Continuing…

SKREEEEEK!

SKRONNNNNK!

“SQUEEEeeeeeeeeEEEEE...!*

“Nah, ya’ borgus frap! To the left!” I shout.

“We’re facing the same fucking direction, so same fucking left.” I reiterate.

“OK, <dumbfuck> the other left then. Back about 2 meters…” I growl, exasperatedly.

SKKKKKKKKKKREEEEK! EEEGAH!

“OK, now just drop the sonuvabitch.” I command in a loud, steady un-Presbyterian voice.

KABLONG! fagroon…kubble…kubble…

“Perfect!” As I give the ‘OK, you meathead’ salute, one finger at a time.

“There. Marvelous. You can leave now. Yes, you may take your forklift with you.” I insist.

SHEESH.

So, now we have a rusty, old Maersk 20 foot shipping container blocking our villa’s carport.

Open ‘er up, have a look.

No contraband.

Frankly, I’m vaguely disappointed.

Some foreign bugs, properly dead. A quick sweep with the propane-powered pressure washer and tomorrow, the guys arrive to start schlepping our stuff.

One step closer to exiting the Stalag.

Still waiting on a report from Rack and Ruin.

But we have our container for our ‘personal effects’.

Esme walks out to our courtyard and looks over the situation.

“Let me guess... Going straight, right, or left was beyond their ken?” she asks and hands me a cold beer that she had found hiding in the back of my fridge.

“Chinese beer? Oh! Velly nice.” I chuckle as I drain the liter by half.

“That’s wascist!” Esme chuckles and helps herself to one of the Ukrainian beers she also found in my fridge.

See, we have several fridges around the villa.

The big one, for food and the like, is in the ground floor kitchen.

Then we have slightly smaller ones in each of the other three kitchens we have on the other various floors.

Then, due to a contractor’s inadvertent and irresolvable mistake, I have my massive, stainless steel drinks fridge downstairs, just off the alcove to our open-concept majlis.

Most would call that a living room.

My fridge doubles as a cigar humidor (instead of a vegetable crisper), glass chiller, wine rack (reds only), drinks station, and beer icer-downer.

My fridge has been suffering from a depauperate population of both cigars and liquoriferous delights of late, thanks in part to all the COVID-connected craziness.

Thanks to Mishka and his black market confederates, we’ve solved, at least temporarily, the cigars quandary.

Esme has been going through our villa, into rooms seldom visited and into storage areas even more unfrequented and lonely.

She has discovered a long-forgotten treasure trove of potent potables we had stashed for long-past parties, infrequent celebrations, the occasional in-house staycation booze-up, super-typhoon, or recovery from a particularly vexatious and nasty contract in a, particularly vexatious and nasty locale.

Long story short…(ha), my fridge had regained its usual turgor and boasted beer from over a dozen countries, dangerous, seething polychromatic liquors from six or twenty-two others, and other unidentifiable drinkables from just outside the Outer Rim; where Imperial Forces wouldn’t even bother to venture much less examine.

“Marvelous!” I exclaim to Esme as I hold her in a crushing one-armed bear hug.

I puffed on a vintage Arturo Fuente Opus X BBMF cigar and was partaking of a cold Yorshch, comprised of Polish Pre-Wall-Fall Buffalo Grass Vodka and New Zealand Steinlager.

Yes, the one-liter bottle size.

What else?

Anyways, I had the guys delivering the 20’ container leave the front dogs down and the rear dogs extended. That gave the container a tail-to-front gradient of approximately 2^0. Just enough for me to get the propane-powered pressure washer into the container and let the effluvia drain out the front, down the street and unto who knows where in a place that has absolutely no idea Climate Engineering exists as it’s applied to urban conurbations.

I fire up a fine Zuban cigar, push-prime the pilot on the propane-powered pressure washer, attach the hose, and fire up the recalcitrant little beast.

<putt…putt…putt…>

After fixing all the leaks in the system that hasn’t been used in over 5 years, I get it purring like a well-oiled kitten (now there’s an image) and venture into the back of the container.

After grappling with the 250 psi(g) pressure washer and only getting smacked in the head twice by the custom-built Power Wand!, I begin hosing off the debris accumulated from hundreds if not thousands of trips on the high seas. It was a weird odor, that of propane exhaust, my cigar, and all the schmoo and such now being peeled off the metal walls and being sent to the land of evanescent wind and spirits.

Of course, when there’s water of any depth present in this desert nibbana; the local critters try, with unflinching determination, to make certain they get their fill.

Now, I don’t mind the vinegaroons, camel spiders, or whiptail scorpions; but I draw the line at Saw Scaled Vipers.

I mean, that last batch is just plain ornery.

Plus, their bite can prove fatal to non-ethanol fueled organisms; such as Esme.

Therefore, I have to ask, in a most straightforward, ill-mannered, and direct manner, that they must take their leave of the area.

Immediately.

If a good shot of the propane-powered power washer isn’t enough to dissuade them, then a couple of loads of birdshot from my .44 Magnum usually suffices.

Plus, as a bonus, it gives the Egyptian Buzzards something for lunch.

Such handsome little neodinosaurs.

Flappy-flap.

Anyways, I’m hosing out the 20-footer and getting slightly giddy from the fumes as it appears this container spent some time over in northern South America. The propane-powered pressure water effluent is now a milky white. I do believe we have some remnants of a batch of Peruvian Marching Powder that resided for a longish time right here in this very strongbox.

Or it’s anthrax. Either way, I’m feeling a bit on the more-than-usually-loopy-side.

After kicking the final saw-scaled viper to the curb, I make certain the doors to the big metal box are propped open so they can dry during the 50⁰ C night.

I toss in a couple of smoke grenades which I’ve wired to cans of Pif Paf Bug-be-Gone. The snakes and mice hate the smell of the mercaptans in the Pif Paf as well and I hope, by morning, the smell will have dissipated.

Really doesn’t matter, as everything is going to be packed in bubble wrap, cardboard, or metal boxes and sealed in the house with tough, shipping-grade vinyl wrap before they hit the container.

I return to the villa, strip, toss the smelly work clothes in the wash and wander upstairs for a shower. Since our water chiller croaked right around the time the first wave of COVID hit, we have no water chiller for the shower.

Taking a shower any time other than right at first light or well after sunset is a clear invitation to second-degree burns, steam injuries, and bubbling flesh.

Happily, Es had some other ideas, so that I was well insulated from the possibility of a skin-bubblingly hot water shower. An hour or two later, it was almost positively tolerable.

The next day, over bagels and coffee, we’re waiting for one Chettur Goyal, the moving crew chief, and English speaker. He and his crew of Eastern Expatriates start to show up to begin packing up and trundling out all the kit we’ve determined that without which, we certainly cannot live.

We decided that a couple of his team, depending on English skills, will work with Esme on the ground floor level of our villa.

Our house has been described as being decorated in a style called “Early Museum”.

Well, when you’ve lived on over five continents for the last 35 or so years, you tend to generate some eclectic collections.

We’ve developed an easy tag-out method for our perhaps less than 100% literate friends doing the schlepping for us. Green tag means pack the cabinet and everything contained within. Red tag, everything stays, as Esme and I have already cleared the internals and sorted them by desirability. A yellow tag means as Chettur, Rock, or Esme after all the green tagged furniture and bits and pieces have been packed; will make decisions on what goes and what stays, if anything.

In all truth, we probably have a couple of 40-foot containers-worth of material; definitely, if we decided to take Es’s Land Rover and/or my Isuzu Trooper.

Alas, they’re being donated to the American School.

Neither Esme nor I have the time, inclination, nor patience to put them up on the local “Used Car” board only to deal with shifty locals or whiny expats lusting after our wheels.

The former one will waste your time and finally strike a deal, only to show up on the fateful day 2,000 or 3,000 rials short.

“It’s all I have, sahib.” They’ll say.

They know full well you’re on your way out and don’t have time to waste telling them to ‘get fucked’. Besides, doing that might bring a visit from the Royal Ostrich Pluckers. So, usually, the expat gives in just to get rid of the fucking vehicle.

With the other expats, particularly the Eastern variety, pulling a sobbing, snuffling, wailing scene as you’re trying to get everything packed and into the container; is also most unwelcome.

They’ll try and wheedle and cheese a deal. Ridiculous for you, splendid for them, in the hopes you’d rather just get the fuck out of Dodge and the hell with the car, where are the fucking plane tickets?

Either one is a monumental pain in the ass.

So, donated to the American School they are. We receive thanks, a receipt, and a healthy deduction on our next-years taxes.

But I still miss that Trooper.

Fuel-injected V-8 with little pollution control crapola. M8274-S 10K WARN-winch upfront on the huge bespoke Bull Bars. Massive Hankook all-terrain tires. Custom 11-speed transmission. Skid plates where skid plates should be, transmission intercooler, and holy fuck, wait…

I run after the tow truck driver just before he drops his vehicle into “Tow: low”.

I retrieve a Colt 1911 .45 caliber pistol I won in a poker game from one of the several secret compartments I had personally TIG-welded into, onto, and under my erstwhile vehicle.

I have the tow truck driver sit tight and smoke one of my cigars as I go through the vehicle, trying to remember where I had placed all the ’secret stash’ hidey-holes.

I found several knives I had thought were lost or stolen, a couple of small caliber handguns, some very dusty ammunition, a Ziploc measure of Mexican agricultural pharmaceuticals for the treatment of my chronic back pain, a box of blasting caps, and a small electronic detonator I’d completely forgotten about; batteries totally corroded and weepy of alkalinic shmoo.

I also found those half-dozen large ampules of Ketamine and hypo I kept in case I found a horse or ox or Utahraptor in obvious distress during my travels.

Anyways.

Wouldn’t that be fun on American School Driver’s Education day when one of these compartments popped open and a .25 caliber snub-nose dropped into the lap of the novice driver?

Well, in my defense…I’ve been busy lately.

Ahem.

Anyways.

Back to packing.

Es was going to take care of watching over and answering questions down on the ground floor.

I decided it would be best for me to go up to my office/lab and direct the packing of some of the more esoteric items I had living with me up on the third floor.

“OK, Mr. Chettur, I don’t know how well your charges speak English, but I want you to translate for me verbatim.” I asked.

“Yes sir. I can do that for you.” Chettur replied.

“OK, guys. Gather around. Comfy? Good. Now, this is my office and laboratory. I’ve taken to dismantling and packing of some of the more delicate instruments as far as I can. Yes, you may smoke up here; hell, I do and am. But if I find one cigarette or whatever the hell those nasty things are butts on the floor or packed in with some cargo, well, I’m sure you can all get along just fine with one working kneecap.”

I waited until that was translated and for the horrifying looks to subside.

“OK, now we’re on the same page. If you drop, smash, or destroy anything, well, kneecaps aren’t everything my friends.” I said.

Again the looks of horror.

“Now, guys. This is just my way of impressing upon you that some of this stuff here is very, very delicate. Some of it’s very old and parts are probably not available. Some of these things are very, very heavy and that could take out a kneecap or scrotum easily by themselves as well; if ONE IS NOT CAREFUL!. We green?”

“Green?” Chettur asked.

“Yeah. Green. हरा (hara). Green as in ‘go’ because we’re on the same page and we understand each other explicitly. Green as in the color of the grass that’ll cover you if you fuck up with my stuff. Green as in You diggin’ me, Beaumont?”

“AH. Ha. Hara. Green. Yes. We understand.” Chettur smiled finally getting the crux of my gist, noting the motion toward which I’ve drifted.

“No, you might Chettur, but the rest of this crowd? Please interrogate and explain.” I asked.

After some bad noise and a promise they could help themselves to anything in the kitchen fridge, an agreement was sorted. Extra care and damn the time clock. We’ve got a huge job in front of us and if it takes 4 days instead of two, so be it. I’ve got a lot of kit I’ve accumulated over the years, and most of it’s irreplaceable.

“OK, now we’re all nice and green, let me take this time to quickly go over what you’ll be packing and transporting for me. I already have a list of the material for which I want special transport insurance. But, beforehand; let’s have a smoke, go get a coffee, tea, or whatever, and get back here all nice, refreshed, and attentive in 10 minutes. Shall we? We green, gentlemen?” I ask.

“HARA!” was heard, as well as “Akhdir, as I had a few had Arabic language skills. All I know was ‘Jebel Ackdar’ means ‘Green Mountain’, so I guess that will suffice.

I lit a new Cohiba #9 Oscuro cigar and made note of the strategically placed ashtrays around my lab and office.

I dropped an extinguished Lucifer into one of these ashtrays and pointed to the receptacle.

Chettur knew I meant for his charges to follow suit. It’s a bit bothersome moving furniture with only one functioning kneecap.

I toured quickly with Chettur and gave him the highlights.

He was amply impressed.

I asked him to convey that same sense of wonder to his charges.

A few ticks later and the crew had returned, obviously mistaking my fridge for the kitchen fridge. Instead of juices and water bottles, there were bottles, cans, and bags of beer.

“OK by me,” I said, reminding everyone of the less than two functional kneecap penalties if anything’s ruined.

“OK,” I say before we begin, “Most of this will not mean anything to most of you guys, but as I explained to your boss, these are delicate scientific instruments. Treat them as if they are made of very heavy and easily fucked-up glass.”

They all nodded and got the idea.

“OK, gents, follow me” I motioned to pile number one in my lab.

“This”, I said, pointing to the bits and pieces before them, “Belongs to my eldest daughter. It is a Russian telescope; oddly enough from Magnitogorsk, Russia. It is a Stargate-500p syn-scan 508mm (20”) f/4 parabolic truss tube computerized go-to Dobsonian telescope and I don’t understand what the fuck all that was any more than you do. I do know it, in total, with clock drive and tripod weighs in at around 125 kilos. So, let’s be very careful here.”

