks, so I was sampling one or more of them while I whiled away the time.
A large automobile pulls up to the hotel. Gray in color, no distinguishing decals, totems, or stickers. The white license plate displays a few numbers and a series of black stars.
It wheels up to a hurried stop, and a uniformed individual of obvious Subcontinental heritage pops out. Another shady looking character sits behind the vehicle’s steering wheel.
“You. Yes, you”, he points to me.
“Yes?” I reply.
“You are the ‘Dr. Rocknocker’?” he asked in quick, clipped, and very British-tinged Indian tones.
“Yep. ‘The one and only.’” I drawl in reply.
“Your luggage. Will go into the boot of the car. We will be leaving.” He snaps.
“OK, sure. But be careful, I’ve got some seriously delicate scientific apparatus packed within the luggage.” I reply.
“I will wait while you put your luggage in the car. We are in haste. Hurry. Now!” He snaps again.
“OK, look Colonel Chuckles or whoever you are.” I snap back, “Let’s just take a little assessment of the situation. You are sent to collect me and my luggage for transport to the aircraft. Correct?”
“Yes, yes, yes”, he snaps, “Now hurry and load your gear. We must leave.”
I sit back down and re-fire my cigar. He goes positively crimson with barely contained rage.
“What are you doing?” he literally screams, “We have a tight schedule. You must…!”
I stand up and get right in his face, which is a bit difficult as I’m easily 25 centimeters taller than him.
“NO! YOU must…”, I replied in kind, “…shut the fuck up and listen to me. You got that Colonel Chickpea or what the fuck is your name. You never even introduced yourself.”
He stutters, stammers and sizzles; but remains crimsonly silent.
“OK, here’s the deal, Herr Mac”, I tell him, “I’m the hookin’ bull here, or haven’t you had the chance to read my contract? Your government, at levels so high above yours they’re orbital, contracted me for this job. As such, I am the boss and what I say goes. Errand boys like yourself don’t get the chance to order me around. In fact, no one on this little trek does. Now, go ask the nice Bell Captain, one Yi Kyung-Jae by name, to find a bell boy or porter to load us up. After that, we can be off. But rest assured, I’m not one of your minions and you try pulling rank on me again, and you can explain to Dr. Mirchandani why the fucking plane arrived back in India empty. You diggin’ me, Beaumont?”
He sputtered but realized he’s crossed swords with someone who brought claymores to his butter knives and complies.
After I tip the bell boy nicely for loading my gear carefully into the limo’s trunk, I stroll over to the rear door and go to grab the door handle so I can slide inside.
Colonel Chickpea, or whatever his name was as he’s not yet introduced himself, goes noisily apoplectic.
“Your cigar!”, he rages, “It is forbidden.”
“Not for me, asswipe.”, I calmly replied, “Call your bosses or read my contract. I’ll wait.”
I was going to slip my cigar into a special travel tube I always carry. It quietly and without any fuss extinguishes your cigar and safes it until you decide to relight it to enjoy again. I wasn’t about to get in the limo with a lit cigar.
Until that point.
I stroll over to one of the seats out in front of the hotel. I relight my cigar and Yi wanders over asking if he could get me anything.
“Well”, I reply loudly, “Since we’ll be here a while, I’d like to see the wine list.”
Colonel Chickpea is as close to a personal volcanic eruption as I’ve ever seen in a specimen of his species.
“YOU! WILL! ENTER! THE! CAR!” he literally screams.
“Sure, chuckles”, I reply calmly, “Right after I have a look at this wonderful wine list Yi just brought me.”
Colonel Chickpea realizes he’s fucked. He can’t out-stubborn or out-rank me, and he hasn’t obviously read my contract. Plus I might just be telling the truth.
“I……apologize.”, he finally says meekly. “Please, into the sedan, we need to meet your transport.”
“Well, now. There ya’ go”, I smile, “That didn’t hurt too much now, did it? Sure. Let’s make like a baby and head out.”
I slide into the spacious back seat and greet the so far silent driver.
I tap him on the shoulder and ask him if my cigar would be a bother. He grunts a monosyllabic negative.
“Colonel Chickpea? Cigar bother you?” I ask.
“No.” was the only reply.
“Good”, I reply, “As long as one of us is being reasonable”.
I didn’t light the cigar. I’m funny that way.
It’s about 40 miles, give or take, from the hotel to Inchon International. I just sit back, figure it’s going to take about an hour, and decide to continue the article I was writing for Bastards and Blasters Bimonthly.
I pull out my notebook, emergency flask #2, and tappy-tap-tap away.
The ride to the airport was in total silence, save for my typing and sipping from my flask. The traffic wasn’t too terribly bad, as the Cheap Mexican beer virus lockdown idiocy extended over here as well.
We exit the main drag for the airport and instead of heading to departures, we head to Air Cargo.
Past this checkpoint, past another, into the warehouse and air customs district. We pull up alongside a nondescript, weather-beaten shack. We slide to a stop and Col. Chickpea tells me this is customs. I am to take my passport so it can be stamped. My luggage is not to be searched, thanks to my contract and Diplomatic Passport.
I wander over to the shed and see there is one military type sitting in the lone chair behind the lone desk in the place. I knock first and I hear a grunt of “Enter”.
So I do.
“Passport!” the unsmiling character behind the desk commands.
I handover the red leather-encased document.
He flips it open after looking at the Cyrillic on the cover and being slightly confused.
“You are…Doctor…Rocknocker?” he asks.
“Yes.”, I reply.
“Do you have any identification?”, he asks.
“Look in your right hand,” I reply.
He bristles somewhat. I answered truthfully. He knew that as he didn’t ask for “any other identification”. He was going to raise a ruckus when he sees my whole-page special UN North Korean visas in my passport.
“You traveled in North Korea?” he asked.
“Yes, I did. Five fun-filled weeks”, I replied, “At the behest of the Untired Notions and Best Korea’s leader supreme.”
He stiffened visibly. He stamped my passport, stood, saluted, and handed my passport back with surprising alacrity and politeness.
“Doctor.”, he said, “Thank you for your time. Pleasant journeys.”
“Thank you”, I replied, “Let me tell you, of the two Koreas, I prefer the south.”
He smiled and nodded.
Nice chap.
Back outside, the limo driver was leaning on the car, smoking a cigarette. Colonel Chickpea was nowhere to be seen. There was another Indian military fella standing next to the car.
“Doctor Rocknocker?” he asked, as he walked toward me, hand extended.
“Yes, that’s me,” I replied and received a hearty handshake.
“I am Major Nakula Dattachaudhuri, your liaison for this part of your trip. I will be accompanying you to Gujarat. However, time is of the essence, and we’re running slightly late, so if you would please get in the car, we’ll be off.”
“OK.”, I replied, “Major… ahh…”
“It is a mouthful”, he smiles, “Please, ‘Major Nak’ will be fine.”
“Groovy. Call me Rock”, I said as we shared a handshake once again.
In the car, we were whipping past commercial airliners that haven’t moved for the last 6 weeks. This virus business is killing international air travel. It’s really going to take a global toll once it’s all done and dusted. Luckily I have a fully functioning immune system and can still travel.
“Major Nak”, I asked as we zipped past a Meraj Airways 747 that needed a good wash, “What happened to Col. Chickpea or whatever his name was who brought me here?”
“Ah, yes.”, Major Nak replied, “Lieutenant Dhuleep’s behavior was noted. I am replacing him for the remainder of your trip. You see, I have read your contract.”
“I see”, I replied, noting the only one to rat out the rambunctious Lieutenant was the silent driver, so I need to open a couple of new dossiers.
“I’d like to know the name of our driver. He’s been very polite and I wish to commend him in a letter I wrote for Dr. Mirchandani.” I asked Major Nak.
“Oh, that won’t be necessary.” He assured me.
“Oh, I think I should note exemplar conduct and deportment as well as that not so. His name?” I asked again.
Major Nak looked rather uncomfortable. The car slowed to a stop. The driver slews around in his seat.
“I am Aryabhata Ranganekary of The Indian Research and Analysis Wing, Doctor. Please convey my regards to Agents Rack and Ruin the next time you should talk together. Happy trails.” The driver says.
I am flummoxed.
The car starts up and we drive the last mile and a half in silence.
We pull up alongside an exquisitely appointed and brand new looking Gulfstream G700. It’s a beast of a private jet. Twin engines, tasteful white and blue exterior, and just a small circle of five black stars betray it as something not fresh off the showroom floor.
The trunk lid pops on the limo and my gear is whisked away to the cargo hold of the jet before I could get out of the car.
“Careful with that, it’s…oh, never mind…” I say as my gear disappears.
I walk over to the driver’s window and give a slight tappy-tap. It rolls down.
“I’ll give Rack and Run your best, Agent Ranganekary”, I say and hand him one of my best cigars. “Please, enjoy.”
He smiles and shakes my hand. “Do not forget, Doctor. Hello to Rack and Ruin. It’s been years.”
“No worries, mate,” I say, and with a tip of the Stetson, he departs.
I’m escorted onto the jet. It’s plush, lavish and all of this is entirely wasted on me.
“Have a seat, Doctor. Any actually. You and I are the only passengers.” Major Nak notes.
This is one of the few times in my career that the passengers on the flight will be outnumbered by the flight crew.
I pick a plush seat on the left-hand side of the jet. Major Nak chooses one opposite. A pair of stunning, nubile, young Indian misses arrive. They help me sort out the in-cabin storage and put my carry on gear safely away but readily convenient.
The captain, co-pilot, navigator, and security agent, I suppose, come aboard and greet Major Nak and myself personally. They promise it will be a smooth flight.
“Normal flight time for this trip is 7.5 hours. We’ll be flying above 50,000 feet at Mach 0.90, so we should be able to shave that to 6.5” Major Nak informs me.
“That works for me”, I reply, “I may be a seasoned world traveler, but the less time in the air, the more I like it.”
“You will enjoy these hours.” Major Nak assures me, “You are but the second VIP to travel in this aircraft. The first was the General Vishnu Heravdakar of the Indian Armed Forces.”