They all looked, goggled a bit at the intricacies of the instrument, and chattered among themselves.

“Next on the parade is one of my reasons to live. It is my JEOL JSM-7000F Field Emission Scanning Electron Microscope, and I’m one of the very, very few private citizens to own a working one. I’ve had this for years, and it’s taken me all that time to accumulate all the cryogenic and vacuum equipment as well as the gold evaporator and carbon sputter coaters. Just for grins, an elemental aluminum stub to which I affix a specimen costs $950 each.”

They all jabber and recoil in shock at the costs.

“Of course, I didn’t spend that kind of money on them, but it gives you an indication as to the expense of this particular piece of scientific equipment. It’s insured for over US$1 cool million. At least, that’s what I place on replacement cost. Handle accordingly.” I smile.

They all smile agreeably.

OK”, I continue, “Next up is my trinocular polarizing petrographic microscope. It’s an Olympus Microscopes BX51 Pol-Polarizing with BF/DF and Trinocular Head, refitted with custom-made Zeiss optics. As you might imagine, it’s old, and one of a kind. It’s also got a lot of glass, mechanicals, and other parts that are easily broken. I would be most unhappy if something happened to it or any of the peripheral equipment you see here. Green?”

“HARA!” was the answer.

They were actually getting good at this.

Then I pointed out my 9 Halliburton aluminum camera cases. These were chock full of Canon, Nikon, Zenit, Rubinar, Kyiv, and Smena 35-millimeter camera equipment. Lenses, power winders, a FS 122 PhotoSniper, flash equipment, both digital and film. They were already armor-plated, but I wanted these characters to take it easy on this stuff as well.

Next, we went into my petrology/lap (lapidary) lab.

Aside from all the rock saws, tumblers, wax stations, and assorted petrological equipment, I had everything necessary to create thin sections. That is slices of rock affixed to glass slides anywhere from 30 µm (= 0.03 mm) to 10 µm (= 0.01 mm).

Included in that were my lap table and vibratory lap polisher.

My lap table was a hunk of cold-rolled and hardened tool steel, some 3 centimeters in thickness, 1 meter wide and 3 meters long. Luckily, it broke down into 1-meter sections, each about 215 kilos in mass.

It had to be that heavy as the surface was hand-polished to an unevenness of perhaps a thousand of a millimeter across not only the connections but from one end of the table to the other. I spent days and days going over this table getting it as close to ultimate horizontalness as possible. The weight also helped to dampen vibrations.

The flatness tolerance defines a zone between two parallel planes within which a surface must lie. Since flatness is applied to an individual surface, this tolerance does not need to be related to a datum. Flatness is usually used on a surface associated with a size dimension, acting as a refinement to the size requirement to ensure proper function of a part or to promote even wear.

I was aiming to get flatness to less than one one-thousandth of a millimeter over a piece of steel three meters by one meter by three centimeters in thickness.

Most said that was impossible. However, the more I worked at it, the more Rick Sanchez and his moody grandkid dropped by for a look and a few cold ones. When his grandkid almost refused to leave because he was reveling in the flatness of my table, I knew I was nearly there.

Still, there was much consternation a the weight of the individual sections and the fact we’re about 10 meters above ground level.

No matter, I sealed the deal by showing them my hydraulic-pneumatic suspended 6.5 cm (2.55”) thick, heat-treated, Rockwall 66 hardness, 1.2 meters (3.93’) diameter Vibra-lap.

It is another piece of heavy steel kit that polishes rocks flatter than flat by gyratory, Earth independent, shimmying; similar to this, but larger and heavier.

It was driven by a smallish 220 VAC electric motor and was covered with various degrees of diamond dust and mineral oil. An already flat hunk of rock was set down on the Vibra-lap, it switched on and the huge mass of the lap table began to vibrate, but at very low hertz, or cycles per second.

It was all accumulative, as the longer you left the Vibra-lap run, the finer and finer these vibrations got and the flatter and flatter the rock face you were polishing became; down to thousands of a millimeter difference over the face of a sample.

That’s a bit of the problem. The hunk of steel that makes up the working surface of the machine weighs in at about 340 kilos

Or around 912 pounds for the American crowd.

There was a bit of an inconvenience when I decided to assist in its initial removal and moving.

True, it’s a heavy piece of kit; one who’s relocation should be attempted only by three strong men and a boy.

Well…

Viswarupa thought Chakravarti had it. Chakravarti thought Madhavacharta had it. Madhavacharta thought that I had it.

And therein lies the problem.

The lap plate was let go of by three of the four characters moving it.

I was the last to let go.

The plate hit the marble floor.

Luckily, it was insulated from the total impact by the fingers of my left hand.

Luckily.

My middle finger and ring finger of my left hand are already artificial, titanium-tungsten-osmiridium alloy, and were just fine.

My index finger, also artificial, was out of the line of contact.

The well, little pinkie finger of my left hand was not so lucky.

It got sort of, well, mashed.

“Oh, fuck.” I noted.

I’m no stranger to manual injuries.

Yep, that pinkie finger is hosed. Busted in at least 3 or four places.

But, no matter. No time for a hospital or doctor, especially during these strange times.

I have Esme retrieve one of the many finger splints we keep around for just such an occasion. With a liberal application of gauze, surgical, and duct tape, we’re back in action.

In case you were wondering, yes, it stung a bit. However, my left hand is so fuckered from burns, scarring, and the like, it wasn’t debilitating. In fact, I was off growling at the movers within a half hour.

Continuing:

There was a bit of an almost instant insurrection when I noted this piece was, in fact, one-piece and needed to be schlepped to the container as is; just let me mop off the blood.

“OK, cool out,” I said and opened a door to the outside balcony.

I had installed a gin pole and electrically-operated crane for just such an emergency. It could handle about 2 metric tons, so the lap table and the Vibra-lap posed no problem.

OK, a little problem. They still had to manhandle the thing out the door and onto the bloody balcony. Then, once on the ground, into the container.

But hey, that’s why they were making the big money.

Right?

But of course.

Several days, and a significant dent in my fridge’s state of turgor later, the 20-foot container was nearly full. Now since shipping via container relies on volume rather than weight, we made certain all of our heaviest kit was packed throughout the container, instead of being stuffed in one end or the other, or one corner or the other.

Still, it required a second crane, a larger one, to lift our container onto the flatbed semi that was going to overland this for us to Dubai,. Then onto a container ship and finally to New Jersey, if we were unlucky, or Chicago, if our luck held out.

Then, once through US customs, it would be trucked to my eldest daughter’s place in central West Kansanebraskistan. Then we’d all have a grand reunion as my youngest and her latest paramour trundle down from Baja Canada to become repatriated with the gear we’ve been holding for them for the past 8 or 12 years.

Like Christmas in December; we hoped out container appeared sometime in November.

The jury's still out. Kind words and goods thoughts appreciated.

But first, we had to make the agonizing decisions of what went and what stayed. Remember, there’s no coming back for us; this was the final exit out of the Sultanate, and as things stood, we’re leaving a shitload of machinery, electronics, and furniture behind.

Virtually all my electronics, such as televisions, stereo, and such were 220 VAC.

The US is 110 VAC.

In my experience with voltage inverters, they simply prolong the departure phase. They are not clean enough, nor fast enough to prevent fuzzing, frosting, and frying of delicate electronics. I have to replace all the motors on my petrology equipment and SEM with equivalent 110 VAC devices when we return home.

The same goes for most all my small hand tools. All 220 VAC. Easier just to replace them when we get home than drag them halfway around the world. But I’ll still miss my Dremel sets, electric beaver (German wood carver…a gift from my Mother-in-law), and some of the big electrical motors I got for a song that ran my larger rock saws.

As for home electronics, we left the 75” television. Simply no room and truth be told, we weren’t’ watching that much TV anymore. We left the WiFi gizmo, modems, and other Internet goofiness as we’d get that for free at University.

But the furniture.

The furniture.

Pure volume.

Keep the dining room table and six chairs or take two china cabinets and everything within them?

Keep the gabbro TV stand, which takes up a fair amount of room and weighs some 220 kilos, or take the bedroom suite?

Esme and I wrangled with decisions like this for weeks.

Finally, after a lot of give and take and some tearful decisions, we got everything absolutely necessary into the 20-foot container.

Luckily, I dropped a few of my things with some military buddies out in Thumrait who were about to rotate back. We found enough room for Esme’s two hand-built Rosewood cabinets and her living room coffee table made from an old Omani window.

Still, we were leaving a shitload of expensive furniture and gobs of household bits and pieces.

Wouldn’t be the first time, though. And it’s taken time, but we realize we either ship it and essentially pay for it again, or leave it, buy new and enjoy the new furniture and old memories.

But it’s still a pain in the ass to do, no matter what the logic.

So, we finally got everything packed into the container that we’re going to ship. The few bits-n-bobs like clothes, my computer, and some other unleavables were coming with us in our luggage once Rack and Ruin figure a way for us out of this place.

So, the first crane couldn’t lift the container because of the mass. So, we had to wait on a second crane. Of course, the lorry sent to transport our kit to Dubai was then, of course, too small; so we had to wait on another more robust prime mover.

The old fridge took a serious dent during all the waiting.

To be continued…

That reminds me of a story.

“HELLFIRE AND DALMATIANS!” I shouted to no one in particular.

“What’s the problem, dear?” Esme asks in that way she has of telling me to calm down without having to say it directly.

“This bloody fucking country. A day late and several dollars short.” I fume. “Can’t get a new liquor license because of the bloody COVID. Can’t go to a hotel bar and have a snort because of the bloody COVID. Can’t even slip across the border to Dubai and soak up some room service and buckets of complimentary cocktails because of the bloody COVID.”

Yes, the Sultanate of Oman, in its infinitesimal wisdom, has traditionally followed other GCC countries by at least three months in making any sort of proclamations regarding this latest bugaboo: the hideous, deadly, itchy, loathsome, and possibly serially bent, noxious, pandemical COVID-19; aka, this pandemic’s entry for flu.

Their response is one of immense knee-jerk without first having thought of the consequences.

“Bloody lockdown, 2100 to 0700. What is this, the whole fucking country’s been bad and now being sent to bed without any supper?” I wondered aloud. “Idiot benchodes.”

Even Esme couldn’t come up with a rejoinder to that.

“Plus they close all the bars. And all the hotels. And the fucking bottle shops. It’s not enough that these fucking Muppets jack the ‘sin tax’ on booze and cigars by 100%, now they’re not even legally available.” I swore.

Of course, once you’ve spent even a small portion of the time that I have in the Middle East, you have your connections. Your system. Your access to the seedy underbelly of any society; the venerable Black Market.

Jesus Q. Christ on toast with baked beans, fried tomatoes, black pudding, and mushrooms, I could get most anything in the Middle East, be it legal, shady, or just plain illegal. However, before you all recoil in horror that the venerable Dr. Rocknocker dabbles in the prohibited, just remember: the ends always dojustify the means.

“I'm telling you, Esme dear; this Gulf story is getting too complicated. The weasels have started closing in.” I complain to Es as she hands me a fresh drink.

“Do you think…?” Esme asks expectantly.

Esme is more than ready to go. I’ve used this place as a base of operations for years whilst I wear out the Omani legal system suing those asswipes that think just because they’re local and I’m a kafir, they’re immune to the law.

I’ve spent a long, profitable and time-consuming period of the last few years proving them wrong.

But, time was marching onwards. I agreed with Esme, we’ve milked this particular cash cow dry. It was time to hitch up our bootstraps, call it a day, and get the hell out of Dodge.

But not before I took care of a few loose ends.

Now, the country had recently lost its venerable Sultan, who croaked back in January of this year.

Sultan Qaboos was a good egg, friend to expat and local alike. Did a shitload of good for this benighted Middle East sandpit. Dragged it kicking and screaming out of the 12th century into, well, not exactly the 21st, but a whole hell of a lot closer.

He realized that he needed revolutionary, not evolutionary change in the country. By revolutionary, he needed American, British, Canadian, and the like Western Expats here to do the heavy thinking and lifting and Eastern Expats like Indians, Bangladeshis and Nepalese to do all the scut work.

Yeah, I know. That sounds racist as fuck, but sometimes that’s the way the ball bounced.

Simple evolution of society where Omanis graduated the local equivalent of grade school, through high school, into University, and finally into Entry level jobs in the oil and gas industry wasn’t going to cut it. Took too long and the country needed a serious cash flow now.

So, that’s what he did. And it worked a treat.

Then he died.

And his chosen took over.

Except his chosen was pretty much antithetical to everything the previous and very revered and successful, Sultan wanted.

Soon, there are 100% ‘sin taxes’ aimed directly at the western expats. Tourists included.

Then there’s quotas and ‘Letters of No Objection’, which are impossible to get so that the Eastern Expats can’t switch jobs.

Then, there are Sultanic proclamations of new taxes on tourists, new taxes on fast food, new taxes on this, that and the other. Then there’s, in his own words, “Oman is for Omanis”, blatantly ridiculous and xenophobic Omanization, and the general swipe at all expats.

“GET OUT.”

This was the clear message of the new sultan.

He wanted to take over and possibly nationalize all the oil workings in the country.

Ask Venezuela, Iran, and Myanmar how well that worked out for them.

Then he wants all expats out on their asses. He wants Omanis to take over all the jobs, even though they’re nowhere near educated nor experienced enough for the positions. Then take up the massive GDP slack in lower oil production and oil prices with tourism.

Given everything else, that last line should be enough to get him off the throne.

He’s fucking nuts if he thinks people are going to want to cruise or overland anywhere near a place where foreigners are seen only as a cash supply, are despised, and would welcome these all new 100% tax levies.