“I am honored”, I said and gave a little clasped hand bow.
“Very good, Doctor. Can I interest you in a drink?” He asks.
“Only if it’s large, cold, and free,” I replied with a chuckle.
“Rushpa!” He calls.
One of the Indian cabin crew magically appears.
“A drink for our guest. And one for myself as well.” He orders.
She smiles, executes a quick little bow, and hurries off to the galley. Moments later, a very tall, nicely iced vodka, lime, and carbonated citrus cocktail is finding a home in my hand.
“As per your contract.” Major Nak smiles.
“I didn’t specify what drink I required.” I protested.
“Your reputation precedes you, Doctor.” Major Nak says, “Aish'!” which is the Indian equivalent of cheers.
I reply “Salaamat'!”, which is an Urdu equivalent of ‘Cheers!’, a term which I use in the Sultanate from time to time.
He looks surprised that I know this and begins to rattle off in machine-gun cadence Urdu something or other indecipherable.
“Sorry, Major”, I say, “But that’s the extent of my Urdu.”
He laughs and says that he was saying how unusual it was for some ‘gora’ to speak Urdu.
He goes on to explain that ‘gora’ means ‘white’ and is not meant to be derogatory.
“Oh, no problem, Major”, I say, “I’ve got a really thick skin, yaar [mate].”
Major Nak laughs, “You’re going to fit in perfectly.”
Before half my drink as gone, we were wheel-up and headed south. I have to comment again, I have never seen international airports this quiet, and I’ve been I some in countries with active shooting wars. This viral business is taking a serious toll, and I don’t mean just in human life. Though, that is a regrettable statistic, but not novel.
Anyways, we’re whooshing to Angel’s Eleven and according to the readout on the bulkhead of the cabin, we leveled out at 54,000 feet above mean sea level, at an airspeed of Mach 0.87.
We were cookin’ now.
I’m looking out the window and seeing the tops of clouds and not much else. I smell smoke and turn to see Major Nak lighting up a Gold Flake King cigarette.
I’d have never thought to fire up a heater in a plane, much less one nudging the sound barrier at over 10 miles altitude.
“Oh, Doctor”, he says, “If you’d like, I’ll arrange an ashtray for you.”
“Please,” I said, slightly confused.
“Vijaya!” he barks. One of the other of the pair of cabin attendants materializes out of nowhere.
“An ashtray for our distinguished guest.” He orders.
She departs with a smile and a slight bow. She returns with a standing ashtray that somehow locks into the floor and hands me a new drink.
“I saw your drink was almost finished.” She purrs.
“Thank you” I said, “Aapaka bahut bahut dhanyavaad.” [आपका बहुत बहुत धन्यवाद।,Thank you very much.]
She beams and retires to wherever they store the cabin crew on these flights.
“So, Doctor, tell me. What brings you here?” Major Nak queries, obviously making small talk as he’s already admitted to reading my contract.
We spend the next 5 or so hours just chewing the rag, talking things over. I gave him a play-by-play of my experiences over in Best Korea. He laughed so hard at the way we spent our last night in-country, I thought he might wet himself. That he was not so covertly trying to match me drink-for-drink I think might have helped elicit his raucous response.
We had a choice of Western or Indian food as an in-flight meal. I like Indian food, but sometimes, it doesn’t return the favor. I asked for the Western meal, and Vijaya asked me how I’d like my steak.
Well, that was weird on several levels. But since they offered, I replied, “Blue, please.”
It arrived blue as blue can perfectly be on a 2” thick T-bone. There was grilled corn on the cob, small, whole buttered parslied potatoes, and camp beans on the side.
Of course, a fresh drink accompanied the meal.
Major Nak decided to take a nap right after tea. I didn’t want to wake him. Poor soul.
He was just too high-strung...
To be continued…

Continuing
Since I had a little extra time, I had him drop the personnel cage, which was about the size of a phone booth (remember them?) but made of welded ½” rebar, down through the hole in the foredeck of the ship. I needed to load a few items and figured why the hell walk up and down stairs when I had a personal elevator at my disposal?
Into the belly of the beast once again and I gathered up some of the more needful items. I had that crane operator, he of the surgical touch, hang me off the prow of that ship while I did what I considered a necessity, then over to the back side of the cut, over the top to the opposite side, and back again.
By the time darkness began to fall, I had completed all my extraneous wiring. The crane operator even deposited me ever so gently about 3 feet from my waiting motorcycle. Over the radio I thanked him again and invited him to come around tomorrow at 0600 for a few final checks. I’d save him a front-row 1000 hours seat to see what he had a hand in creating.
I went straight to the Raj as I was going to need my PPEs the next day anyways. Got in, parked my bike, went straight to the bar, had a couple of long, hard day at the office drinks, and retired to my room where I locked the door. After calling Esme and telling her I finally got my tickets home, well, the promise of tickets to at least to Dubai; that she should meet me at the Four Seasons as I wrangled it through my contract. We could wait out this silly viral lockdown in comfort on someone else’s nickel until they decided to open the Sultanate again.
We agreed that she’d meet me at the hotel in 3-4 days’ time; it seems she had some glasses made and they wouldn’t be done for a couple of days. Plus, she really enjoyed her mother’s company. Can’t argue with that. It means I’ll have to spend a few nights alone, on my own, bereft of human companionship, in a 5-star hotel in an international venue while it’s all being paid for by someone else.
I think I can deal with the upcoming hardship. It’ll be tough, but I think I can gut it out.
But first, there are some details to which I have to attend. There’s this package for Mr. Vikramaditya Shrivastava, the knot headed warehouse foreman who thought that by spending fewer rupees at a dodgy Hong Kong explosives purveyor that he’d be saving the company money. I’ll drop by his office bright and early tomorrow as I need to be out on-site very early, indeed, to make sure all is in readiness.
Also, there’s this box I have for our own Majordomo. He’ll be leaving tonight for his weekly shopping trip to town. Since I have bribed the floor-maid with ridiculous sums of rupees, she’ll let me in his room to deliver my present and has promised, up, down and sideways, that she won’t say a word to anyone.
I send off Sanjay’s and my latest reports to Agents Rack and Ruin, explaining that I’m far too busy to talk with them right now and that I want to finish what I started for fear of landing in the GULAG. I explain that I’m very querulous of Goodgulf Greyteeth and his brown-shirted minions. I tell them that I think his way of looking at things and assessing them are most at odds with the way I see things.
I make it as convoluted and misdirected as the wiring I did today on the boat.
I also tell them that I’m knocking off early tonight as tomorrow’s show time and I need a good night’s sleep. Especially for everything I’ve got planned with all the dignitaries who are slated to arrive.
If that doesn’t get their giblets tap-dancing, I’m not certain what would.
I hear my phones buzzing but after checking the numbers and seeing they’re not from Baja Canada, I roundly ignore them.
I decide that the new issue of Blaster’s and Quarryman’s Monthly would be just the reading ticket and retire to the bubbly tub with that, a bottle of Old Fornicator, a bucket of ice, and several cigars. Tomorrow’s going to be a big day; best to be rested and ready.
I’m up at 0500 hours, showered, shower-scotched, dressed, and at the job site promptly at 0600; right after I made a surreptitious delivery to a certain Warehouse Foreman’s office.
The Majordomo took possession of his package late last night, but I sincerely doubt he’s aware of that fact; or will be until I send an anonymous message.
The crane operator I paid last night was there as I mentioned I’d be in early to give the place a final once-over. After parting with a couple of cigars, a wad of rupees, and the promise of a front-row seat, I eschew the personnel basket and have him just clip onto my rescue harness. I need mobility at this point, so I gather up a few extra blasting caps, boosters, roll some Primacord in loops and hang it from the carabiners on the front of my harness or stuff them into one of many pockets. Then I give the thumbs-up “haul-away” sign.
“This is the cat’s ass”, I thought as I’m swinging around the outside of that old boat like some sort of aging Spiderman who’s really let himself go. I didn’t care that OSHA would have mailed me home sans bubble wrap if they ever saw this sort of stunt stateside, but that’s just the thing. I’m not stateside. Where else can I have such freedom in the world today to calculate the personal risk involved and decide that I can handle the hazards?
Sure, I could fall. I could get caught on an edge of very sharp marine steel and get sliced up a treat. Maybe several billion errant electrons go where they are not only not wanted but are insulated against, and in short, cause a short. I’d be a 22-stone charcoaled piñata, complete with diverticula-ed entrails and cinder-block liver decorations.
However, it’s my choice. I knew the job was dangerous when I took it. However, I also know how to mitigate the danger. For some, what I’m doing would be certain death. For me, who knows the ropes, circuits, and ins-and-outs, it’s a pleasant diversion to an otherwise boring day.
“Left 10 meters”, I call over the radio, and I swing over to exactly where I need to check some connections.
“8 meters due down”, I say and the bottom drops out. 25 or so feet later, I’m inspecting another circuit plexus. I feel like Arthur Dent and Slartibartfast is my co-pilot.
This went on for about an hour. I even had him drop me over the side, deep into the very bowels of the boat. I disconnect, hang the crane hook, and told the driver to hold on. I need to walkabout inside the ship and galv a few dozen connections. This is so much easier than futzing around with personnel baskets, scissor lifts, and my personal nemesis, stairs.
After another 30 minutes, I hook up and give a couple of pips on the radio.
“Going up!” I say as I whoosh past the hole we had cut in the foredeck. A few hand gestures later, and I’m de-hooked once again and on solid ground. I wave to my crane operator, he waves back and begins to drive off to his real job for the day.
No worries. He’ll be back, without the crane, for the 1000 hour kick-off time.
Since the show isn’t slated to begin, as I just noted, until 1000, I go back over to the portable office they had so thoughtfully set up for us and begin brewing the morning coffee. I rummage through my field case and am relieved to see that I have the necessary ingredients for Greenland Coffee.
And a fresh cigar.
At 0800 I get a call on the radio.