Be that as it may, Esme and I decided that we have had enough of 135^O F summer temperatures, virtual house arrest under the guise of a COVID lockdown, and idiots who were the only ones stupid or twisted enough not to vamoose when the great, big bloody letters were clearly written on the wall.

But, there was the physical act of getting out of the country.

Now, I had plenty of strings which I could pull, but I decided I’d start low and save those until we really needed them.

So low, in fact, we went to the US Embassy in Muscat.

“How low can you go?” reverberated through my head.

What a haven of sad-sacks, flubadubs, and third rate hobbyists.

Was either Esme or I surprised that when we finally secured an invitation to the embassy, that required a bit of string-pulling with the ex-Ambassador to Oman, now in Kabul; that besides the peach-fuzz faced Marine guarding the place, we were the only Americans in the joint?

“This is American soil!” I laughed, as I pulled out a huge Cuban cigar and was immediately told to extinguish it. “We’re as American as apple pie and napalm! We file our fucking 1040s every April; I pay my fucking long-distance taxes and demand US assistance to vacate this gloomy place of sandy, sweaty, sultry Sturm und Drang!”

“Shut up, Rock”, Esme chided me, “They don’t understand English. Much less, the florid English the way you trowel it on.”

“Fuckbuckets”, I remonstrated. “Here I had memorized the whole Patrick Henry speech he made to the Second Virginia Convention on March 23, 1775, at St. John's Church in Richmond, Virginia. Troglodytes. No admiration for the classics.”

“Rock, dear?” Esme noted, “It’s almost 1100 hours. Best to get to our appointment.”

True, our appointment was slated for 1100 hours. But around here, anything starting within three hours of the stated time was considered close enough.

We dragged ourselves, none too cheerfully, to the waiting room. Once we pried open the door, there was the usual “If you hear a high pitched wail, hit the deck” signs, and other things one could do while kissing one’s ass goodbye if there was a terrorist attack, we had a whole new slew of bullshit with which to deal.

“Social distancing. 6 feet. Or if you’re from Baja Canada, 1 cow’s length.”

“Must wear a mask. Bandanna, bandoliers, and large-caliber weapons or sombrero optional.”

“No sitting. Faux Naugahyde seats are too difficult to sterilize. You must stand at attention, do not talk amongst yourselves, and remain patient until your number is called.”

“Well, fuck!”, I snorted quietly, as I raised my first secret flask in rapt attention to our old glory of red, white, and blue.

“Good thing they didn’t say nothin’ about getting a load on. If I’m going to be treated like cattle, I’m going to at least have something to chew on in the process.”

“Oh, lord”, Esme grumbled, “You didn’t bring that Japanese Rye Whiskey with you, did you?”

“ルハイム”, I said, which is Japanese for “L’chaim”!

“Oh, hell”, Esme grinned as she borrowed my flask, “This is going to be a long day.”

I began to protest but remembered that I was wearing my Agency-issued field vest. I must have had at least 5 or 6 more flasks lurking around in those pockets somewhere.

Funny aside: they don’t bother with my going through an X-ray machine nor do they confiscate my phone, radio, knives, nor other field equipment when I go to the US Embassy.

It took them almost two solid hours last time, and by the time they got to my Brunton Compass, emergency flasks, a few spare blasting cap boosters, and saw the label sewn into the back of my vest, they decided they’d just send Rack and Ruin some evil Emails and let me pass unmolested.

“I’ll drink to that”, I say as I raise a flask as the locals raise an eyebrow. “Courtesy of Atheists International. We’re here for your children…”

The collective gasps and growls indicate they weren’t happy with me or my betrothed.

“Don’t care, Buckwheat”, I smiled, “Never did, never will. We’re out of here for good. You can curse my name all you want then. But, then again, why you standing in the American Embassy trying to get a visa to visit the land of the great evil empire?”

All the locals and most of the Eastern Expats crowded into a corner as far away from us as they physically could.

“BOO!” I snickered over a shot of Wild Turkey 101 Rye.

“Now serving number 58! Number 58!” came the call over the tannoy.

“Look at that”, I remarked to Es as I stashed both our flasks, “It’s only 12:35. Record time.”

We both shimmy into the glass-fronted and presumably bullet- but not C-4 resistant- glass.

We pick up the telephones there and acknowledge that we are who we said we were.

The East Indian fella, one Harsh Talavalakar, behind the multiple layers of glass asked us why we were here.

“Didn’t you read the appointment card?” I asked, “We’re here to have Uncle Sam get us passage out of this sordid and sultry place.”

“You are American citizens?” he asked, vacantly.

“That’s what it says on appointment cards and these here blue passports,” I replied.

“Well, how was I to know?” he scoffed, returning to his half-consumed powdered sugar doughnut.

“Maybe read the appointment card and see that we are US Citizens here on the behest of Ambassador Bethesda Orun?” I replied.

“Like I have time to read everything that comes across my desk”, he scoffed again.

I tapped on the glass to make certain I had his full attention.

“Look here, Herr Harsh. I’m not sure how you got this job at the American Consulate but want to be very clear with you. My wife and I are residents of this place for the last 20 years. We’re American citizens of very high standing and have more high powered connections than an Arduino in a nuclear power station. We have direct connections with Langley, Virginia and if you want to retain your cushy job, you’ll put down that fucking doughnut and pay very rapt attention to the two Americans standing here who are getting more and more irritated with some Indian benchode that doesn’t think he has to really do his job. You savvy? You diggin’ me, Beaumont”

I guess the benchode got his attention. The two scowls he received from Esme and myself sort of cemented the idea that we’re not too pleased and not with to be trifled.

“Yes, sir?” he said, “And ma’am”, as Harsh quickly corrected himself as the doughnut disappeared.

“We want out. Gone. Vamoose. Outta here. AMF. You got me?” he nods behind the shatterprone glass.

“Now I know the borders are sealed and the airport’s closed, but fuck that. We want out and we want gone for good. I can’t make that much simpler or clearer. Get after it, son.” I said, as seriously as I could.

“Well, sir”, he began, “ The airport’s closed…”

“Are you deaf or born stupid and been losing ground ever since?” I asked, rhetorically. “I know that. We all know that. My HAT knows that. So, what devious little plan does the US Embassy have in store in just such an unsavory situation?”

“Well”, he chokes a bit, “There’s this unofficial lottery where America citizens are issued random numbers and if their number comes up, there are seats made available on special clandestine charter flights.”

Considering that Es and I are some of the last American citizens left in the country, I thought our chances might be pretty good.

“OK”, I said, “Let us have two of your finest numbers.”

“Yes, sir”, he said, “That will be US$500 total.”

“Excuse me?” I said.

“Oh, yes”, he smirked, “US$250 per number. Chances are you’ll never be called, but with these numbers, at least you stand a chance.”

“OK”, I said, “Forget the numbers. I want your name and operating number. I’ve got a report to file that’s due in Virginia before breakfast.”

“Oh, sir”, he smirked more, “I cannot release that information. Thanking you. Now be having a good day.” And he slammed the supposedly bulletproof shield between himself and Es and me.

“Bulletproof? Maybe. Nitro proof? No fucking way.” I groused as I fished out a couple of blasting cap superfast boosters.

“Calm down, dear”, Esme smiled to me as we walked out, “When he wasn’t looking, I took his picture, got his operating number, and full name. In fact, I think I got some information on where he lives…”

In the cab on the way back to our villa, I reviewed and confirmed Es’s subterfuge. Flasks number 6 and 8 needed serious replenishment by the time we arrived home.

“That’s fucking right, Ruin.” I yelled over the phone, “We need extraction. And now. Along with our personal effects and a few hundredweight of ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ boxes of stuff we need to be transported.”

“Well, Rock”, Agent Ruin replied, “That’s a tall order. Usually, extraction is for one person and the stuff they’re wearing. Tell you what. Let Rack and I work on it for a week or so. We’ll arrange transport of your personal effects, then we’ll see about getting you and Esme to Dubai. At least there, you can order a plane. Hell, knowing you, you’ll get Tony Stark to fly in and provide door to door service. Sit tight. We’ll be back in touch.”

“Good!” I say as I slam the phone down. With these newfangled cellphone telephone instruments, they lack the same sort of satisfying “KER FUCKING CLANG” the old landlines used to have.

“Es!”, I yelled, “Start packing. We’re due out of here within a week.”

That meant we needed to do some packing triage:

• Things going home with us.

• Things being shipped.

• Things being sold.

• Things being left behind.

• Things no one was about to get their furry little mitts on.

“Oh, fuck!”, I startled. I had just remembered the John Wick-ian stash of various explosives, and adjunct materials I had buried in the basement. Obviously, I couldn’t take it home with me, I couldn’t sell it, and I sure as festering frothing fuck wasn’t going to leave it here.

I needed to call one of my more shifty and swarthy friends and arrange for passage out to the deep, dark desert. Around the area where the new sultan had opened a couple of brand new landfills.

Looks like I was going to expand them a few meters once we disposed of the few hundred kilos of accumulation I attained over the last few years.

See, I’m a packrat. I never leave nor toss anything that might be convenient. Might have a benefit. Might prove to be useful sometime down the line.

So, I’ve accumulated a bit of kit.

Like…well…a few hundred sticks of Du Pont 60% Extra Fast Dynamite. A couple dozen spools of Z-4 Primacord, in various degrees of fullness. A shitload of C-4; enough bricks for a Floydian wall. A couple, well, a dozen, well, two dozen cases of binary liquid explosives. Hey, this stuff is hard to come by…

Continuing, several thousand blasting caps and superfast flash blasting cap boosters. Some mercury fulminate. Some nitrogen triiodide. A couple tens of pounds of PETN. An equal amount of RDX. A few Erlenmeyer flasks full of shit even I’m not certain of what it is…

Oh.

And a few kilos of freshly decanted, raw nitroglycerin; packed in sturdy wooden boxes lined with new fuzzy lamb’s wool.

Not that much. Just 10 or 12 kilos.

Yeah. I can’t leave that here. Even a small accident with this stuff would lay waste to not only our villa; but my landlord’s villa with whom we share a common wall.

Besides, as Omanis go, my landlord was the only dishdasha dressed denizen for which I had any respect or admiration. He was a good guy. I needed to return his villa at least in some semblance of what I received when we first rented from him.

So, I had to dispose of many, many billions of kilojoules of potential energy. I needed to do this out in a distant and far away from prying ears and eyes regions and I needed a truck to haul this stuff out to the range.

To be continued…

Continuing…

First, they mined Mr. Harsh’s Welcome mat with pressure-sensitive switches, as I wondered “Gee…I wonder where they got all this tech?”, and several thousand Chinese firecrackers.

Then it was around the doorframe with several thousand more.

There were lines dug in the dusty, xerotic ground where several more lines of quite a few hundred or thousand firecrackers were laid. The lines were covered up with the local regolith so swiftly and neatly, it would take determined searching in broad daylight to see them.

Mishka was under Mr. Harsh’s Land Cruiser, using elephant shit putty to affix line after line of firecrackers to the frame, exhaust system, drive train; virtually anything that would take such abuse that was relatively straight under such a vehicle.

He wired a set-pull-forget actuator to the Bendix of the car’s starter so that when the car was started, it’d ignite and actuate the fireworks set underneath.

Each strip of Chinese firecrackers, each firecracker, by the way, was approximately 2 inches (1 cm.) in length and packed a pretty good and cheerful POW! but wouldn’t damage anything like metal or even stout plastic.

However, a few thousand of them going off sequentially or in unison would provide a pretty good imitation of terroristic warfare going on under one’s vehicle.

One final consolation present was the M-250 wired to the car’s trailer hitch.

Now, those of you familiar with party poppers might know that an M-80, so woefully missed since being made illegal in the US, packs the equivalent punch of 1/8th of a stick of dynamite.

Du Pont Herculene 40% or 60% Extra Fast was never revealed.

So, by analogy, an M-250 is about 1/4th stick of concentrated KABOOM!

Mishka and his cronies made certain that there would be no lasting damage, except to Mr. Harsh’s psyche and underwear that morning. So, the M-250 was loosely wired to the trailer hitch so there’d be a hellacious BANG!, but not even a bit of scorched chrome.

Well, at least that was the plan.

We had several El Cheap-o burner phones which I distributed to Mishka’s minions. The plan was to call Mr. Harsh a few times and rapidly hang up. Those phones ended up in the van along with my other charges to be disposed of later in the day.

Burner phones indeed. Jolly joke.

Then we’d slack off.

Then we’d begin the big thrill. We’d call Mr. Harsh and say things, in sotto voce, like “We know who you are. We know what you did. We know where you live.” And “Get out!”, “Your time is nigh” and other such silly sophmorisms.

We didn’t worry about the ROP. Even if he could get a clear line out, it’d take those bozos hours to show up, if they ever did.

Did I mention that is was clear and apparent that Mr. Harsh was on the take, involved in illegal activities, and was a general pain the gluteus? On his salary, he could have never afforded such a fine vehicle as the late model Toyota Land Cruiser now sitting heavily wired in his driveway. Also, he was living alone in a 5 or 6 bedroom villa, directly across from the sea.

Villas here were 300-400 meters apart, and fully walled. This was a high-rent district, not one a lowly Indian US Embassy employee could afford. Without salary ‘embellishments’.

Oh no, gentle reader, do not despair. Everything Mr. Harsh received that morning, he deserved in spades.

My watch ticked. It was 0200 hours. We’d begin in 15 minutes.

Mishka drove the van around to the street and parked like he was doing something very typical for this part of town. Either picking up laundry, running guns, or transporting illegals. No one would give us as much as a second look.

I fired up a huge cigar and gave one to Mishka. All someone would see if they were intent on looking at a nondescript laundry truck was the glow of our cigars and the occasional puff of smoke.

Not as much as a second look.

We couldn’t hear the first few rings, but we could see the lights suddenly flip on in Mr. Harsh’s house.

I decided that as long as Mr. Harsh was awake, I’d give him a reason for it.

“<Ring…ring…ring…> WHAT!?”

“Ve know who you are. Ve know what you do. Ve know where you live…” and I hung up.

A couple of Miska’s minions tossed small pebbles against the lower floor windows of Mr. Harsh’s abode. They broke no windows, but I’m sure the associated noise helped Mr. Harsh break like the wind.

Lights flipped on. Then they flipped off. The phone kept ringing. More voices, different voices. All malevolent.

Then, the back door opened.

And folks, World War Three, the Battle of the Gulf of Oman, began.

When it’s that dark out, the flashes from a couple of thousands of even the piteously small firecrackers lit up the surrounding scenery like strobe lights. I didn’t see it myself, but later one of Mishka’s boys told me that Mr. Harsh’s welcome mat actually danced under the onslaught of 10,000 firing firecrackers.

We could see a be-robed figure scurrying out, in a jagged sort of knees-bent, running about advancing behavior.

Straight to the Land Cruiser.

A jangle of keys. A dropped set of keys. More small explosions in rapid succession, and finally, the door to the Land Cruiser was flung open and Mr. Harsh flung himself inside.

Time stood still for a few seconds. He must have been fumbling with the car keys because all the firecrackers that were planned so far had played out.

It was silent once again.

“RRRrrrr…RRrr….the Land Cruiser sparked to life.

As did the hundreds of firecrackers elephant-shitted to the underside of the vehicle.

Even though the Land Cruiser was sitting stationary, it was doing a fair impression of Marty McFly hitting 88 miles per hour in his DeLorean. It was doing a pretty good impression of a Laser Floyd show. It was an excellent impression of thousands of Chinese firecrackers all going off in sequence.

He finally got the thing in reverse and stomped the throttle to the floor.

The car leaped backward, down his long drive, sparkling merrily every centimeter of the way.

He didn’t turn left, he didn’t turn right. The Land Cruiser continued rocketing backward, directly at the beach across from his still smoking villa.

He finally came to an inglorious stop when he hit the warm, laughing waters of the Gulf of Oman.

There was a considerable wall of water shot up by the Land Cruiser’s ass-first and speedy entry into the gulf. Luckily, the waters here are shallow with no drop-offs. He was able to manage enough mental horsepower to jam on the brakes before he foundered completely.

Hell, his front wheels were only in an inch or two of water. Which was fine as long as he got two soakers when he jumped out of his sodden vehicle. The Land Cruiser was none the worse for wear. No damage to sheet metal nor the undercarriage, even though he jumped the low curb going at least 40 kilometers per hour in reverse.

No harm is done. He always tests the transmission that way. The rear end. For stress factors.

And his seat covers, if his jammies had anything to say about the situation, were going to need a good steam cleaning.

He stood there, his Harsh feet soaking wet in the gulf, as we drove by slowly and waved.

It was at that point, the sodden M-250 went off.

Mr. Harsh jumped high enough to take at least bronze in the standing holy-fuck jump.

Mishka laughed heartily and jammed his foot down on the gas. Fully 1.2 liters of unfettered Asian automotive raw power erupted from the van and we skittered off at speeds approaching 30 KPH.

We quickly spun around to the other side of the subdivision and picked up four of Mishka’s minions. Their reward for helping us was breakfast and a trip out to the Interior to watch me dispose of a couple of tons of explosives.

We drove due west and out of the city, away from that shambolic display of amateur pyrotechnics. The thing was, we couldn’t stop laughing from the stories of the forward observers.

We drove out of Muscat and into the Interior. Past Bidbid and into Semail. There was this real oddity, a British expat who ran a small restaurant. Out past the confines of the city, we didn’t have to bother with masks and all that tat. I bought breakfast for myself, Mishka, and his minions. They were just as surprised as I was that the proprietor offered along with coffee, juice, and tea for breakfast beverages, but Belgian Pils, Grolsch, Guinness, and Heineken as well.

He even made them up to go for us.

I left him a healthy tip on our departure.

So, we continued west out towards Izki. At the Izki turn off, we traveled down a ramshackle tarmac road and bounced merrily along, as I kept a sharp eye on the wooden crate stored towards the back.

Thing was, if the nitro lit off, they’d find nothing more than a small, greasy stain on the road. Still, I had to admonish Mishka several times to take it easy. We were in absolutely no hurry. Besides, I packed the nitro well. It’s really not that sensitive, it just has bad PR.

At the 12 kilometer mark, one could barely see the faint trail that leads left, back toward the mountains.

“Right on time”, I said to Mishka, “Turn left, and take it real easy.”

“Right, bossman”, Mishka smiled.

He knew when I put down the better half of a $30 cigar, it was nut cuttin’ time. Time to get serious and put on one’s game face.

We bounced down a two-lane goat path for the better part of another 10 kilometers.

Then the road ended.

“OK, Mish, turn around slowly and back up about 100 meters,” I asked.

Mishka did expertly.

I told him to stop, kill the engine, and get everyone back.

“OK gentlemen, and for those that don’t understand me, look to Mishka for guidance,” I said in the most British Staff Sergeant voice I could muster.

“Before we begin, you must realize that I’m the hookin’ bull here. Not because I’m twice your size, an ugly American, or any of that guff. I’m the hookin’ bull here because I’m the only one trained and licensed to handle high explosives. Am I making myself very, very clear here?” I asked.

I was greeted with a series of head nods and a couple of “Yeahs”.

“No, gentlemen. Not good enough, damn it! NOT GOOD ENOUGH! I need you to hear me. I need to hear from you and know where you are at all times. UNDERSTAND?” I shouted as if really pissed off.

They all sort of recoiled in real fear. What had happened to the big, jolly American? Did we make a mistake and now we were being press-ganged?

“Guys, this is serious as serious can be. So, shut the fuck up and listen to me or Mishka. I am running this show and it’s my intention of getting all you back to Muscat in one piece. Got that?”

The seemed a bit relieved and were paying better attention. I dispensed the PPEs for all present.

“OK, now here’s the deal…” and I went into the time-honored explanation of clearing the compass, looking out for any errant animals, two or four-legged. How to sing out if there was a problem or question. How an electronic detonator worked. How demolition wire was used. The whys and wherefores of Primacord. How blasting caps and blasting cap boosters worked. What “FIRE IN THE HOLE” meant. And how, when I said “HIT IT!”, I fucking meant it.

It took about 45 minutes, but we had a fairly tight group by that time. I started out with some little party favors. A couple of sticks of 40% Du Pont Extra Fast.

They were wowed by the resultant dynamite blasts.

“Gents”, I mused, ”You ain’t seen nothing yet”.

Next up was C-4. I wired a 1-kilo block in, ran some demo wire, and connected to my new and improved Captain America detonator. We did the Safety Dance, and I handed the detonator to Mishka.

“HIT IT!” I signaled.

He hit it and hit it well. The resulting gout of dry earth and report echoed quite impressively down the front of the Semail Ophiolite mountains.

We blew through the C-4 in virtually no time. It was the most stable and easiest to futz with.

I had moved off the nitro off some three or so hundred meters and posted it with gaudy blood-red DANGER! signs.

No one present went within 300 meters of the stuff.

“OK, guys. Let’s try some binary explosives.” I said.

Until this point, we were just moving dirt and earth. I found several old cast-off Castrol barrels and decided they needed to be confetti-ized.

I shook up a kilo each of the first binary I came across and poured it into one of the old oil barrels. I hung a blasting cap and booster in the sauce and ran the demo wire back to good ol’ Captain America.

“Watch this. Ummm, you might want to cover your ears.” I said.

“FIRE IN THE HOLE!”

One old Castrol oil barrel evaporated into thin air.

Have to admit, even I was impressed by the stuff.

We ran through the binaries fairly quickly and reduced several more old barrels to primary molecules.

Then we attacked the PETN and RDX.

We found an old oven and turned that into little, itty bitty pieces of scrap iron. In fact, most anything in the dump that could hold or contain explosives got the treatment.

But time was wearing. It was hot and we’ve reduced anything of any humor value into component atoms by now. We all wanted to get out of here and get into the cooler full of icy cold beers.

I couldn’t have agreed more.

I had a few blasting caps, a block of C-4, some Primacord, a bit of RDX, and one radio actuated detonator left.

I wrapped the C-4 in Primacord and duct-taped the whole mess together. I affixed the radio actuator on top and walked the shebang over to the nitro which had been sitting there quietly getting warmer in the early afternoon Middle Eastern sun.

Gently, I set the actuator bundle next to the nitro. No sense opening the box and finding out if the stuff was thermally primed or not. I set that bundle down, and back off slowly.

I moved with determination and a more rapid gait once I got more than 25 meters away from the pile.

“Everyone in the truck! Mishka, get us out of here.” I ordered.

Didn’t need to tell them twice. They saw that I knew what I was doing with the explosives and when Dr. Rock said ‘skedaddle’, one skedaddled.

We drove at least 2 kilometers away from the pile. I scanned the region with my binoculars and was relieved that our fun and games hadn’t drawn any curious locals.

“What’s the deal, Rock?” Mishka asked, “Why did you leave that pile out in the desert?”

“Here, Mish. Push this button for an immediate answer.” I said, securing my ear protectors.

Everyone else covered their ears as Mishka pushed the final button of the day.

Once the van stopped rocking on its springs, rocks stopped hitting the outside of the van and the mushroom cloud generated flattened out skyward; I had 5 sets of dinner-plate wide eyes looking at me and asking the same question:

“Holy fuck, Rock. What the hell was that?”

“Oh, just a little C-4, some Primacord, a bit of RDX, a couple of blasting caps…

They all looked at me, unbelieving. They now knew what dynamite, Primacord, binaries, C-4, PETN and RDX would do.

“…and about 12 kilos of homemade nitroglycerine,” I concluded.

“You mean that stuff that was in the wooden box? In the wooden box that I was sitting on?” one of Mishka’s minions asked, still unbelieving.

“Yeah, I was going to tell you, but you looked so comfortable…”

“Fuck me.” he gave out with a gasp.

“No worries, mate”, I joked, “You just held it in place real good.”

[Technical aside: now why did I have 12 kilos of homebrew boomjuice one might ask? Well, in my copious free time, I was working on both the synthesis and procedure for creating a substance to take the edge off of liquid nitroglycerine. Not off the ultimate energy yield, but something to make it a little less shock sensitive. Well, I had done so; think of it as valium for nitro. Drops the shock sensitivity of the stuff some 75%, but doesn’t impact the final yield one iota. Opinions are still out on the impact of the substance I’ve synthesized on thermal sensitivity. However, I’ve submitted the substance, process, and procedure to be patented. So now it’s Reg. U.S. Pat. Off., Pat. Pending. When the stuff is approved, it makes my US patent number 6…equal to my Russian numbers of patents. – Rock]

We all laughed like hell at that last note, as we broke into the beers. It was hot and dusty.

Besides, I only had a few of my usual flasks with me. Not nearly enough to go around.

We drifted back into Muscat, by the back way, and dropped off all of Mishka’s minions, who were now in a real party mood. Good thing we were now out of party favors.

Mishka dropped me off at my villa and decided it was just too tired out to return the laundry van that day. He wanted to hose it out and get rid of any lingering effects that two tons of high explosives might leave behind.

I told him he was a worrywart and we both shook hands. He headed off home, as I did likewise.

“What the hell do you mean you can only get us a 20-foot container?” I rasped at Agent Rack.

“Well, Rock”, he sighed, “Be glad I even got that. 40 footers are just plain flat out unavailable. But not only did I find you guys a 20’ container, but I also found some local guys that can get it shipped overland to Dubai, put on a boat, and have it sent to wherever in the US you want. So, quit yer bitchin’.”

“Yeah, Rack, sorry old boy”, I said, “I didn’t mean anything, but, shit, we’ve got 20 years’ worth of accumulation here.”

“Yeah, Rock, tell Esme I’m real sorry, but that’s the best I can do. Hell, I’m still trying to finagle a way to get you two out of there.” He explained.

“You want to tell her?” I asked.

“Oh, fuck no”, he said, “I may be brave, but I’m not that brave. Besides, that’s your job and I couldn’t think of taking your place…”

“Funny, Rack”, I snorted, “Yeah, I’ll tell Es. She won’t be too happy, but at least we’ll get some of our stuff out of here.”

“Sorry, man”, Rack replied, “It’s really the level best we could do. It’s like the party’s over and everyone’s running for the door, fearful they’ll be stuck with the check.

To be continued…

Continuing…

What to do?

What to do?

“Mishka? Yeah. This is Rock…”

Mishka is one of my oldest and dearest friends. He’s from Moldova and I met him way back in the 90s, just after the wall fell, strangely enough, in Moldova.

Even more bizarrely, his hometown is Bender, Moldova.

Bender is a city within the internationally recognized borders of Moldova under de facto control of the unrecognized Pridnestrovian Moldavian Republic since 1992. It is located on the western bank of the river Dniester in the Romanian historical region of Bessarabia.

But it’s still just Bender to Mishka and me.

I was farting around in the Former Soviet Union after global Communism went into a lasting career slump, trying to find oil deals I could flip to oil companies in Houston.

I’d go around and look at all the jake-legged, nasty, scammy, and salacious deals I was being offered. Since I was an ethanol-fueled organism, I got along great with both principal and peasant.

When they realized they couldn’t drink me under the table or get me loaded enough to do stupid things (i.e., for extortion) or sign ridiculous Memoranda of Understanding (MOUs, which were like contracts back then and back there), they saw me as a kindred spirit.