Sanjay is wondering if Mr. Maha is going to show up or if he should…never mind, there he is.
“See you in a few, Rock”, Sanjay says. He and the 24 other crew members will arrive here shortly. Nothing left to do but have a cigar and wait on the coffee.
The ship is beached and there’s a 250-meter exclusion zone around the beast. Cross where the flags are and not have the proper authority or business being there? You either are ejected off the worksite or perhaps into the local hoosegow. Don’t care who you are, no one crosses that line when it’s my watch and show.
So, I go outside and shoo Goodgulf Greyteeth and his cadre of brown shirts away from the ship.
“Good morning, Doctor”, he says smarmily, “Just admiring your handiwork. Wanted to get a good, close look before you demolish all your hard work.”
“Well”, I say, “I really hate to disappoint you, but you and your group need to get behind the flags now. Please, it’s for safety reasons. I can’t afford to have any sort of black marks on my record if one of you trip, catch a sensor, and get blown to smithereens.”
“Now Doctor”, Gulfy primps himself up to his full 5’ 5” height, “You seem to forget who you’re talking to here. I pay your salary…”
“No, Gulfy”, I remark, “You forget that in my contract, which you might pay but have also signed, names me as hookin’ bull, at all active job sites. You also seem to forget that I’m the Motherfuckin’ Pro from Dover, and what I say here is the law. All nice, legal, signed, sealed, and delivered. So, I not only do not care who you are, I have even less interest in what you have to say or what you believe. Now get behind the flags or I’ll have you forcibly ejected. We green?”
Gulfy looks like a whipped puppy. He may be a tiger in the boardroom, but out here, he’s just another fucking observer.
He relents and complies. A low “Green…” was his only word.
To try and assuage any bruised egos, I ask if anyone would like some fresh-brewed coffee.
No one says a word until Gulfy decides that, yes, he’d like a cup of my world-famous coffee.
The rest of his cadre is looking on and view me with such disdain and distrust that they’ll leave the entire pot for their boss.
“OK, your loss”, I say as I walk over to the office and get Gulfy his morning cuppa Joe.
“Here you go”, I said, handing him a travel mug, “Careful, it’s hot.”
He takes a sip, startles, looks at me, sips again and asks what wonderful blend I use to create such a fine cup of morning caffeine delivery system.
I explain the genesis of a Greenland Coffee and he sits back in his specially prepared VIP seat, smiles, and asks one of his minions if he has a cigarette.
“There ya’ go” I say, as I light up a huge breakfast cigar, “Now you’re getting’ the full picture.”
Gulfy looks at me and smiles wider. It seems we’ve had a breakthrough of sorts.
My crew arrives and since I’m just supposed to JAFO this project, well, more or less, I hold the usual morning safety meeting. I remind everyone that the job site is hot and anyone who crosses the flag line better have damn good reason to do so. I also remind them that there miles of wires and kilometers of det cord and Primacord that’s been strung. I also let them know the other name for this stuff: “Tanglefoot”.
“For fuck’s sake, you clodhoppers”, I say as many are still getting used to the idea of closed-toe steel-toed boots or closed-toed shoes of any description, “Watch where the fuck you’re walking. I don’t want anyone yanking out or tripping off a complex series of electrical circuits because they tripped over their own damned feet.”
They all nod, chuckle deferentially and smile wanly. My way of symbolically smacking them upside the head and not leaving a bruise still mystifies them.
“And, hey”, I say as I’m ready to dismiss them, “Let’s be careful out there.”
There’s a general agreement. It’s crossing close to 0900. I ask Gulfy if he and he alone wants to take a look at what’s going on here.
“After all,” I note, “We’re spending a lot of your money.”
Gulfy just smiles at me and replies, “If you are spending my money, I know it will reap great rewards.”
“Holy shit”, I think, “One Greenland Coffee and he’s sloshed.”
I’d best be off and brew up another pot.
Back in the office, I chat with Sanjay and give him the lowdown on the job. He’ll be running the show right after the full-chorus version of the Safety Dance. I’ll be more or less done here then. Out of the picture, I’ll just be on standby until I’m needed again; be that in five minutes or five years.
“Yeah”, I say, “Once they finish the Safety Dance and get out of the way. We’ll begin a countdown. At the call of 5, you hit the big, shiny red button. The rest is all automated, I hope.”
”Hope?” Sanjay asks.
“Fervently”, I reply. “Then once that’s all done and when Gulfy makes his inevitable after-blast crack, you use this”, and I hand him Captain America.
“What’s this?” he asks.
“A little present” I say, “The cording bundles are just to the right of the podium. Red is right, lemon-yellow is left. Hook up and press the first button. Galvanometer. Green. Green for go. Push the big, shiny red button once it lights, and you’ll see and hear some serious shit.”
Sanjay looks at Captain America.
“Use it in good health”, I say, “You’ve earned it.”
Hell, I can always just overhead another at Gulfy’s expense.
Sanjay is cofounded. Captain America, the Portable Electronic Blasting Machine, costs around US$650. He realizes that and he’s never before been presented with such a gift. Culture demands something of equal value in return.
I see his quandary.
“Just keep those fucking greenhorns out here from blowing their damned fingers off”, I say, “That’s payment enough.”
“Will do, Rock!”, Sanjay smiles, choking back the tears. The handshake afterward was particularly hearty and manly.
Suddenly, there’s a knock at the door.
“A knock?”, I ponder, “In a field office?”
“It’s open!” I holler.
Major Nakula Dattachaudhuri walks in.
“I hear there’s going to be quite the show in about 30 minutes, so I thought I’d drop by.” He smiles.
“Major!”, I say rather a bit too loudly, “How the hell are you? I’m so pleased you could be here.”
“Don’t you remember? You invited me.”, he smiles, “It would be…ill-mannered… of me not to take you up on your invitation.”
“Damn glad you could make it, Major. It’s going to be a hell of a show.” I say and see someone has accompanied our major.
“Oh please”, Major Nak says, “You remember my driver, Mr. Ranganekary? I trust there’s no problem him being here as well.”
“Of course not.”, I say, walking over to Agent Ranganekary to shake his hand and welcome him aboard.
We exchange some knowing smirks and both chuckle as we shake hands. “Glad you could also make it.”
“As am I, Doctor Rocknocker of Baja Canada.” He smiles.
“OK. Code. We’re going to have a chat later on, in private.” I note.
“Anytime is fine with me. Right after our little demonstration?” I say.
“Outstanding”, Agent Ranganekary replies with a grin.
“Coffee, gentlemen?” I ask, “Get it while it’s hot.”
It’s now going on 0945. I hit the klaxon to clear the job site. Everyone knows that one tootle indicates we’re 15 minutes out. Two and we’re 10 minutes away. Three and you’d better get the fuck off, out, or down and back beyond the flags. We don’t take headcounts, even though I tried to instigate that procedure. You get caught behind the lines, it’s your own damned fault.
Still, if there was an accident...hell, that’s why they work in teams.
I worry too much.
Two blasts and time’s getting close. I do an impromptu headcount and see everyone’s here and forthrightly accounted. That makes me feel a trifle less nervous. Guess I’ll fire up a cigar as I’m the master of ceremonies for at least the first half of the show. Got to keep up appearances.
The break siren in the yard goes off daily at 1000 hours. Today it announces the beginning of the ‘Dr. Rocknocker & Company Show’.
“If everyone would please take their seats, we will begin,” I say.
There’s a bit of bustling, but most everyone is seated and sorted. We have the Chairman of the Board out here today, the company CEO, several ministers, the town mayor, 25 newly-frocked blasters, the Major and his “driver’, plus another assorted bundle of workers, shop stewards, foremen, crew leaders, and other sorts of gawpers and hangers-on.
Time to schmooze.
“Welcome gentlemen and ladies, if any are present. Anyone here from out of town?” I wait for a chuckle or two. “I am Dr. Rocknocker and have for the last fortnight been training two dozen of your most clever, most impressive, and now most highly trained workers of which your company can boast.”
I make a grand sweeping gesture toward the accumulation and they all take a bow to the thunderous applause.
“Now, we are here to justify the layout of time, money, and energy. See, previously you would attack such a project as this very large cruise ship simply with hundreds of torchbearers. Dangerous, sloppy, and slow. A real waste of manpower, machinery, and materials. It was decided by the powers that be that they would take the chance that I could drag this company, kicking and screaming, into the 21st century. Let’s replace the grunt manpower with chemistry, and let’s better utilize that manpower for something other than simply holding a flaming stick.”
There were nods and smatters of applause.
“So, I now present your first step in, if you’ll excuse my not-so-humble-opinion, the right direction. Gentlemen?”
The 24 newly-frocked ex-cadets expertly split into four teams.
“CLEAR NORTH?”
“NORTH CLEAR!”
And so on around the compass.
TWEET! TWEET! TWEET! Came the melodious tootles of 24 air horns.
“CLEAR?”
“ALL CLEAR!”
I’ve taught my guys well. I am swelling with pride; just a bit.
“किसी बड़े विस्फोट की चेतावनी देना!”
“Kisee bade visphot kee chetaavanee dena!”
“FIRE IN THE HOLE!”
I nod to Sanjay.
“10…9…8…7…6…!” and he hit the big, shiny red button.
Now my skills as a clandestine electrician come to the task.
At number ‘5’, a number 5, 5 meters tall by 3 wide, lights up with the intensity of a new-born sun. There are several, well, five, in fact, muffled explosions in the bowels of the boat.
Remember those 4” vertical pipe-footings I had welded in place? Well, they’re full of 60% Extra Fast dynamite and now detonating in strategically premeditated places. Just a sort of insurance, don’t you know? Priming the pump as it were.
After a few seconds, the millisecond delays, and all that wiring allow a giant number “4” to light up.
More muffled blasts. So far, it’s going great.
“3!” “Kaboom…kaboom…kaboom…”
“2!” “Kaboom…kaboom.”
“1!” and several 4” pipe-fulls of potassium perchlorate, titanium, iron oxide, and magnesium tetraoxide ignite and fill the cove with an unearthly bright white-hot light and sparkles.