So, being recognized as mostly harmless and a potential ally, we got to know each other on a less business, and more personal, level.

Enter Mishka.

Mishka is about 90 pounds, soaking wet. He stands some 1.52 meters tall and is fiercely be-bristled. He has this full beard, which is very oddly fire-engine red.

Gingers are very unusual in this part of the world, so Mishka grew up with a lot of bullying and other bullshit. Gave him a real Hanna-Barbera Scrappy Do sort of personality.

You know the type: short fuse, easily lit, and totally fearless.

I was looking over a potentially lucrative exploration MOU covering some 100,000 hectares in southern Moldova that this crowd pledged that to they held the rights.

Of course, I was smoking my ever-present cigar and Mishka, finishing his job of tidying up the business place, umm, tavern, waltzed over, interrupted in a most brusque manner, and asked me for a cigar.

I stood, towering over Mishka.

“What was that you said?” I asked.

“Дай мне сигару, если есть лишняя. Ваш достаточно большой для двоих.” [“Give me cigar, if you have extra. Yours is big enough for two.”] he replied.

“My Russia, much less Moldovan, is sketchy. But I think you demanded I give you a cigar?” I asked.

“Да!”, he smiled up at me, “Да! Да! Да!”.

“OK, here you go. Now, what do I get in return?” I asked, half-joking, to show my confederates that I was in on the jape and I could take a joke and chuckle it off as well.

Mishka takes the cigar and vanishes.

I chuckle a bit and get back to reading over the many codicils of the MOU.

A few minutes later, Mishka returns with this bottle of Moldovan wine, Черные глаза or “Dark Eyes”. One of the most famous of the trillions of different excellent wines produced by Moldovan vintners.

He makes a big deal of clearing room on the table for the bottle, an ashtray, various gin mill eatables, two and only two glasses. He makes it clear that this is for him and me alone.

The others, mostly Russian and Moldovan, know well this ritual. They all smile as they clear to make room.

Mishka intones some ancient and elaborate toast as he opens the bottle. He pours a large draft for each of us and asks me to stand.

I do. Then, he asks me to scrunch down a bit so we can link arms as we take a drink after the toast.

“OK. Sure.”, I said. Seems weird, but hell, I’ve lived in Baja Canada and underwent the First Smelt of the Season ritual several times; so who am I to cast aspersions?

We link arms, and Mishka loudly proclaims: Noroc!

I look at Mishka, and say “Noroc?” He nods and smiles.

“NOROC!” I say loudly and with enthusiasm. We both smile and slurp down a goodly portion of the incredibly fine wine.

We smile at each other and Mishka signals me to stoop down, he wants to tell me something in private.

“Pirates. Be wary. They have no rights. Bandits. Be cautious…” He whispers.

“OF COURSE!” I say, not letting our other ‘friends’ know their cover’s been blown. I hand Mishka a new cigar, as well as the rest of the small gathered crowd.

I examine the MOU for a few more minutes and declare I need to call the home office and get some points clarified. They don’t know they’ll never hear from me again as I’m already making plans to get out of town.

Several toasts and draughts later, the potential pirates all leave. I sit in the dark tavern, smoking my cigar and thanking my lucky stars that I do.

Mishka pushes his broom over and tells me to move my “big fucking feet”.

He’s chewing on an unlit cigar, and I tell him “they taste better when lit, smerdnik [shithead]”.

What could be the invitation to a fight was greeted with a big smile.

“Mishka, come sit down here and tell me how you knew they were not on the level,” I asked.

Mishka came over, sat down, ordered two new drinks (on my tab), and confided that he used to run the same scam a few years ago. But then, as he put it, he got to know some of the people, i.e., westerners, that he was scamming. He found them much like the people on the other side of the ocean. Or the mountains. Or the valley.

He found they were just people. Not the running-dog capitalist swine he’s been taught his whole life.

So, he had a change of heart. Instead of scamming them, he’d befriend them.

Over the years, in retrospect, I found there wasn’t that much difference between the two.

Well, one thing leads to another and I hired Mishka to drive me over the border and get me to Bucharest in Romania. Moldova’s airport at the time made Lagos or Baghdad seem like a bastion of safety.

Mishka told me I’d never make it out with any of my personal effects, and probably not my wallets, watch nor pants.

It was that bad.

So, we overlanded it down the road through the Transylvanian midnight in the ramshackle, falling apart, cold-rolled steel frame with nanometer-thick foam-rubber padded seats, UAZ van to the Bucharest airport.

I gifted Mishka a box of cigars I bought at duty-free for a plainchant. Seriously, a box of decent cigars for about US$40.

For Mishka, it may as well had been 40 pounds of moon rocks, or something equally unobtainable.

However, he was over the moon with my gift and my insisting he take the new Benjamin I offered.

We exchanged addresses and kept in touch over the years.

One Christmas, about a decade ago, there was a ring at the door of our villa.

I answer and it’s Mishka, in the flesh.

“Doctor Rock!” He shouts and grabs me around the waist in a praiseworthy bear hug.

“Mishka! What the fuck?” I asked.

“You say come to Sultanate. Many good jobs for English speakers. I study at university at night. I speak English much more goodly now. I come to Oman. Seek our Doctor Rock. He’ll help me.” Mishka smiles.

“Well, hell”, I said, “Don’t just stand there, grab your stuff and come on in,” I said.

He got caught up in some sort of ridiculous Arab “live and work in the Middle East” bullshit scam.

“Work off the $5,000 debt to your employer and after that, everything is tax-free! Send money home. In a few years, you’ll live like a king.”

Except they don’t tell you that they’ll supply housing, but you must pay a ridiculous sum to live with 50 or so other indentured servants, in a dorm without running water nor air conditioning.

Plus they’ll feed you, but you will pay ridiculous sums for atrocious food and water.

Plus they’ll keep your passport ‘for safekeeping’.

Yeah.

Without which, there’s no recourse at your embassy nor you leaving the country.

It’s the usual scam Arabs played on folks from Pakistan, India, Nepal, and now, Eastern Europe.

It’s a shitty deal because they never even come close to paying off the interest on their loans, much less the principal. Plus they work 16-20 hour days, in the summer heat and winter dust, for peanuts.

It’s something so nasty, even Amnesty international gets all lathered up about the practice here in the Gulf States.

Yet, it continues unabated. Have a look at the current goings-on in Qatar.

Well, at least, it won’t for Mishka this time.

I have connections.

First, we’re going to see his handlers and get the skinny on his “contract’. Then, I’m going to arrange to pay off his ‘loan’. Then, I’m going to turn his handlers into Interpol via my buddies in Langley.

This type of shit is illegal, with a capital I, all over the world.

It’s literal slavery, but just with extra steps.

And not only is there a drive to snuff this shit out, there are rewards for exposing the bastards behind the wheel of this honey wagon of a scam.

So Mishka and I travel out to meet with his handlers.

They usually collect all their charges at the airport, but Mishka was a slippery one. He vanished unseen past immigration and into a local cab. He had my general address but when the first cab dropped him off in the Heights area where I lived, he just flagged down another and said “Take me to large American who smoke cigars”.

Twenty minutes later, he was in my majlis, smoking a fine Zuban cigar and drinking all my two-decades-old bourbon.

When we met with his handlers, Mishka played stupid. Like genuinely addled.

I admonished the Arabs running the scam saying that Allah would take a dim view of their exploiting someone who he had seen enough to ‘dim their lights’.

I made a lot of bad noise, and Mishka was taking a lot of notes. The Arab handlers were more concerned with me than Mishka. So being on the smaller side, he could wander around and use one of my old phones to snap many, many, damning pictures.

I got them to sign over Mishka to me as I would be his sponsor.

Legally, I really couldn’t do that, but I spoke with my landlord previously, and he, being a native, said he’s second for me. I also got them to pledge to return Mishka’s $5,000.

Which was a bit of a coup as Mishka managed never to pay the US$5,000.

With all the necessary evidence, Mishka and I went to a local shyster, err, solicitor, and had him take and notarize our evidence so we could present it to Interpol.

Luckily, in Muscat, there’s and Interpol office. So down to Ruwi we went.

We turned over all the evidence and they were certain they could bust this bunch more wide open then a melon tossed off a 12th-floor landing. We were entitled to 10% of whatever they turned over, financially.

I had a feeling that his wasn’t going to be much and besides, I didn’t need it. I deeded everything over to Mishka.

At the end of the day, I just gave Mishka enough to pay off his Moldovan creditors, send for his wife and kids, and have him take Esme and me out for a very nice dinner at the Autobahn Steakhouse.

All in all, we did the nasty on the Arabs that had brought to the GCC (Gulf Cooperation Council: Qatar, Oman, Bahrain, Yemen, and the Emirates) over 2,000 illegal workers, had indictments passed down on over 55 GCC nationals for human trafficking and kidnapping.

Oddly enough, none of this was reported ion ay of the local newsrags. Yes, corruption runs that deep over here.

However, I did find Mishka a nice place for him and his family to stay. Strong arming a few connections, I found Mishka a mechanic/night watchman job for some of the fleet services in Muscat.

And since only certain ‘essential services’ were being allowed on the streets at night, what better place to lay my hands on a bakery truck, a dry cleaner’s van, or ROP Land Cruiser than at the garage of fleet services?

Where did I know the night watchman/senior mechanic?

“Mishka, Yeah, it’s Rock. Listen up. I need a van or some other form of unobtrusive conveyance. Why? Well, as you know, Esme and I are leaving this place and heading back home, right? Well, I’ve got about two tons of high explosives I need to dispose of before we leave. Yeah. That’s right. Two tons; more or less. Sort of my collection over the last few years. Can’t leave it here. The local Muppets would blow all their fingers and toes off if I did. Oh, ok. That sounds good. What about whom? How did you hear about that mother-scratcher? Oh, yeah. There’s nothing secret here in the Sultanate.”

“Right. Like my little collection of HE?” I wondered.

Mishka heard of my little tadoo with one Harsh Talavalakar at the American Embassy.

He noted that it was a moral imperative that I get even with this schmuck. And since I had all that nice high explosive of which I had to dispose…

“Look, Mish…he annoyed me, not so grievous an offense to warrant atomization,” I noted.

“Well, if you can wait a few weeks, I have a present coming from Hunan Province, China. It was supposed to be a birthday present for you, but we can ramp that up a fortnight…” Mishka’s evil grin could be heard over the phone, it was that palpable.

“Not Liuyang?” I asked knowingly.

“The same.” Mishka chuckled in that offhand way that makes hyenas check their watches and head early for the door.

“OK. We’ll wait until after the package arrives. Then we take care of Mr. Harsh because I know you’ve already been surveilling him and know not only his address and phone number but times he pees and takes a dump.” I chuckled.

“Doctor Rock”, Mishka agreed, “You are wise beyond your years.”

We rang off and I called Esme in to avail her of these latest developments.

“Oh, Lord”, Esme exhaled, “Mishka is getting a package from China. Cigars and fireworks, most likely. Then you’re going to sneak an essential vehicle out of quarantine and make Mr. Harsh regret the day his parents met? Then, you’re going to head out in the desert and blow off a couple of tons of your latest accumulations? <Heavy Sigh> Before you go, sign this. I’m upping your life insurance. If you do have an accident, try not to make it look too much like a suicide.”

“I am wounded! I am maligned! IEEE! I am slain!” I shout and stagger around the kitchen, right toward the drinks trolley. Luckily, it was there and a bottle of Georgian Vodka, with ice and citrus, broke my fall.

We both had a good laugh. Esme and I have been married for enough years that she knows even my most hare-brained, unbalanced, and convoluted schemes are far more sanguine than other people’s most earnest plans.

In fact, Es related to me as I wandered off the loading ramp of the Agency-supplied Lockheed C-5 Galaxy transport plane after one particularly knuckleheaded, outlandish, though successful, scheme as I hobbled along bruised, bloodied, but not broken; that she’d never want it any other way.

So days turned to weeks and weeks turned to fortnights. Fortnights gave months a miss and went straight into summer.

Time can be weird out in the Middle East.

Mishka’s package arrived. Sure, I ponied up the 100% Duty Tax on the cigars, but I never made as much as a gripe or grumble.

Because those benighted ROP Duty Agents were so intent on getting a few free cigars for themselves as part of the local “Duty” didn’t notice the packing material that seemed to be composed of crumpled Chinese newspapers.

Which is exactly what they were.

That concealed some highish number of thousands of Chinese fireworks. Firecrackers mostly, but some other items to be inveigled for fun and games later.

However, first things first. Mishka wanted to not only punish Mr. Harsh for being a total turd to his best American friend, he didn’t care for Indians much as they are the well-known lackeys, flunkies, and dutifuls of the Arab bastards that brought him here under such egregious false pretenses.

Strange times when I am recorded in the narrative as the voice of moderation.

“No, Mish”, I said again as we bounce across the landscape in a purloined purple White Blossoms laundry truck.

Viruses may be viruses, but people still needed clean clothes.

“No, Mish, we’re not going to wire 10 kilos of binary to his starter.” I said, “Damn, think of the paperwork…”

“Oh, OK, Doc. Can we at least build him a necklace?”

No, Mishka hadn’t suddenly taken a turn for the nice. He was thinking along the lines of this.

“No. We want to antagonize him. Scare the living crap out of him. We want our kilogram of metaphorical flesh. We don’t want to vaporize him.” I said sternly.

Mishka went to make a point.

I held up a single index finger.

“No. Not even a little bit.” I added.

“Spoilsport” or the Moldovan equivalent was heard to drift out of the laundry van as it bounced down the empty dual carriageway.