“Ohhh…Sparkly!”
After that fades, the number board flashes brilliantly from each corner and the word “GO!” appears in 5m tall x 3m wide letters.
Seconds click by, and people wonder if there was a malfunction.
Malfunction? No. It’s just me being ostentatious.
With a huge “BLAMMO!” the 10 kilos of ANFO I had set in the middle of the number board lights off.
Immediately, all the various leads of detonation cord lights off and travels at 8,000 feet per second to their respective detonic termini. Suddenly, at 25,000 feet per second, kilometer after kilometer of Primacord go off and begin slicing through marine seagoing steel like a hot knife through an order of butter chicken.
It’s pre-etching the cuts we made in the hull, weakening them just a bit more before….
“BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM!”
C-4 charges are going off, sequentially, beginning at the bottom of the hull and creeping, at some 15,000 feet per second, up the hull, over the foredeck, and down the hold.
The cuts are quick, clean, and clear. Now, with just a slight nudge…
“KA-MOTHERFUCKING-BOOM DE A-DAH!”
There it is. The 150 kilos of DOUBLEHEIX liquid binary lights off. All at once, bless its blasting velocity.
OK, yes. That was overkill. Why not? My last event here, at least for a while.
But oh, my. What a report. Short, sharp, and shocking.
With a whining screech of tearing metal from the very depths of Vulcan’s volcanic Forge, the entire prow of the once-proud cruise ship gives it up to gravity. With a wrenching rip, slashing snort, and rending rent, it plummets down whole onto the very beach sand before us.
“KER-FUCKING-SMASH!”
The whole area quivers a bit.
Some 450 tons of torn metal, plastic, and wood has just fallen some 10 meters vertically or so.
Gulfy looks up, and raises an index finger.
I smile, raise my remaining index finger, point to Sanjay, and mouth the words “HIT IT!”
He has Captain America primed and ready. He presses the big, shiny red button.
The prow section comes alive. She quivered 'n quaked. An' clutched at herself. As she tremored the beach as she was cut into twelfths.
The prow is being torn asunder from the inside by 60% DuPont Extra Fast Herculene Mining, Quarrying, Fucking Around, and Demolition Dynamite because I’m all soggy with nostalgia and a sucker for the classics.
It’s being ripped apart by explosions of lockers full of AFNO.
A couple of crusty cross-beams yield to several kilos of Kinestix solid binaries.
Some C-4 here, a dab of Tetraamminecopper perchlorate there, a little Hexanitrohexaazaisowurtzitane, a spot of Cyclonite (RDX), a soupçon of PETN, and once the metallic screaming is over, we have pieces of a ship’s prow lying static on the beach in 12 easy pieces.
I turn to the spellbound if not shell-shocked crowd with a goofy smile, a blaze orange hardhat, and a cigar that needs to be relit.
“That, gentlemen, cost approximately $35,000 in both parts and labor. We reduced the ship by 1/9th its length with the expenditure of 25 x 2 man-days and the rest in high explosives. Given that it can take up to 24 months to traditionally scrap one of these cruise liners, I had just demonstrated a method where it can be done in a couple of months, with massively less exposure of your workers to risk, more environmentally friendly, and at a savings of millions of rupees.”
Ok, there was applause when I mentioned, as I closed the formalities.
“And that’s why I’m the Motherfucking Pro from Dover.”
There was applause.
I said “Thank you”, relit my cigar, and strode off the stage.
“My job here is done”, I’m thinking, as I walk back to the office. I was secretly glad it all worked out and also glad I’ll never have to do that kind of ornamental origami with wiring and explosives ever again.
At least until next time.
I go into the air-conditioned office and plop heavily into the desk chair. Stuff the coffee, it’s, well, not Miller time, but it sure as hell is potato-juice-and-citrus time.
Good thing I thought ahead and had a cooler with all the ingredients delivered beforehand.
Of course, there’s a meet and greet after the show. I mention to the dignitaries that have gathered in the office that we need to vacate as I’ve got a swarm of heavy equipment on the way to clear the beach.
“The blaster’s need to get to work on the next slice”, I say and look over to Sanjay who is smiling broadly as well.
We are to reconvene in the boardroom of the company as there will be a catered lunch.
I can hardly wait.
yippee
I spy Mr. Ranganekary over in the corner. I sneak over as well as I can sneak and ask him when he would like to chat.
“Do not worry, Doctor, He assures me, “We will have ample time later. Go attend what needs to attend. Worry not about me, we will have time to talk. Ample time.”
Not knowing what he meant by that, I decide to leave Sanjay in charge, as that’s now his mantle to wear. I fire up the motorcycle that has been so conveniently brought over for me and head back to the barn. I change into a clean set of coveralls but decide that a hardhat and safety harness probably won’t be necessary for a boardroom lunch setting. A box of cigars, on the other hand, well…
It was quite the sumptuous spread. All sorts of a mixed grill, samosas, egg rolls, noodle dishes, finger food, and full slabs of ham, veal, lamb, and roast beef; which I found both curious given the culture but delicious nonetheless. A full open bar was set up and I decided to make the shipbreakers pay for all my extra and subterfugical work. The bartender saw me coming and by the time I made it to his tip jar, yes, they are quick learners, he had already a stout cocktail waiting for me.
I spent the rest of the day answering questions and making certain they had all my banking information correct. I was quite gratified with I received a pair of buzzes on my cell phone telephone where it was my bank telling me of the renewed vigor and turgor in my personal accounts.
I needed to cut loose of this shindig as I needed to pack and also to get my plane tickets. I was leaving on the red-eye express tomorrow at O-dark-30, but haven’t heard a word about ticketing.
“Ah, yes, Doctor; about that,” Gulfy said, somewhat unsteadily. “The airports are still closed in the Middle East and it’s been impossible for us to sort out your departure tickets.”
“Yes?” The fuse was lit. I wanted out of here. You’re not going to use this Corona craziness as some sort of ruse to keep me here, you sawed-off son of a …
“So we have arranged for a private jet to take you to Dubai”, he smiled, “If that’s acceptable.”
Anger evaporated. “Sure, I suppose that will work.”
“At your disposal”, Gulfy said, “Major Nakula Dattachaudhuri will accompany you.”
“Ah!” The penny, once again, drops. “So glad to have you along, Major!”
“And his driver?’ I wonder.
I left the soiree after shaking the hands, exchanging business cards, and pledging to stay in touch with what seemed like a veritable platoon of people. Some will be high on my re-contact list as they might just have a few little odd jobs for me. It seems that there were representatives of other shipbreaking companies in attendance.
“Well”, I supposed, “If nothing else, I do like their hospitality and willingness to pay through the nose.”
Back at the Raj, all my clothes, except for what I was wearing, were cleaned, pressed and ready to be packed. I allowed the floor maids into my room while I rustled up a fresh cocktail and watch them pack my aluminum hard-cases like the consummate professionals they were.
They spoke no English, I no Hindi, but the wads of rupees I passed over to them spoke volumes. They deserved it. I could go to work and not even spare a thought about domestic duties. These gals, and guys, here did so for me without so much as “Oh, I need a…”
After shooing them out, I called the Majordomo and asked when the jet would be ready. He told me anytime I was.
“Well, fuck this”, I said, “Es won’t be in Dubai for a few days. There’s no reason to rush. Let’s plan for a morning flight at 0600 tomorrow? Green?”
Mr. Kanada agreed on my choice of color. He would leave a wakeup call for me at 0430. He would alert all other concerned parties as well.
I loved that. ‘All other concerned parties’.
“Ha, Mr. America’s Hat, your choice of terminology belies your ulterior motives” I think.
“That’s fine.” I said, “I’ll be in repose this evening; many things to consider before returning to launch point. I’ll be awaiting my wake up call.”
Before I get all unclothed and comfortable, I call the kitchen and order up one of the sandwiches I’ve taught them to make during my stay. Fresh bialy roll, lightly toasted, strips of ham, roast beef, melting cheese, some grilled onions, and green peppers. A cheesesteak of sorts, but I like mine with swiss and paneer rather than provolone.
“Oh, and send up some ice and a bottle of White Mischief 101 if you would be so kind. Also, some sliced limes and Bitter Lemon, if you have them.” I add.
Not 15 minutes later, I’m finishing off the sandwich and refreshing my drink. I’ve already called Es and told her of my belated departure. She’s pleased that now I won’t have so long to stay at the hotel alone and get into trouble.
“If she only knew…” I mused.
“Hell.” I remembered, “She does know! Fuck. I’m such a damned Boy Scout”
I haven’t chatted with Rack and Ruin for days and I figured they’re beside themselves. I break down and figure as long as I’m leaving tomorrow, I’d spill the beans, yank their chains, rattle their cages, and poke them in the snoot, all metaphorically, of course.
I ring their office numbers and I get that they are “in dispose” and if I leave a message, “they will return my call at their earliest convenience.”
“Aw, fuck.”, I think, “They’re off on some sort of mission or job or whatever the fuck they do when they’re not bothering me. Ah, well. I tried.”
I left them a message consisting mostly of “Priviet, comrades!”, "Workers of the world, unite!", and “Nostrovia!”. Y’know, the usual sophomoric attempts at political and social satire and humor.
I also tried to not let it bother me too great that they weren’t available as I settled back into the Jacuzzi with a new cigar, a large fresh drink, and this month’s issue of “The Quarrymaster.”
The night progressed as nights do. It was dark, sudsy, and quiet. I finally caved in around 2300 hours and plopped into the acre-sized bed. I slept the sleep of the overtly righteous until exactly 0430.
“Thanks”, I croak into the phone and drop the receiver back into its cradle.
“Time to motivate”, I remind myself. I hot the opulent shower one last time, erase a couple of shower scotches, and steam up the whole room so much it looks like the windows are bleeding from the inside.
“Damn, it’s positively tropical in here”, I growl as I dress in my travel finest. The usual field outfit, but this time with orange and green argyle socks from Scotland.