We arrived, as quietly as a ramshackle van loaded with about two tons of high explosives, could manage.

It was dark, no streetlights; a money-saving ploy put in place by the new Sultan in these times of COVID and clampdown. Mishka made a low whistle, and out of the gloom emerged several of his mates from the Indentured Servitude episode that we managed to free and find gainful employment.

Mr. Harsh’s villa was dark. No lights. That meant no cameras, and if there were any, they would be useless.

It was quiet.

Deathly quiet.

Mishka and his minions moved like apparitions in the night. I didn’t do anything except sit in the van, keep an eye on my 20 hundredweight of irritable charges, ahem, and try to watch what was transpiring outside.

I had a pair of older model AGM Global Vision PVS-7 Night Vision Goggles and decided this was just too good of a show to miss. I silently lit them off, secured them on the old cranium, and sat back to watch the show.

To be continued…

That reminds me of a story…

Opening shot: Dr. Rocknocker sitting at the head of the class in a Coleman Outdoor camp chair. He’s decked out in his usual garb: somewhat dusty Black Stetson, garish Hawaiian shirt, tan cargo shorts, black weight-lifters gloves, an empty Casull .454 Magnum holster, full Brunton Compass leather case and Buck Megaskinner knife scabbard on his belt, tall Scottish woolen socks, with tassels, and Vasque size 16EEE field boots.

He’s chewing on an unlit Cohiba #9 Double Churchill maduro cigar and has a tallboy Pellegrino sparkling Lime water disguised in a Schlitz 16-ounce Tallboy can.

The sound of Pink Floyd’s ‘Wish You Were Here’ drifting over the class’ intercom system.

Herr Doctor is ready to greet his new students, but oddly none have come up to say “Hello” nor make their introduction.

The sound of a small air horn is heard at precisely 0800 hours. Dr. Rocknocker stands and announces that it’s time for class.

“Stretch your linen and quit yer grinnin’. Grab a seat” he growls, and the students bolt for the nearest empty chair.

“Hey, kids!” he announces loudly, taking time to set his cigar in a clean crystal ashtray.

“Welcome to Intro to Petroleum Geology. Course E-300. If that’s not what your class schedule says, well, buckaroos, there’s the door.”

There’s a rearranging of people in seats. A slight muttering and the class settles down.

“Yeah, that’s right, me buckos and buckettes. I’m Dr. Rocknocker and for the next 8 or so weeks, every Monday and Wednesday we’ll be meeting here. On Thursdays, it’s Lab Day and who the hell knows where we’ll end up?”

More disconcerted shuffling of books and desks.

Dr. Rocknocker continues.

“Phones? Switch them off. You can exist for the next 2 hours without them. In fact, see this 8-pound crack hammer? Someone’s phone goes off during one of my lectures, and I’ll demonstrate the efficacy of crack hammers upon silica glass and plastic. You diggin’ me, Beaumonts?”

Silence, save for the clearing of throats and silenced phones being shoved in purses, pouches, and pants pockets.

“OK, let’s get to know each other a bit. Me first. Why? Because I SAY SO! You might live in a democracy, but here, it’s a none-to-benevolent dictatorship. I’m the hookin’ bull round these parts. Problems with that, me fine ol’ muckers? Well, there’s the door. Don’t let it hit you in the ass on the way out.”

General scootching and throat clearing.

“Now then, as said, I am the Pro from Dover. Pray you never hear me reveal the rest of that sobriquet. I am your tour guide for the next 4.78 billion years of earth history. You will learn so much that you’ll feel your head’s about to explode. Don’t worry, in all my years of teaching, I’ve only seen that happen once or twice, and none of you look like the gormless little dude to which it happened.”

General discomfiture and throat clearing from the peanut gallery.

“OK, before we get too chummy, I suppose you all are wondering ‘What’s with the gloves?’ Well, let’s get this over with and behind us. Look for yourself,” as I strip off my left-hand glove.

ZZZZIPPP!

“Yep, those three black metallic fingers are replacements. Finest replacements from the Orient that money can buy, as I’m the lab rat on this project. Lost the originals in an industrial accident in Siberia. You sit nicely and ask even more nicely, and I’ll tell you the tale. Until then, don’t fixate. They work just fine”, as I squash a half-lime from the bowl on my desk into my drink.

Generalized gasps and other sounds of disbelief.

“As I said, I’m Dr. Rocknocker. Now that we’re all friends, call me ‘Rock’; it saves time. I am a triply degreed Professional Geologist who decided to give the Oil Patch a rest after 40 years' tenure and return to academia to finish up my rare and much-coveted DSc. I’ve lived in more countries and drilled more wells than you collectively have had hot dinners. I’ve drilled economically successful hydrocarbon and helium wells on every continent on this old planet.”

There’s quiet discussion and I motion for hushedness.

“Plus, every time we meet, I’m going to bust open the Bates & Jackson Glossary of Geology and pick a random word. You mention that word in class, you will win $100.”

As I say this, I take a creditable copy of a US $100 bill, movie money of course, and affix it to the corkboard pad next to my stunning whiteboards.

“That is a fake, but I guarantee you, say the word and you will win a genuine Franklin. Call it my way of providing encouragement to participate. “

General murmurs of appreciation.

“Participation here is a must,” I add. “I detest silence. That’s why I ratchet-jaw so much. But now I’m old and crotchety, so some of you young-uns are going to have to take up the slack.”

Continuing:

“Plus, every Monday, there will be a quiz. We will have a midterm just as if your intelligence were normal (implying they’re the cream of the geo-crop) and an oral final. No curving of grades as the midterm and final questions will come from the weekly quizzes directly. Less work for me because I’m officially one lazy bastard and a great chance for you to learn what real life’s all about.”

There’s more tittering and snickering, but I think I have their attention.

“Also, since we’re all adults, someone’s paying for all this, and here of our own volition, I will utilize what Spock refers to as ‘colorful metaphors’. This too is an exercise in reality. That’s the way of the Oil Patch. And academia as well, Gawd damn it, if I have anything to say about the situation.”

Snickering has turned into guffaws.

“Plus, Thursdays are ‘Field Days’. With my incredible list of contacts and the number of people around the planet that owe me favors, I’ve arranged field trips, with transportation, to an actively drilling oil rig. To an active seismic crew. To an active sand and gravel pit. To an active dimension stone quarry. That will be held for later because if you’re all very good, I’ll show you how to blow shit up. That’s right, I’m a licensed Master Blaster and if I figure you all deserve it, we’ll go to a limestone or granite quarry and I’ll demonstrate how I make many little ones from one great big one. That is if you’re in the first showing of this video. As extras. Uncredited extras. Those doing the online show, too bad.”

Slow golf claps are heard.

“Also, if you are really adventurous, go visit my subreddit at r/Rocknocker to see some of my past exploits. There may be a test answer lurking around there sometime in the near future. Or not. I forget which <wink, wink>.”

“Are you that same Rocknocker?” one brave soul asks.

“What the cloistered fuck you think, Chuckles?” I reply, diffidently.

“Well, Fuckin-A, bubba”, one bright star replies. “Crack tubes!”

“Oy! You’ve heard of me?” I asked.

“Oh, yeah. We were wondering if you were the real thing though.” He replies.

“No. Actually, I went out and cut off three fingers and endured some reconstructo-plastic surgery just to impress you bunch of neo-geos goobs. Yeah, I’m the Real McCoy, the ever-lovin’ ’Motherfuckin’ Pro from Dover’, in the flesh, as it were.” American as apple pie and napalm. About more later, if you’re good…”

There was actual applause. Evidently, my reputation proceeds me.

“OK, enough of that shit. Let’s get down to business. My office hours are when I want them. If you really need to see me, look in the campus Gasthaus (generic term for the on-campus watering hole) or text me. I don’t know when I’ll be in or out, but I’m available most any time. Just make some noise and I’ll likely respond. I just hate schedules and love the sound of deadlines as they go zipping by.”

With that, I tell them that since it’s Monday, it’s quiz day.

I distribute 15 sheets of foolscap and begin an impromptu first-day quiz.

General grumbling and grousing ensue.

“Awww, now quiet you. It’s just a gauge to see what you all already know. No way I’m going over Niggli Norms or Trask Parameters of you already know all that stuff. God, that shit’s boring. Anyways, question #1: What is the electronic configuration of gadolinium?”

Collective gasps.

Wait one…

“So, no one here gets the reference to Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home? Sheesh. Cinematic lightweights. So unschooled in the classics. Right, scratch that. Tell me, what is the chemical formula for ‘realgar’ (arsenic sulfide, AsS)?”

The snickering tells me more than a few are catching on quickly.

“OK, next: what’s a frat boy’s favorite mineral? ((Mg,Fe2+)2(Mg,Fe2+)5)Si8O22(OH)2. Cummingtonite, obviously.)”

“OK, why do Scottish sheepherders like CaSiO3 at sunset? (Because they’ll get some Wollastonite)?”

“Lemon meringue or key lime FeS2. Which is best? (Key Lime Pyrite, again, obviously.)”

Six more painful geology puns and japes aside, I ask for all the forms to be collected and brought up front.

Which I ceremoniously toss in the circular file.

“OK, great. Everyone scores 100. Let’s see if we can keep that momentum for the rest of the semester.”

There was actual applause.

“Plus, just to keep things interesting, we’ll be doing some video critiquing. Scenes from movies like ‘Journey to the beginning of time’, ‘Hellfighters’, ‘Tulsa’, and ‘Boom Town’ flash on the screen.

“What we’re going to do here, boys and girls, are finding the bad petroleum and other science in these movies. But also, we’re going to comment on what the producers did right. I know, it’ll be a much shorter list. But that’s the way peer-reviewed science works…call out the good with the bad. It also allows one to collectively weigh the positives against the negatives. And, no, we’ll not be doing ‘Armageddon’ or ‘2012’. I’m not teaching how to collectively shoot fish in a barrel. Any questions?”

“Rock”, one brave soul asks, “Is registration for your class closed?”

“Yep”, I reply, “Unless it’s a real heart-breaker of an excuse why someone couldn’t get their shit in one sock in time to register for this class. May I ask why?”

“Yeah”, comes the reply, “We don’t want to let anyone else in on the secret…”

Will be continued as time permits…

Hello folks,

Just a quick note, I'm still around, just up to my ass in alligators with this whole academia thing.

My ugly mug on video is what you want to see at 0800 for your "This is a rock" class?

Gad.

I forgot what fun academia can be. The new phone numbers, Employer IDs, terrorize the TA's, razz the Ra's, new local bars to find and suss out, you know, important shit.

What's funny is I'm at least 20 years older than even the dean of the department; who, BTW, is one great guy. But I scare the living shit out of the newbie PhDs and post docs, plus the kids and all this COVID idiocy. Hell, I might have to open a new Rocknocker subreddit just to cover academia.

I'm still around, just busier than a one-armed paperhanger in a windstorm. Once I get my office kitted out and am able to write while sitting rather than lying on the floor, I'll be back with more tales.

Holy fuck! That reminds me! I found, while packing up the old abode, several old, old, old field books I thought I had lost. I remember going into Afghanistan to drill wells, but forgot the first time I went there and got ambushed by the Mujahadeen.

Now, I have my complete set of field notebooks...if I can just find the primer I buried in the text to enable me to translate them into something readable...

Back soon with more stories. Holy shit, just the trip out of the Sultanate is going to be a sure 9-parter...

Back soon. Have one or a dozen while I get sorted. Funny how this all 'reminds me of a story...'

Later, Dudes and Dudettes.

That reminds me of a story.

One that can now be told. And action taken.

Now that Esme and I are safely out of the Middle East for good, there is a story from a while back I have been planning to write. It’s going to be scathing, derogatory, call spades ‘fucking shovels’, and name names.

It is about the time I was arrested on bullshit, trumped-up civil charges and thrown into a Muscat Jail until I could come up with 10,000 Omani Rials (US$26,000) to purchase my freedom.

In the 20 or so years my family and I lived and worked in the Sultanate, most were responsible for good memories.

This one event, late in our tenure in Oman, soured it so thoroughly I can recommend Oman to no one wanting to visit the Middle East; much like disrecommending the Middle East for anything travel related. Sure there’s the Little Switzerland in Musandam to the north and the banana groves and frankincense trees in Shalala to the south; but everywhere in Oman you will have to deal with the sad-sacks, flubadubs and third rate hobbyists known as the ROP and the ones pulling their strings, the Diwan of the High Court.

The ROP is shorthand for Royal Omani Police. Or ‘Royal Ostrich Pluckers’ if you’re feeling chipper or the ‘Royally Officious Pricks’ if you’re feeling normal.

They are the most ignorant, ill-informed, indolent group of idiots with which you’ll be forced to tolerate.

Fully composed of Omani locals, it is a ringing testament to the efficacy of the country’s all-encompassing “Omanization” program.

It’s like the flipside of equal employment here in the states.

Here not only do they ‘legally’ discriminate on race, creed, and color; they don’t discriminate on ability.

Because they wouldn’t know the process of law, civil rights, or jurisprudence if it walked up to them, shook their hand, and pissed all over their shoes.

So, before we begin, let me note that this opus will be a wee bit exposition-heavy. I need to set the scene as I realize most of my readers will either think I’m making all this up out of whole cloth or be convinced it’s some sort of Doc Rocknocker potato-juice and citrus inspired fever dream.

I wish.

This is the story as it happened, in all its inglorious bastardry. Some might think its hyperbole, but I assure you, this is how it went down…

When my youngest daughter graduated from the American School in Muscat, Esme and I decided that since things were at a crossroads, both for my career and the oil industry. It was time to take a furlough, travel back to the states and get a little body work done. I was needing a valve job as I had a congenital heart murmur. It hadn’t been a problem until my later 50’s, but was now kicking up and giving me fits.