There’s actually a Pringle of Scotland brick and mortar store here in Alang. These socks were the best worst color and design I could find. I tried to find blaze orange ones, but oddly I was informed “there wasn’t much call for that around these parts, Squire.”
Maybe next time.
I called the room clerk and almost immediately, there was a knock at my door. Evidently Mr. Kanada, the Majordomo alerted the staff of my itinerary. It makes me almost feel bad I left that faux crate of dynamite in his room.
But he should have known better to snoop around on me. I hope all he gets out of it is a skip on his electrocardiogram. Anything else, and I might have to place some calls and own up to my tomfoolery.
My luggage, except for my field pack is loaded on a cart and I was assured it will be in the gray Ventura limo in the garage anytime I wish to leave. I tell the doorman that I appreciate that and slip him 500 rupees.
I need to go through that time-honored and exasperating event now when one checks out of a long term stay facility. Tips for everyone. C’mon, it’s not like you can’t afford a little largesse now, you old sod.
I leave fat-stuffed envelopes for the room matrons, which I had Sanjay address for me the other day. They deserve it. That room was insanely clean, well-stocked, and above all comfortable.
More tips for the room captains, bellhops, bartenders, cooks, cleaners, hell, if you aren’t a guest here, you get a tip. That makes it so much easier.
Down at breakfast I decide to forego a heavy meal and just snack on a few of their wonderful grilled breakfast sausages and a cup or two of my ‘special blende’ coffee.
After checking out the headlines in the reading room, I go to the bar where all my Emergency Travel Flasks are topped off and I gratefully accept a “Visit Alang” thermos cup full of my favorite libation in the entire cosmos.
A free drink.
Just so happens that his is one of cold potato juice and freshly squeezed lime juice with a splash of soda. A new Rocknocker variant that goes in the “Big Book of Favorite Cocktails”.
After shaking hands with everyone, I see it’s gone around to 0500. Time to get a move on myself.
Over to the one gray Ventura limo that’s idling in the garage and see its Major Nakula Dattachaudhuri in the back with Mr. Ranganekary as the driver.
“Well”, I smile, “That’s convenient. One-stop. No waiting.”
“Indeed, Doctor”, Major Nak replies, “Shall we?”
I smile crookedly to Mr. Ranganekary as I wish him a gracious good morning and pile into the back of the vehicle.
“I see you have all the absolute necessities”, Major Nak laughs as he notes my garish travel mug and a pocketful of cigars. He plucks one of the cigars from my vest pocket and looks at me line “May I?”
“Of course”, I smile back.
I ask Mr. Ranganekary if he’d like one and he replies, “Thanks. I already have some on the plane.”
“Well” I note, “There’s that question answered.”
With no traffic to speak of other than the usual delivery trucks driven by essential employees, we make great time to the airport.
Past the main gate, past departures, past shipping and receiving and past anything that looks like a terminal building. There it is, the same old shack where I was greeted into this county. We park and I go to take my passport for its usual departure tattooing.
Major Nak asks for my passport. He says he’ll handle the departure formalities. He also says he’ll meet us back on the plane. I’m not terribly keen on relinquishing my passport to anyone, but if you can’t trust a major in the Indian Armed Forces, who can you trust?
We wheel up to the same Gulfstream G700 jet that brought me here. Now, instead of Seoul to India, it’s India to Dubai, UAE. It’s just a puddle jump across the Indian Ocean, some 3.5 hours in duration.
“Guess I’d better get started”, I say, and take a long, healthy pull on my drink.
Thus sated, I’m up the steps and into the forward left-hand seat of the aircraft. Agent Ranganekary takes the seat behind me and within a few minutes, Major Rak arrives, hands me my passport, and asks if I need anything.
“Well”, I said, shaking my now empty Alang thermal mug, “It is sure hot and thirsty out there.”
Major Nak smiles, nods his head, and says loudly: “Dusty as well. Vijaya!”
Vijaya appears out of the back with an expertly crafted and exquisitely large drink for me. Major Nak looks at me, looks at my drink, and shakes his head. He asks Vijaya for a hot Earl Grey tea, with milk instead.
He looks at me, looks at my drink once more, and says “No way. I vaguely remember the last time...”
I just smile, grin, and sit back to enjoy what I could really get used to as a means of transportation.
The flight was smooth, pleasurable, and uneventful. We were up at 57,000’ again and pushing the bitter edge of the sound barrier at Mach 0.93.
We were in Dubai International, at the military end of the airport, within 3 hours and 19 minutes.
A large SUV cab arrives and tarmac workers begin stuffing all my gear into the back. I note a haversack and one lonely carry-on joined the pile.
It seems that Major Nak and Mr. Ranganekary were going to spend a day or two in Dubai as well.
It seems they were going to stay at the Four Seasons Hotel as well.
It seems to me that something might just be up.
To be continued.

Continuing
I’m sitting in the dark, fuming, wondering what the hell that was all about.
I still have my drink and cigar and I’m employing them in their proper offices. This is right before I light the newspaper on fire for a bit of light.
Sr. Majordomo appears out of the gloom with a lit 7-stick candelabra.
“Sorry, Suh”, He says in the hoity-toity British butler accent, “Bit of a bother. Seems the electrical substation down the road exploded again. No worries. Happens all the time. We’ll be fine once the emergency generator kicks in.”
And, as if by magic, all the lights come on again.
“Why, thank you, Jeeves”, I say as he nods and departs.
Now…where was I? Ah…fuck. UREE’s down 2⅝’s.
The next morning, down at breakfast…
“Weeeell. Good morning, bright eyes! How we feeling this fine day?” I ask Sanjay as he slopes into the Raj’s breakfast nook.
He looks at me through what appears to be two baseballs composed of very lean bacon.
“…fine…how are you?” he asks.
“Me? I’m in fine fettle. I’ve never felt fettler. I’m still breathing, I have all my appendages, such as it is, and still a spotless record.” I reply cheerily.
“How? How…can you? How…do you?” he asks, wearily.
“Years of intensive practice, m’lad.”, I smile, “Here’s something hot, wet, and black. Drink up, it’s going to be a busy day, Bucko.”
“erf.”
Sanjay is appreciative for the Greenland coffee. Somehow he’s developed a taste for the stuff.
I ask the attending butler for my specialty breakfast: a grilled bagelwich breakfast panini.
That’s a smashed, over-hard cooked egg, stinky French foot cheese, sliced ham, red onion, Siriaca mayo, sliced red capsicum, hot Giardiniera, and neon-green pickle relish on grilled, buttered garlic bagel.
Yum.
Sanjay looks at me through crimson-tinted eyes over his steaming soupçon.
“You’re not human.” He sighs, shaking his head.
“Nope. Never claimed to be. I’m an EtOH-fueled carbon-based lifeform. Take me to your larder!” I guffaw.
Sanjay groans into his morning mug.
Sanjay feels better after he slurps down some coffee and has his morning repast of gnarly looking gruel, Masala oats he tells me. A bit of tatte idli with coconut chutney. A couple of slices of bacon, akki rotti and chutney, some more coffee and he’s looking almost human again.
I grab the morning edition and head to the reading room.
“Call our driver, Sanj, if you would. Give me ten minutes and we’ll roll. First day of school and all that.”
Sanjay gives me the high sign and we rendezvous a bit later in the basement waiting for our ride. I go to fire up a breakfast cigar; a nice, light little Dutch dry-cured.
Sanjay looks at me like a flogged puppy; the whole big soulful eyes routine.
OK, fine. I’ll save that for later.
We arrive at the Barn, or Outbuilding #2, at 0705. The crew will arrive at 0800, and I’ve already got the day planned. I tell Sanjay I’ll be outside having a smoke. He wants to brush up on the day’s activities and bids me a hearty “don’t let the door hit you in the ass.”
Nice.
I’m sitting out in the bright, still morning sun when a tap-tap approaches.
“Dr. Rocknocker?” he asks.
“Sure am”. I reply.
“Please come with me.” he requests.
“Why? Where we going?” I reply.
“Headquarters. There is a request there for you.” He says.
This is odd. They could have called me directly. They could have called Sanjay.
“Oh, well”, I think aloud, “Whatever. When in Alang…”
I get in the tippy little machine and away we race at breakneck speed toward the main building complex.
I tip my driver and wander into the reception area.
The receptionist doesn’t even look up as I enter. She merely points to the boardroom.
“There.” was all she said.
“Thanks.” was my reply.
I trooped over to the boardroom. I look inside after I yank the door open, unannounced. It’s a full house. Standing room only.
I am immediately asked to take a newly vacated seat at the head of the table.
“Coffee, if you please, black”, I reply to the tea boy de jure’s inquiry.
I’m sipping my coffee and the room, previously abuzz with Hindi, goes deathly silent.
“Doctor”, one grizzled old Indian chap says, the Chairman I find out later, “We are pleased you were not injured in yesterday’s activities.”
“I’m rather pleased not to have been killed as well. Thanks, gents” I reply.
“We are also very pleased that none of our young people you recruited were maimed or harmed as well”, he said a shade more darkly.
“OK, I see where this is headed”, I thought to myself.
“Yeah. Ain’t that something?”, I said, gruffly. “Amazing that I could take a squadron of grass-green recruits and defuse a 9-ton company fuckup without so much as a bloody nose. I must really be good. Thank you for the compliment. Wait until you see my bill.”
“That’s just the thing, Doctor…” he continued.
“Yes?” I awaited the inevitable.
“Your methods are…so irregular. So…unorthodox. We are uncertain. That is to say, we are not convinced that you..” he tried to continue before I cut him off.
“Ah, hold the phone, Goodgulf,” I said as I pulled out Emergency Flask #2 and a new Oscuro cigar. “Have you indeed personally read my contract for this little soiree that you’ve invited me to attend?”
“Well, read…no. Skimmed…?”, he choked a bit.
“Ok, Scooter, here’s the deal.” I said to the Chairman, “You’ve got something sticking in your craw. So spill it. I’m not moving from this seat until we get a few issues vodka clear.”
I swore as I lit my new cigar.
There were a few gasps and coughs from the crowd. I blew a large blue smoke ring skyward toward the fluorescent lights.
“Well, Doctor.” One of the other board members continued, “Your contract was for training and teaching our young men in the use of explosives in shipbreaking. It’s been now three days and you haven’t broken a single ship…” he stammered.
“You fuckin’ with me, Bub?” I asked, incredulous, “Do you not know of yesterday’s little field activities?”
“Oh, yes”, he tried to continue, “But we believe you overstepped the strict bounds of your contract…”
“OK. Fine. You believe that all you want. Goodbye.” I snap a natty two-finger salute and proceed to stand to take my leave. “Fwwppp!”
They obviously hadn’t read my force majeure, iron-clad, triple take-or-pay contract.
“Oh. I’ll expect payment before I leave today. Business-class flight tickets or better and remember, payment in full before I go. Good day, gentlemen.”
I stood, readjusted my Stetson, and puffed a huge cloud of Oscuro cigar smoke skyward.
“Now, now, Doctor. Let us not be hasty.” The old fart said.
“Well, you sure as FUCK wanted me to be hasty yesterday when I identified that 9-ton catastrophe waiting to happen out in Sector 4. You didn’t even know it existed much less what to do about it. I hung my ass out over the line and dragged it back in to save your corporate asses. If that motherfucker would have blown, with all that counterfeit C-4, dynamite, ANFO, and fucking Nitronox; the place where you’re sitting right now would be one tall, mothering hole. It’d be littered with uncountable bodies and body parts.” I yelled back.
Each of the board members looked as if they’d just been slapped in the face with a large salt-water cod soaked in lemon juice.
“Doctor! Decorum!”, one of them bickered back.
“FUCK YOUR DECORUM!”, I roared back. “You candy-assed executives sit here and just watch the proles swing by and the money swirl in. Let me tell you something, me ol’ muckers. Get the fuck off your ivory pedestal and get into the trenches and see what it’s really like out there. You may have started in the trenches and clawed your way up here. I doubt it as most of you have never had a blister or broke a sweat. I’m a Goddamned Doctor of Petroleum Geology, I am! I have more degrees than any of you so-called ‘higher-ups’, and I look forward to cultivating blisters and getting all sweaty and nasty. It’s called ‘working for a living’ and being the best in your field. You sorry slack-jawed bastards might want to give it a try sometime. Don’t presume to lecture me on decorum, gentlemen. Let me lecture you on reality and how the fuck the real fucking world really fucking works.”
Utter silence from the whole boardroom. I sat back in my comfortable ergonomic seat, sipped my coffee, and smoked my cigar. I silently wondered who would be the first to break the stillness.
Finally Goodgulf Greyteeth, the original old fart, spoke up, “Ah. Yes, Doctor. Please do not misinterpret our reservations for ingratitude.”
“Not at all”, I replied, “I know you’re good at paying your bills. I do my homework.”
That stung them again. They knew they owed me and my recruits a fucking bundle.
“However, you are an American...” he tried to continue.
“What the flying fuck does that have to do with the price of Ganga in Calicut?” I railed, “You knew that from the onset. Don’t you even fucking dare try to make it a cultural thing. I’ve lived all around the world, Gentlemen; myriad ethnicities in the past 4 decades. I assimilate into a new culture smoother than the COVID-9 virus into a leaky mammal cell-membrane. What else you got?”
More silence. I checked my watch. 0745. I need to get back to the Barn.
“OK, gents. By your silence, I can see that I just terrify you”, I noted, “That’s cool. I have no problem with that. That’s really fine and dandy. However, you are correct: I am an American. I’m brash, I’m loud, and I’m quickly decisive. I smoke, I drink, I swear, I stink. And you know what? I’m damn proud of it. You value decorum? I value results. I don’t ask you to like, investigate, nor critique my methodologies. I ask you to like, investigate, and critique my results. Like yesterday. You’d have shit yourselves and gone blind before you’d screwed up enough courage to go up to that tent yesterday, much less go in and defuse the problem. That’s why I’m here. And until I decide to leave, you stay up here and play with your decorum; just don’t get caught. I’ll be down there and taking care of the fucking business of doing business. When I ask if ‘we’re green’, I mean ‘are we in agreement’. So, are we green, gentlemen?”
There’s an immediate buzz. Machine gun cadence Hindi and finally a unanimous:
“Yes, Doctor. We are green. I’m glad we had this opportunity to talk. Thank you very much for your time.”
“Marvelous”, I replied.
I slurped down the remainder of my coffee, donned my Stetson, and headed for the door.
“Ah, Doctor”, the old grizzled fart said, “No hard feelings, I hope.”
“None from this side”, I replied, “Sorry if you can’t say the same from yours. There is one thing before I go. You will be doing this without question…”
A few tense minutes elapse.
“Until we meet again, then. Ta-ta.” I said to the exasperated board.
One really surly conversation later, I’m out the door, down the steps.
I grab the first tap-tap to happen by and head to the Barn. Upon de-tap-tapping, I give the driver 500 rupees. I was just still so pissed I wanted to get shed of all things Indian at that point.
It was 0800 and I walked in the door.
Deep breath. Suck it up. It’s showtime.
“Morning, guys”, I said cheerily, “I do hope you all survived yesterday intact.”
There were a few groans. I knew that all those empty liquor bottles and half-barrels out by the rubbish tip had to come from somewhere. There were some headaches being nursed here, and they weren’t from nitro this time.
“OK”, I said, “Let’s see. Numbers 8, 14, and 22 are officially not here.” I said, looking at the tote board. “Shame, they will miss out on the juicy bonus information I have for them.”
Suddenly, numbers 8, 14, and 22 appeared as if by magic.
“Oh, lookee. The gang’s all here.” I said cheerfully, “Now we’re all present and accounted for, I have some de-briefing for you from yesterday’s escapades.”
The entire room was in rapt attention.
“First, my hearty and personal thanks to all of you. You performed above and beyond. My personal thanks and approbations.” I said.
There were actually smatters of applause from the assembled.
“OK, enough of that horseshit.” I wave off the applause. “Now the news you were all waiting for. It was rumored that you were to be given a one-time expeditionary bonus of 10,000 rupees for your work yesterday.” I informed them.
There was a buzz.
“What do you mean ‘were to be given’?” came a few gasps.
“Well, it’s like this”, I said, gravely clearing my throat, “I felt that was insufficient, unsatisfactory, and downright insulting. It’s only US$132 and I felt you guys deserved better. So I convinced your bosses to double that figure.”
There were gasps and huzzahs.
I held up a whole hand to silence them.
“However, just this morning they collectively managed to piss me off magnificently. So, now it’s double-double. How’s that?” I asked.
The room erupted. Phones came out to calculate their newfound wealth.
“Gents,” I said, “Put away your phones, you know my classroom rules. It’s US$523.28 Congratulations. You’ve earned every piasa.”
Now there was real applause. The room sort of erupted.
“OK?”, I asked, “Everyone delirious? Good. Because now we’re going to go through your locker boxes and have a locker box inspection!”
Never has the mood in the room done a 180-degree turn so swiftly.
“Sanjay”, I said, “If you would. I need some air.”
Outside I check my messages. Nothing that couldn’t wait. I had a small Dutch dry-cured cigar and a couple of tots from old number 3.
“Locker box go OK?” I asked.
“We’re green, Rock!”, came the reply.
Sanjay shook his head to agree.
“Outstanding”. I replied.
“OK, guys, here’s the deal. After yesterday’s total immersion, we’re going to hit the books for a day or so. Go over some fundamentals. It’s not going to be near as exciting, but it has to be done. So, get out your copy of the Blasters Protocols Handbook and read the first 5 chapters. That will take us to lunch. We will reconvene at 1300 hours and discuss what you just learned. We green?”
“Rock,”, one industrious student asked, “Do we need to stay here and read or can we go out?”
“No”, I replied, “I don’t really care where you do your reading. Because tonight there will be homework, so you may as well get used to it now. See you at 1300 hours. You can stay, as Sanjay and I will be here or go wherever. Go nuts.”
Three-quarters of the room left with their books, the rest remained.
I fielded a couple of calls and Sanjay brushed up on his Blasters Protocols Handbook, 15th edition. I fielded a few questions from the peanut gallery that remained, but by and large, the morning just evaporated.
At noon, we locked up. Sanjay went to lunch, I commandeered at tap-tap and driver. I gave him 500 rupees for the hour.
“Sector 4”, I said, “And don’t spare the electrons.”
He was driving one of those new, environmentally-friendly tap-taps.
Yippee.
Off we putt-putted. I fired up a cigar, offered one to the driver, which he snatched faster than a teen caught by his mother with a copy of Playboy, and had a few tots from old number 2.
We got to the location of the old ammo dump. The tarpaulin and poles had been removed, but not the warning flagpoles and yellow cautionary tape.
Salim was still standing here, looking somewhat confused.
I instructed my driver to tap-tap over to Salim.
“Show’s over, Salim. Thanks for your hard work.” I said.
“Salim tried to keep them out. They say they need tarp. They had to go around the back. Salim would not let them up the path. Doctor Rock say so. Salim make sure.” He smiles.
Hand him a bundle of rupees; got to be over 1,500. He gratefully accepts. He’s once again over the moon.
“Salim”, I asked, “Have you eaten today?”
“No, Doctor”, he replies, “I was at my post. Like you said.”
“OK. I officially relieve you of duty”, I say. I ask the tap-tap driver to get on his phone, radio, or carrier pigeon and get another car over here chop-chop.
A minute or two later, an ancient gas-powered tap-tap appears.
“Driver”, I say to the new cart pilot, “I want you to take Salim here to the commissary. OK?”
He nods agreement as I hand him 100 rupees.
“Salim”, I say, “This cart will take you to the commissary.”
I scribble a note in my tally book, rip it out, and hand it to Salim.
“Give them this. You go get some food and drink, now. Savvy?”
“Oh, yes!” he exclaims, “Salaam! Salim savvy. Thank you, Doctor”, as he tries to shake my arm off.