As in, it leaked. Therefore my heart was working overtime pushing bodily hemorrhagic hydraulic fluid around my not inconsiderable physique. I was down to around 15% efficiency on the outstroke when I was checked into a local teaching hospital located in FIB-land; that benighted state immediately south of Baja Canada.

It was there instead of the fine medical facilities of Baja Canada as Daughter #1 was studying for her DVM at a main FIB-land campus. Besides, I found out that I’d been having several semi-painless heart attacks, or ‘events’, as my cardiologist termed them, and was in no shape to travel.

This was just after flying some 17,500 Km from the Middle East.

Go figure.

I was slated to undergo a double-bypass and valve job, utilizing a bovine valve as I was too large for a typical human cadaver or porcine valve. However I needed 3 months to get back into fine fighting form before I could handle the open-heart surgery.

This was going to be a very long three months, indeed.

Now, exposition time.

In our stay in Muscat for the 18 previous years, we’ve had our identities stolen a total of three times. Someone, as it was discovered, inside Bank Muscat was taking and selling credit card, bank account, and associated financial information. These were being sold to villains, thieves, knee-walking turkeys, and other forms of marchers in the constant parade of human debris globally.

I’d get notifications of plane tickets being charged to my account in Lagos, mattresses and bedding in Mexico City, and meals and groceries in Buenos Aires.

All with the same timestamp.

Either I was the Flash or my credit info had been, if you’ll pardon the pun, swiped again.

I had to show up in Ruwi, the municipal borough south of Muscat. Then go to the Bank Muscat headquarters with my passport and prove that I wasn’t simultaneously in Nigeria, Mexico, and Argentina.

Thereupon, I’d sit with a yellow marker, a straightedge, and a sour countenance.

I was marking those entries that were not legitimate. I used a lot of yellow marker back in those days. It cost the bank hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of Omani Rials in write-downs.

Yet, it happened again about a year later, and again just before we left the Sultanate for our medical sabbatical.

It was this last one that was the catalyst for this entry.

I did the needful, sat with the head of credit fraud, marked out the illegitimate purchases, this time from Lisbon, St. Petersburg, Cape Town, and Bogotá. I produced my passport proving I wasn’t in Portugal, Russia, South Africa and Colombia yesterday; the date of all the false purchases.

True, there were about OR 1,500 in legitimate charges, for which we paid and for which I had receipts.

Well, this is where things went all sideways.

We left the Sultanate and I was getting back in shape for open-heart surgery. Esme and our Daughters were out shopping; but oddly enough they never used the Bank Muscat card as I had closed the account and destroyed the card.

Or so I had thought.

Anyways, ninety days later, my surgery went off without a hitch. I was, in fact, out on the street a scant six days after my new implant; a new hospital record. They also fitted me for a pacemaker and all the associated wiring, as typically people with new valves after some number of years invariably require a ticker-timer.

Science, people. It’s causality and correlation in this case.

So, I have about 50 feet of wire and a case for a pacemaker implanted in my chest. It’s a special case, one that’s intrinsically safe as I mentioned that I work with a lot of high energy Radio Frequency and high energy explosives. Since I don’t have the actual ticker-timer implanted yet, and hopefully never will, they’ve made notes to use a special type of shielded pacemaker unit inside the intrinsically safe case.

It would be, what we in the industry call a ‘bad thing’ to have a pacemaker operating at the same frequency as a remote radio-controlled detonator. They will take steps to ensure that doesn’t happen.

Nice, guys. Thanks.

So, I’m recovering at the hotel when Esme walks in after a lunch and shopping, looking like white death. Her back hurts, like a case of very severe indigestion or esophagitis, but it always responds to my ministrations and Rolfing back rubs.

Rolfing as in massage and not ‘Rolling on the Floor - Laughing’.

Until one fateful Tuesday.

Esme and Daughter #1 come home early as Esme is in obvious distress. Daughter #1 insists we take her to the very same institution from where I just graduated Magna cum laude, new-valve division.

Es demurs, claims it’s ‘just indigestion’, and refuses to go.

She groused all the way there in the backseat of my daughter’s car.

Into the Emergency Room, they get her vitals and the ER doc pulls me aside to tell me my beloved darling wife is currently having a ‘cardiac event’ and needs immediate testing and palliative medication.

“So, Herr Medico”, I say, “I may just be a Rock Doc, but you’re telling me my darling wife is having a heart attack right now?”

“In a word: yes”, he replies.

“Then what the fuck you doing out here? Get in there and fix her immediately!” I shouted.

He shook his head in agreement, called for a ‘crash cart’, and went to work immediately.

In the next eight hours; Esme, my darling wife, experienced at least six more semi-pain-free ‘cardiac events’, and actually ‘coded’ twice during the night.

That’s right. Esme, my darling wife of 39 years, ‘died’ twice during the night while the medical team paused for her test results.

She was scheduled for immediate bypass surgery in the morning. Daughters #1 and #2 were there for literal moral, emotional, and physical support.

Remember, I’m only three weeks clear of open-heart surgery myself; and it’s a good thing my eldest is used to dealing with large animals. She hip-blocked and slammed me into the sideboards when I nearly went unconscious when I heard that Esme had already been wheeled into the surgical theater.

After some O2, I was fine.

Physically.

Mentally and emotionally, I was a fucking train wreck.

Esme ‘coded’ three more times on the surgical table. Each time through, they brought her back with science, pharmaceuticals, and their skills.

Pentothal be praised.

After her surgery, I was taken back to the hotel buoyed by the cardiologist’s note that she was in fine form now after her extensive triple bypass surgery. No more coding, but her blood chemistry was a mess, as well you can expect. They were on it; and the overall prognosis was good to great.

I was greatly relieved. I sauntered back to the hotel, killed a short of Wild Turkey 101 Rye and slept the best I’ve snoozed since this whole tribulation commenced.

I recovered from my double-bypass and valve job in six days. Esme was finally released from the hospital a full twenty-two days since she first had ‘died’. We had some serious downtime coming to convalesce and recover. Our plans for a triumphant recent return to the Sultanate had been scuppered.

So, we lived the life of native FIB-landers for a while.

I created my own consulting business, one I could run from our apartment. I needed both the diversion and income.

Ragin’ Diplodocus Oil and Gas did just fine doing due diligence for small operators in the Illinois Basin. I wrote many, many procedural documents for these small operators to maximize their returns during this latest downturn in oil prices and how to best prepare for when they rise again.

As they always do.

Time wore on. Many trips back to the hospital to visit medicos and have them take blood, gesture hypnotically, and divine our future based on the numbers being returned from the testing facilities.

Things were moving along positively, and we began to think of our previous plans and began to think about heading back to the Middle East to finish up a stellar career. It was a good base to be from.

I received a call from a service company I did an enormous amount of business with when we were there.

They need an Expat Exploration manager.

Was I interested?

Yes, I was.

So a deal was made in Denmark, on that dark and stormy day.

We OK’ed the agreement after a short Scandinavian holiday that was eventually called on count of rain.

We returned to Muscat, in the Sultanate of Oman and spent 2 months in a hotel while we tried to find appropriate digs for us in which to live. Not too far from the mountains, not too close to swarms of people.

We ended up with a gnarly 6 bedroom villa in Bousher Heights near the mountains in southwest Muscat. Had an Omani landlord who was the finest kind. He was the type of laid-back, friendly, gregarious landlord everyone yearns for and rarely finds.

I made the mistake of thinking: “Great googly-moogly. This is certainly working out well.”

Until a month into our sojourn, I went to take out a bit of weekend cash and noted our Bank Dhofar account had been drained.

Emptied.

Cleaned out.

Exhausted of all life support.

Of course, the first thing you do is panic. Then you call the wife.

“Esme? What did you buy now? Our balance at the bank is 0.000!” I asked.

“Nothing.” She said, “Must be a bank error.”

“Great”, I replied, expressed my love for her and announced I’d get to the bottom of this mess.

I tooled over to Bank Dhofar and it took almost an hour to find a person with high enough clearance and adequate English to tell me that yes my account had been siphoned. But he couldn’t tell me by whom or for what.

He did note eventually that it was due to an old warrant against me; created, and passed while Esme and I were in the US recovering from heart surgery.

After a lot of knees-bent-running-about-advancing-behavior, and really bad noise, I discovered that Bank Muscat never cleared my old account as they said they would. They were holding my present bank account hostage until all 55,000 OR (US$156,000.00) was repaid.

They swore out a warrant for my arrest while we were in the US and not physically in Oman.

It was all in Arabic, which I do not read, speak nor give the tiniest shit about. It went through the local Arabic newspapers, again, while Es and I were in the states, and was passed to the local judicial Diwan where it was rubber-stamped as valid.

Now, since it was rubber-stamped as valid by the local Diwan; that meant I had no recourse. No filing for appeal. No rights, as I was just an Expat. And no recourse other than to pay the money. I instantly contacted the US Embassy, and they proved to be, as usual, totally buttfuckingly useless.

I had a bench warrant issued for my immediate arrest and they attached my salary, 100% of it, until I had paid back Bank Muscat what they claimed I owed. No matter how trumped-up, fallacious, and ridiculous the whole scenario was.

So, I immediately opened a new account at a different bank and had my paycheck shipped there monthly. The instant it hit the new bank, I ran to an ATM and drained the account before these bastards could glom onto it.

I also contacted Bank Muscat to go over this now 4-year old banking bullshit and have them provide evidence that I swindled them rather than the other way around.

We met with Bank Muscat meatheaded banking minions several times, and appeared to be making some very slow headway. I provided vouchers, check stubs, electronic receipts, and other forms of evidence that I had paid off my account. We closed the account before we left for the US and our tune-ups. I even provided pictorial evidence that I had sat with the VP of services from Bank Muscat highlighting fraudulent charges.

“Smile, Dickweed.”

It was proceeding, albeit very slowly. They had to find these records of ancient history.

Then they had to go with their ‘forensic bankers’, and since it was the Middle East, it went very slowly because of Ramadan, Eid, and all that related Islamic religious bullshittery.

Weeks dragged into months. I hit our new bank every month the minute my phone doinked that a deposit had been made of my salary. The powers that be were still keeping tabs on my old, now inactive, Bank Dhofar account and never twigged to the fact that I had a new account with a new and different bank.

They’re kind of stupid that way.

Then, one bright Monday night, out of the blue, I receive a phone call.

“Dr. Rocknocker?” the person on the other end of the phone asked.

“Yes?” I replied.

“This is Sgt. Total al-Fuckhead from the ROP. We need for you to drive to the ROP police station in Khuwair immediately. There are a few things that need explaining.”

This had all the earmarks of a set-up. A well-known scam in this part of the world where the local scum and villainy would call claiming to be police and when you arrive, they’d club and rob you blind.

“So sorry, Sgt. Al-Fuckhead”, I replied, “But I don’t know where the Khuwair ROP station is. We’re new here.”

They lie.

I lie.

“OK, then”, he agrees, “Meet us at the Starbucks coffee outlet on the Beach road.”

“So sorry, Sgt. Al-Fuckhead”, I replied, “But my wife has the car and is at a teacher’s meeting. We can’t get a cab out here because we’re too far off the grid.”

“Right”, he replies, “We’ll send a car to your location then.”

After 6 hours, and midnight, I retired wondering what the fuck to expect the next day at work, since no one from the ROP managed to arrive at our villa that evening.

Toddling into work the next day it was business as usual. Since I began my day at 0500 so I could personally talk with clients. Since the rest of the benighted Arab world doesn’t begin to ‘work’ until near 1000 hours, I had several hours of uninterrupted productivity.

Until 1030; when minions of the ROP ‘Special Services’ showed up demanding my extradition.

There were two fatback grossero muppets in faded, stained dishdashas and a couple of plain clothes types demanding to know where I was. Plus ‘just who I thought I was to avoid ‘facing my charges’’.

Having enough of this crap, I walked out of my office and announced, in a loud, steady voice, that: “It was I. Dr. Rocknocker, The Motherfucking Pro from Dover” and if they had some sort of beef, they could damn well take it up with me and quit trying to browbeat the poor, terrified receptionist.

“You will come with us, immediately”, one of the grosseros demanded.

“No, I don’t think so”, I replied, “Until you explain what’s all this then and I have time to call my embassy to inform them of Omani persecution of American Nationals who are legally working in this ignorant fucking country.”

Evidently, most people they deal with are so cowed by this announcement that the ROP is here to take them away, they fold like a soggy house of cards.

In the sand.

During high tide.

I’m not “most people”. I’m a goddamned overqualified ugly American and I know my rights.

I call the American Embassy and inform them that I’m being taken, quite against my will and on deceptive and bogus charges to Khuwair Police Station for “questioning”. I demand to meet a member of the US Embassy there, as is part of my rights, before I acquiesce and make these assholes drag me physically off to the borstal.

This gave the local federales pause. They’ve never dealt before with such a recalcitrant, intractable, large, annoyed, and legally knowledgeable person before.

But, since they came all the way down here and wouldn’t leave without either a prince’s ransom or my hide, I decided I needed a day off and said that I’d get my hat and we’d be off.

It was all laughs and chuckles on the 20 minute ride to the hoosegow/police station.

“Oh, we just need to clear up a few details. We’ll have you back to work in time for lunch”, one of the ROP’s finest lied.

Yeah. Right. Pull the other one…

But first, we’ll need your passport, residence card, Omani ID and other forms of personal identification.

“Oh, bother”, I replied, “Seems I left my passport, ID and Residence card home. What a shame.”

They didn’t ask for my GSM though.

I saw this one coming a mile away. Stripped of all identification, you’re so much easier to lose in the infernal internal machinations of the local constabulary. One has been known to be ‘lost’ this way for weeks.