“No problem.” I said, “Enjoy. Bye now.”
Salim and his driver putt-putts off to the commissary.
I do hope he didn’t stay out here all night.
I walk over to where the tent once stood. The ground looks like a flock of large birds, or a perhaps a constipated dragon, finally had their laxatives kick in. The ground was ash-white, churned horribly, and no longer any form of threat. Hose this area down and within weeks, you’d probably get sneeze grass and wild wildebeest wort growing here again.
I’m such an ardent environmentalist. Yay me.
I get back in the tap-tap and tell the driver to head to the beach along the Road of Yesterday’s Potential Death.
He nods and off we putt.
We tap-tap along, down the sandy trail until the road just ends.
“That’s odd.”, I muse, “I could have sworn there was a road here yesterday.”
There was, however the Nitronox™, all 500 pounds of it, saw to its relocation.
Somewhere out beyond the orbit of Jupiter from the looks of it.
“Holy fuck”, I said internally. I had a slight case of retroactive jibblies as I kind of lost my balance, and shit, for a moment and sat back down, hard, in the vehicle.
“Dead is dead, Chuckles”, I thought to myself. “Be it a puddle of nitro, a stick of soggy dynamite, or this Nitronox shit. Any way you slice it, one errant kaboom and that’s the end. But still…”
I looked out to the hole left from yesterday’s final detonation.
It had to be 175 feet in diameter. Easy. And that’s after the surf’s been chewing on it all night and half the day.
2 tons of dynamite. A ton and a half of ANFO. One and a half tons of C-4. A couple of tons of general cheap-ass generic Chinese explosives.
Nothing compared to a simple 500 pounds of that goddamned thermal liquid binary shit.
I shuddered spontaneously. I asked the driver to take me away from this place. It gave me a feeling of impending doom as if there were some unexploded Nitronox lurking around out there. Stalking through the night, searching for the one who did their comrades in…
I’ve got to lay off those cheesy 1950s B-movies late at night.
We putted over to the commissary. My breakfast bagel cratered long ago and I was a bit peckish. I invited the driver in for lunch. He first adamantly refused, but I told him he’d be fine with me, and besides, it was my treat. He parked so fast, I thought he’d glaze his brakes.
I had a glass of that lovely mixed fruit juice and some sort of Indian grilled meat on a stick. I think it was tandoori chicken, buzzard, something or other avian, but it was actually very tasty. Especially with the crushed garlic dipping sauce, they provided. The garlic naan bread was particularly good. I could offend people for miles after a lunch like this.
I had my juiced juice and three skewers of grilled whatever and was quite satisfied. My driver, who was easily 1/3rd my size, had 5 skewers of grilled avian whatever, tabbouleh, a stack of naan, grass salad, hummus, a couple of meat pies, and glass after glass of what was either buttermilk or laban.
I had to look under the table to see if he was stashing some for later. He wasn’t. This guy could eat like a starving trencherman. Must have had a couple of hollow legs.
I told him I need to get back to the barn for school was about to begin for the afternoon. He starts shoveling it in faster and faster.
“No, no. Wait one!” I said, “You stay here and enjoy lunch. I need to walk back anyways, I need the exercise. It’s all paid for. Take all you want but eat all you take.”
He smiled back at me with sticky meat-glaze all over his face.
“Groovy.”, I said, “Later.”
I walked briskly out the door, down the stairs and back to the Barn.
We spent the rest of the afternoon going over the different classes of explosives: high, medium, and low. I gave examples of each and their particular uses. We then went over different fusing methods; from set-pull-forget to demo wire and a blasting machine. Blasting machines like the Old Reliable plunger-type; now sorry to say, obsolete. And the new Captain America electronic type.
I spent some time tripping down memory lane regaling them with tales of wind up detonators, Twist-Off detonators, cannon fuse you lit with a match, match lights you lit off with a lighter and myriad other ways to get explosives off their dead asses and go to work.
1700 hours hove into view quickly. I assigned chapters 6-12 for tomorrow and said “Adios” for the evening. It had been another long, but not quite as deadly, day. I need the phone, to update my field notebooks and dossiers, make come calls, and sprawl around in the Jacuzzi like a beached graying narwhal for a few hours.
Not necessarily in that order.
Back at the Raj, Sanjay disappeared to make his notes for the next day.
I stopped by the bar, surprise, surprise, and Butler 214 magically appeared. These guys were quick studies. He handed me a selection of cigars he chose personally. He would like to know what I thought of each the next day.
“Yes, sir!”, I said.
I think he actually cracked a small smile.
I sidled over to the bar and had the Bejesus scared out of me by the little attendant who was invisible down behind the bar, tending the taps on the draft beer.
“Yes, sir, Doctor”, he smiled widely, as he pops up like an Aarav-in-the-box. “What is your pleasure?”
“An all-expenses-paid year-long vacation at Milton Lake Lodge, Saskatchewan?”
He just looked at me quizzically.
“OK. I’d like a pint of cold draft Boris Brew Vikingathor if you please. Plus 100, no, 200 milliliters of Old Fornicator Vodka.”
As if by magic, they both appeared.
The Dark 8.2% beer went down without so much as a hint of a fight. The Old Fornicator scrapped a bit, at first.
I had him prepare me a to-go package that I could take to my room.
“Oh, no sir!”, he said.
“What?” I roared.
“No, sir. Just call 215 on your room phone. I will bring it to your room personally. Service available 24/7”, he smiled.
“See what you miss when you don’t pay attention?”, I smiled and slipped him 500 rupees.
“Mea culpa”, I said, “It’s been a couple of really long days.” I dragged off to my room.
“Calgon, take me away” could be heard filtering through the cracks in my room as the water splashed.
Afterward, feeling less marine mammal and slightly more human, I call Esme. I give her a Reader’s Digest version of what’s been going on the last couple of days.
She’s blasé about the whole situation. Remember, she’s had 39 years’ worth of me going to strange, foreign places, and getting into all sorts of odd situations. She was particularly pleased that neither my recruits nor I were killed, maimed, or otherwise inconvenienced.
Besides, she said she’d kill me if I came home dead.
Funny thing is, I truly think she means it.
I profess my love, tell her about my really healthy bonus package. I endure the shrill “Squeee!” of her telling her mother they’re going shopping again today.
She always has been the moral, ethical, and economic center of our family. I love her so for that.
Next on the roster was a collect call to Virginia and my agency buddies.
“Hey, guys”, I say, “How are things in the clean world? Still locked down?”
“Hello, Rock”, Rack and Ruin say in unison. They have me on speakerphone, even though they know how much I hate those things.
“Take me off that damn loudspeaker”, I demand.
“Nope, it’s breakfast time here and we need both hands free.” They riposte.
“You know that I know certain people, right…?” I said ominously.
They just chuckle.
That really hurt.
“Anyways. What’s up?” I re-interrogate.
“Well, we hear you’re really making waves over there. Literally and figuratively.” They say.
“Yeah. Business as more or less usual. Prosaic, boring, and spine-tinglingly dangerous. Another day in the life…” I yawn.
“That’s not what we heard”, Agent Rack replies.
“Oh? What have you heard?” I ask.
“We have heard of tales of recklessness and heroics regarding some 18,000 pounds of dodgy Chinese wholesale munitions.” He continued.
“Oh, that? Yeah. A spot of bother. No worries. We sorted it out.” I replied.
“About that. You took 24 green cadets with you to defuse a smoldering 9-ton ammo dump?” Ruin wondered.
“Yep. Good chaps. I think they’re going to work out just fine.” I said.
“Ah, Doctor. We want to let you know we’ve investigated your role in the last couple of days' activities over there. True, you are a private contractor, but Agent Ruin and I have put you in for an Agency citation. For valor and initiative above and beyond the call.” Agent Rack tells me.
“Whoa. Groovy! What’s that worth on eBay?” I ask, immediately running the solemn moment.
“You asshole!”, both agents laugh.
“Hey, it’s me. A leopard can’t change his spots or so goes the old story.” I snicker.
“And Doctor Rocknocker, we’d have no other way.” They agreed.
“Thanks. I appreciate the sentiment.”, I stated.
“OK, now all that fluff and circumstance is out of the way, what news have you for us?” Agent Rack enquires.
I give them the lowdown on some of the more promising students, especially Viswamitra Dattachaudhuri. I tell them that due to our vetting process, we’ve run the selected bunch through the wringer three times before they receive their numbered brass tags. I explain that it seems to be a good system. I’ll write it up in great and glorious detail in case anyone else wants to try and apply it themselves.
Scribbling can be heard down the line. I ask if they’re ready for more.
“There’s more?”, Agent Ruin asks, “You bucking for a promotion now to go along with your citation?”
“Hush, you.”, was all I said.
I told him of my run-in with the board of directors and Goodgulf Greyteeth, the headmaster of that special education class.
“Did you really tell the entire board to go ‘piss up a rope’?” Rack asks.
“That was the least of what I said to them.” I chuckled. “I swore, I stomped, I cursed, I fumed. I went full American on their flabby asses.”
“Not ‘full American’?” Rack recoiled verbally in horror.
“Yep. With itchweed clusters.” I chortled.
“Well, there goes that offer of Ambassadorship for our Dr. Rocknocker.” Ruin laughs.
“Bah! They couldn’t pay me enough”, I quipped.
“Oh, you’d be surprised.” Agent Ruin replied.
“Holy shit.”, I thought, “Were they being serious?”
“So, Doctor. We would appreciate full dossier profiles on those people you feel would be of interest to us here. You know the parameters we use to determine that. We trust your judgment.” Agent Ruin says.
“What’s this? A sudden brush-off? Or has your coffee gone cold?” I ask.
“Anyone ever tell you you’re very intuitive, Doctor? Bye now.” Agent Rack chuckles and rings off.
“Why do I let myself continue working with these guys?” I wonder to myself.
The next morning, after breakfast, Sanjay and I are back at the Barn at 0715. There is a knock on the door. It’s a courier and he has a message for me.
“Please accompany the courier to Warehouse 11.” was all the note said.
“Sanjay”, I said, “Hold down the fort. I’ve been summoned.”
“Got it, Rock. Chapters 6-12?” he asks.
Yep. Basic stuff. Really hammer it home. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” I said and followed the unsmiling transport driver cum courier.
I pull out a cigar and off him one. He refuses politely. I offer him 200 rupees for his troubles. He accepts politely. We’re off in a cloud of blood-red dust and headed for Warehouse 11.
I meet Mr. Bana Padhya, the foreman of this warehouse.
“Doctor”, he says as we shake hands.
“Good to meet you. ‘Bana’ is it?” I ask.
“Yes, sir”, he replies.
“OK, Bana. Call me ‘Rock’.” I say.
“Fine. Dr. Rock, your bunker is finished. In fact, it’s already being populated.” He beams.
I feel a chill in the still tropical air.
“Please explain,” I asked simply.
“We finished the bunker you requested and designed. After that, we retrieved the materials from your adventures with the munitions tent the other day. We have placed those materials you had buried into the bunker. Please, let me show you.” He insists.
I breathe a bit easier. I remembered the Primacord that we salvaged. My heart rate dropped back down from hummingbird mode.
We rode out about 5 minutes and there, built into the side of a sandhill was a very respectable set of locked blast doors. I look and see the cross-braced sub-structure supporting the roof as well as providing ventilation.
They actually did follow my designs.
Mr. Bana escorts me to the doors. He twirls a knob, twiddles with a lever, diddles a keypad, produces a huge key, and proceeds to open the bunker.
We walk right in. I have to admit, I was impressed.
10 meters by 10 meters square and 4 meters or so tall. All built out of doubly-rebar reinforced concrete and cinderblocks. There was a strong forced-air draft running through the place, circulating air in from the top to bottom and out again. A digital readout on one bulkhead noted the time, date, temperature, and humidity. All this data was being recorded and could be downloaded at the terminal under the readout.
There were shelves, lockers, and lockable cupboards. There were keypads that allow or prohibit access to the more lockable storage sub-facilities. Over along the west wall is spool after spool of Primacord. It looks like it might still be useable, but until I give it the once over, I ask it to be locked behind closed doors.
They have fire suppression built-in as well as some sort of Asian faux-Halon system they had laying around gathering dust. That wasn’t in the original plans, but, hey, it can’t hurt.
I walk around and give the place the once over.
“Not bad”, I say, “Not too bad at all.”
I walk outside. Looking at the roof, I see a potential problem.
“Bana”, I say, “Get some of your guys before another single stick of anything is stored here. Get them on the roof and clear away all that sand.”
“But, Doc…Rock”, he protested, “Sand is heavy and when wet, will be a most beneficial addition to containing any blast if something should happen.”
“That defeats the purpose of my design”, I reply, “See those X-shaped cross-braces up there just under the roof?”
“Yes.”
“They are there not just for ventilation, but as structural support for the blast roof.” I said.
He looks at me quizzically.
“The way it works is this:”, I say, “If there’s an accident, the solid double-reinforced and sand-braced walls and blast-doors will contain the blast energy. Now, that energy has to go someplace, right? So I planned for it to go straight up. The roof is split cross-wise, petal-shaped. 4 petals will open like the eggs in the original Alien. They will peel back, on hinges connected to the X-shaped cross-members, and allow all that blast energy to go straight up and dissipate, without hurting anyone or anything.”
“Amazing”, was Mr. Bana’s reply. He assured me the roof sand would be removed immediately.
“Outstanding “, I replied, shook his hand, and got into the tap-tap for the ride back to the Barn.
“DOCTOR!” Mr. Bana yelled before we took off.
“You might want these.” He says as he hands me the procedure, codes, and my own keys for the blockhouse.
“Of course. Many thanks, Mr. Bana” I reply as we take off in a flurry of dust and good feelings for once.
Back at the Barn, Sanjay is going over Chapter 9 and I walk in.
“Ok, gentlemen. Break time.” Sanjay announces. “Be back here in 30.”
The room empties almost immediately.
“Well, Rock”, Sanjay asks, “What was that all about?”
“Good news for a change”, I am and show him the procedures, codes, and keys for the blockhouse. “We now have a fully functional explosives bunker. Now, all we need is some explosives. Oh, we do have that Primacord you guys buried in the sand the other day.”
“That is good news.” Sanjay reports, “Oh, I got a note the air packs you ordered have arrived.”
“They actually found the 3M™ Scott™ Air-Pak™ X3™ SCBA gear I wanted?” I asked.
“They had to go through the military to find them. The military, by the way, was a bit annoyed that you wouldn’t use their air packs”, he added.
“If I’m going to teach these characters how to go into a dodgy atmosphere; potentially poisonous, or otherwise hazardous, and survive, I want gear with which I’m familiar. Scott? Oh, yeah. Indian military? Not so much.” I explained.
“What’s so good about Scott?” Sanjay asked.
“Well, it’s been around forever”, I say, “It’s the brand of choice in the Oil Patch. Plus, they come with CGA or Snap-Change cylinder connection, they’re available in 2.2, 4.5, or 5.5 cylinder pressures, have dual-redundant pressure reducers, a new back frame contour design with articulating shoulder harness, possess improved hose and wire management, have optimally positioned "buddy" lights, "External" HUD for easy air status updates of the team, Vibralert tactile alarm and best of all, they’re made in the U.S.A.”
“OK, you’ve sold me. I’ll take a dozen.” Sanjay laughs.
“Laugh all you want. When things get weird, the weird turn pro and wear Scott air packs.” I laugh back.
Sanjay smiles. He knows that I’m joking as well as being serious. ‘Eh, it’s a gift.
“Have them roll the entire list over to the bunker. Plenty of room there to store them. We’ll start tomorrow on their care and feeding with the guys.” I said.
The regular crowd shuffles in, move their brass markers to the proper spots on the tote board and I notice an unfamiliar customer hanging around the back of the room.
“Sanjay”, I say, “Handle this for me for a while. I think I’ve got another message waiting.”
“Sure, Rock”, Sanjay says, “We’re just going over black powder and its historical uses. Nothing too mission-critical.”
“Great”, I say, and pat him on the shoulder. “Make it interesting.”
I motion to the guy in the back to meet me outside.
I am outside firing up a heater and he walks up to me and asks, “Are you Doctor Rocknocker?”
“Ah! Let me check.”, I say. I pull out my wallet and look, “Yep. That’s me.”
Not as much as a smile.
“Please sign here.” He instructs.
I sign and ask “What is this?”
“It’s for Dr. Rocknocker.” He says, turn heel, and walks rapidly away.
“Well, that was weird.” I think. I pull out my Neutral European Country Military-issue Knife and Pocket Tool Set and zip the heavy envelope open.
It’s from Dynamo-Noble.
“Hurrah!” I think. A real munitions and explosives manufacturer and wholesaler.
It’s a ticked manifest of everything I had ordered previously!
• Du Pont Herculene 60% Extra Fast!
• Pure metallurgical-grade ammonium nitrate!
• Trojan® GEOPRIME® blasting caps and millisecond delay super-boosters!
• Blastex Composition C-4! Real C-4!
• Biterox safety blasting caps and fuse.
• Ensign-Bickford Brand Primacord – Primaline 85!
• Eurenco PETN!
• Eastman Chemical Company RDX!
• Professional Demolition International demolition wire!
• ‎EPC-UNIVERSAL EXPLOSIVES Detonation cord!
• Oil Well Explosives Gelatin Nitroglycerin Dynamite )some of which might go in my personal collection.)
• And NO! Nitronox™!
It’s like Christmas, Hanukkah, and Kwanzaa all in May. It’s the first real good thing to happen this beleaguered year.
“Me so happy!”
I look deeper. The C-4, dynamite, Primacord, Det cord, caps, boosters, and fuse are already here. I need to call and supervise their loading into the new bunker.
The rest is en route and should be here within 2-3 days.
That’s cutting it close but will have to do.
At least, I’ve got some old friends to play with now.
Those kids have no idea what’s just hit.
I rub my hands together in barely contained glee. I feel like a kid in a candy store with a brand new Mastercard.
Back in class, I tell my students that we will meet after lunch over at the new bunker. I have Sanjay get on the phone to Mr. Maya. We’re going to need the magic bus once again.
After lunch, I’m sitting in the shade outback of Outbuilding #2. I’m having a post-prandial smoke, a tot or two, and Sanjay is almost at the point where he got enough dander up to ask me for a cigar.
Suddenly we hear the raucous strains of Bollywood music.
It’s Mr. Maya and his Magic Bus!
The bus coughs to a stop, and Mr. Maya gets out.
“How are you today, Sir?” I ask, shaking his hand. “Added some paint to the old motor coach, have we?”
“Oh, yes, Dr. Rock”, he smiles, “With Sanjay’s payment and your bonus, I could buy many new colors. Like I say, I never know when to quit.” He chuckles.
The bus was covered with a pattern of startling hues, ranging from schizoid red to psychopathic azure, post-traumatic stress purple to exhibitionist green, bipolar brown to obsessive-compulsive cerulean. It added a bit of color to an otherwise drab environment.
“We’ll load up right after lunch”, I said.
We sit and swap some stories, and I decide it’s warm enough for another Tiger. Sanjay calls a number on his phone and suddenly, a courier arrives.
He has a small lunch-box sized cooler. Inside are 4 iced Tigers.
Sanjay refuses to give me that number.
I’m enjoining the light, pilsnery taste of the Tiger as is Mr. Maya. This stuff’s so light, you need to tie it down or it’ll float away.
My team is filtering back after lunch. I look and see it’s getting close to that time.
Precisely at 1300 hours, we all hear and feel a small boom, a tongue of unctuous black smoke licks the sky, and a siren is screaming its tonsils out.
“Post lunch back-to-work cannon and whistle?” I ask.
“No, Rock”, Sanjay replies anxiously, “There’s been an accident in the yard…
To be continued…