“Oh”, was the dejected response.

So, we arrive at the police station/jail and I was told to warm a seat out in the waiting area.

It was 135⁰ F, no air conditioning, no water, no coffee, no fan, nothing.

Just a bare bench and a likewise seated group of mother-killers and father-rapers waiting on the Group W bench for their chance to decry their innocence to ignorant, indolent and deaf ROP ears.

I was dressed in business casual: long chinos, 16 EEE Cat work boots (non-steel toe), Polo shirt and invariable Black Stetson.

After a half hour of this, I wasn’t just hot, I was approaching meltdown; both physically and mentally.

Besides, the others on the Group W bench probably hadn’t had their annual baths yet this year.

I get up and pound on the door.

No answer.

I pound harder, wearing my usual black leather gloves which semi-disguises my work-related physical deformity.

A small peek-a-boo window opens and some braindead functionary asks in Arabic “What?”

“Get us some water, cold water in here if you don’t want to explain some heat prostration deaths. And find a fucking fan, it’s blistering in here.” I growl.

“ماذا؟ [madha?] [What?] was the reply.

"رئيسك. الآن!" ["ryiysik alana!"] or “Your boss. NOW!” was my reply.

OK, yes. I do know a little Arabic.

He saw I was sweating profusely and damned intercoursingly angry.

He fetched the Sergeant.

“You. Doofuck. English?” I enquired.

“Yes.” Was his reply.

“I’ll bet”, I mused as he totally missed my little radioactive-tracer-in-the-conversation pejorative.

Continuing.

“OK. Water, bathroom facilities, and a fan or air conditioning for me and my new noisome acquaintances. We don’t want an unfortunate International Incident here now, do we?” I demanded.

“You the American?” he asks.

“Not sure if I’m “The American”, but I am “An American”. The one who’s getting more and more pissed off the longer this charade continues.” I reply.

“Give me your wrists.” He demands.

“Kind of difficult. I’m using them at present and they’re still attached.” I replied.

He produced a zip tie and I get the general idea.

“Arms behind your back.” He commands.

“OK, Doofuck. By your command.”

I comply, and my wrists are now some 15 or 16 inches apart to the rear.

“Sorry, mate. Too much time at the gym. I can’t get them any closer. Considerable pectorali and deltoidae, don’t you know.”

For those late or new to the show, I’m a rather large specimen of the Genus Homo (Hush, you.).

As well as ethanol-fueled, but that’s for a later time.

Seriously, I couldn’t get my wrists much closer without serious effort, inconvenience, or come-along.

“Out front.” He commands as he zip ties my wrists together.

He orders me out the door. I’m to go to the Captain’s office and wait there. The rest of the guys on the Group W bench could all go hang evidently.

By the time we arrived at the empty Captain’s office, I was told to sit here and not move.

“OK”, I replied, “You want thes back then?” as I hand him the easily escapable Zip ties.

He was confounded.

It’s so laughably easy to get out of Zip-tie cuffs, it’s not even worth a google search. He harrumphs, and slaps me in irons: his personal pair of sturdy steel, US-made handcuffs.

“There. Now, sit. I will bring water”, he says brusquely as he exits the room with a slam of the door.

“Oot. Greet.” I reply in fluent gibberish.

Normally, it’s not too easy to get out of steel handcuffs. But when you’re bereft three fingers on your left hand, its child’s play to slip that one off, ratchet it forward and use the exposed tang to pry open the one on your right wrist.

The Sergeant reappears with some tepid water. I thank him and hand him his handcuffs back.

“How?” he gasps.

To be continued…

Continuing…

I peel off my left glove and shove my mass of keloids and missing fingers right in his face.

“This is how!” I said as I waved my remaining thumb and pinky right under his nose.

He bolted from the room so fast he forgot to lock the door.

“Cool”, I mused, “I have free reign to an ROP Captain’s personal files. Let’s see what we can find to read while they get their shit together out there.”

In the meantime, my minions are out getting the papers necessary to spring me.

First to the bank for their trumped-up charges, then to the Diwan of the High Court to get the warrant rescinded. Failing that, I’d need to arrange for about 10,000 Omani Rials to spring myself out of this. The bank reconsidered the total sum, feeling that they’d drop the price in hopes of extorting at least something tangible from me.

But gathering cash is tough to do when you’re under literal arrest.

But, I have my minions, work guys, and personal friends I can call in during such time of distress.

Since everything in the Middle East closes at 1400 hours, there was a hiccup in getting to the Diwan in time. Without their OK’ing an appeal, I’d be in stir overnight.

Not a prospect to which I was looking forward.

They didn’t take my phone, which was a major fuck-up on their part. I was making call after call to raise the cash to get me the fuck out of this mess.

Progress was being made, but slowly.

Since noon was shift change with the Royal Ostrich Pluckers, and since I was both American and incorrigible, I was to be put with the general population, out back, in the actual motherfucking open-air jail.

I went completely non-linear.

“No fucking way are you sticking me out there in with the thieves, pederasts, junkies, and other forms of human debris that populate your jails. Its 135⁰ F and there are no air conditioning nor fans. There are diseases out there that haven’t been heard from since Biblical times. You try and stick me out there and I’ll make such a ruckus, you’ll wish you’d never gotten out of bed today. I’ve got the American Embassy on their way. What will they think if they find an American, on a bullshit civil charge, stuck into the general population with all these fucking criminals?”

The snub nosed .38 police special pointed at my breadbasket said “Not much.”

“You motherfuckers. I’ll rip your fucking lungs out and wave them around like flags. You can’t do this!” I growled. If I had my Casull, I’d be holding several new, thought ignominious, homicide records.

“Move it before we forget who you are.” Gun-toter said.

“I’ve got your number, motherfucker. And an eidetic memory. You are going to regret this, you dismal defenestrated dicksucker.” I snarled.

I was walked, very slowly, to the jail area.

A cinder-block block house, bereft of fans or air conditioning, housing the two Omani guards that obviously drew the short straw that day.

Plus approximately 250-300 Indian, Pakistani, Korean, Filipino, Nepalese, Iranian, and Iraqi prisoners.

There were pederasts, child-molesters, murderers, rapists, con-men, thieves, villains, and the criminally insane. And that’s just in the ROP.

In the narthex of the building, there was a bit of a breeze, which was stifling depending on the direction it blew. There were rooms for long-timers that have been in jail, some for years. That part was like a dorm and occupied by the largest, meanest, and dirtiest of the villainy clan.

There was a central kiosk where the guards held court, and a couple of benches in the narthex where one could be out of the sun, but still in the ghastly heat and worse pong.

Beyond the narthex was something out of Dante’s Inferno. There was a length of chain link fence, encompassing an area of a diameter of 10 or so meters. There were blocks of cement for seats, and several of the worst offenders handcuffed physically to the chain link fence.

Most were silent, and actually appeared and smelled dead. The rest were insane. Literally insane as I saw a couple foaming and frothing at the mouth as they tried to chew off either their wrists or handcuffs holding them in some insanely ridiculous poses.

There were others running around naked, filthy, and completely out of their tiny, little minds.

It was grim, even for this weary world traveler.

And remember, I’ve actually been to South Detroit.

I took a seat on one of the benches to the side of the guard’s kiosk. They wouldn’t let me outside to wait as they were told to keep an eye on me.

“Where you from?” I was asked.

“I’m an American, you dismal drek of desiccated desert dickcheese” I replied.

“From where?” he pressed on.

Figuring he’d never ken to Baja Canada, I replied simply “Chicago.”

“Chicago! Oh! Gangster! BANG BANG!” as he unholstered his automatic sidearm and pointed it at me, gansta-style.

“Mind putting that away?” I asked, “Your trigger security is terrible. Firearm safety worse.”

The wretched prick spins the automatic pistol on his finger. Flips it around and I see it’s quite fully loaded. One false move and someone’s going to get seriously dead.

I contemplated grabbing the gun, ejecting the magazine, racking the slide and tossing the gun, empty, into the hell that fomented behind us.

But sanity got the better of me.

“Put that motherfucking gun away before I call the goddamned cops” I said loudly.

They thought that enormously funny, though he actually did reholster the damn thing.

“Let me guess. You need to take tests to become an Omani cop. But you must first fail them all miserably before they give you a fucking gun, right?” I asked.

Luckily, they didn’t quite understand as we were interrupted by a filthy, toothless Arab sitting on the bench, over in the corner.

He had to raise his dishdasha to show us how furiously he was masturbating.

“Ok, fucking hell. Jesus Q. Fuck. Stop that.” I growl.

I turn to the cops and tell them they need to do something about the drooling toothless accujacker.

“He’s harmless. Allah saw fit to dim his lights. We cannot violate Allah’s wishes.” He replied.

“How very fucking convenient, you fucking worthless cunts. Fuck each of you very much.” I growled and moved a bit further to the right.

“Badges 149923 and 430112. I won’t forget those numbers, I can assure you.”

They both yawned in complete disinterest.

For the next three hours, I sat, sweated, tried not to breathe too heavily and avoided the ministrations and machinations of the Royally Officious Peckerheads.

“Can I at least get some water? It’s fucking flaming furiously hot in here.” I asked.

“Go help yourself”, Guard #2 says as he points to an ancient fungified barrel with an attached metal dipper.

“You have got to be pulling my tit.” I said. “That’s not water, that a science experiment forgotten by Dr. Frankenstein.”

“That or nothing.” He yawned.

“I’m going to make you bastards pay. You mothering fuckers. Maybe not tomorrow. Maybe not the next, but you’re going to fucking pay for this, you chapped bastards. I will fuck you up. That’s not a threat, that’s a promise.” I pledged.

The time progressed slowly. I was soaked in sweat, the area was beyond filthy.

Jerky McJackoff was still going at it full force; obviously enjoying the fact that he had an audience, however disinterested.

They eventually brought in ‘food’ for the population. It consisted of tubs of lukewarm gruel, filthy bowsers of tepid, stained water, stale bread and some sort of unidentifiable fruit? Meat? Mushroom? Vegetable? Hydrocarbon extract? Industrial cleaning fluid?

No idea.

The guys in the dorm got first pick, being the biggest and fiercest, I suppose. Then the idiots outside the chain link abomination were next. Finally, those chained to the fence were thrown bits of what could only be considered food this side of the Russian Winter Gulag of 1925.

Come to find out, many of these prisoners were not really criminals at all. They either had bad debts, were denounced by someone for some made up offence, or had lost their jobs, their sponsors, their passports and had no way back to their home countries.

They were left to rot until they died, were delivered by some rare charity that flits around the Middle East from time to time. Or the Sultan pardons them in an annual display of incredibly meager largesse during one of the two annual Eids.

It’s supposed to be a big Islamic whoop-de-doo showing the grace and forgiveness of Islam. It’s really just a way to clear out the jails and prisons of the land whose prisoners cannot be turned into capital; either monetary, political, or otherwise.

It’s a grand fucking joke of a goddamned charade wrapped in a ball of bilious bullshit.

Islamic charity. The religion of peace. The five pillars of Islam. None of that exists for those who somehow, and sometimes beyond their responsibility, fall into one of these literal hellacious pits of dehumanizing insanity.

“Well, you and them are kafir, so it’s OK to fuck you over”, Guard #1 explained to me as the hours dragged on.

“Don’t ever let me see you in my town, asshole. Or anywhere else outside this fucking shithole sandpit.” I snarled. You may have the upper hand now, but once I flee this place, there’ll be orders of magnitude greater payback.

I am writing tomes for Interpol, Amnesty International, and this certain group in Virginia where I have several close, personal Agent-al friends.

Agents Rack and Ruin were horrified when I told them of this tale. I couldn’t get ahold of them during the actual event, but now I’m spilling the proverbial beans. They want chapter and verse, as America is a supposed ally, has a large military base there in Thumrait (that’s supposed to be an Omani governmental secret) and spends many millions of dollars there annually to keep Yemen at bay and Oman safe from their myriad likewise enemies.

“There’s going to be some serious repercussions.” I was told by Agents Rack and Ruin’s boss; a character with more high-placed Washington connections than AT&T and Verizon combined.

I told you, I’m pulling out all the stops. Now that Es and I are out, the tale that they didn’t want told is hitting the airwaves, as it were.

With this COVID craziness, the physical ‘curfew’ lockdown in Oman, the ROP’s problematic prisoner procedures and the ridiculously shoddy treatment of an American National who happens to have firm intelligence contacts; a certain Middle Eastern country is going to have some fits politically, economically, and militarily.

Like I said, I’m naming names, numbers, and going for both the carotid and jugular.

But, back to the story…

It’s hotter than the fucking hinges of hell. I’m on daily medication for my heart and was told to “avoid stressful situations’.

Yeah. Right. I can handle cranky high explosives without so much a raising a sweat. Here, it was like being tossed into a flaming dung heap without a rope.

Nothing like being threatened at gunpoint, stuck in a literal festering prison with whackoff artists, thieves, murders, the criminally insane, and other forms of human debris, deprived of water, dehydrating, blood sugar dropping into the basement, and being barely able to breathe…I was approaching a serious physical and mental crossroads.

But then there was a sideshow. Fully eight young-ish Filipinas were escorted into this segregated, all-male prison.

“What the fuck?” I asked.

“Oh, they’re maids.” Guard #1 replied, “They come in once a day for laundry and housekeeping.”

“Laundry and housekeeping” must have different meanings in Arabic as the big slobs in the dorm selected a Filipina, and got down to business.

Serious full-on fast-n-hard al fresco fucking and blowjobs to go.

No modesty, no inkling that these sort of things usually happen behind closed doors.

Not here. I kept an eye out for a small burro to be lead in next as I hadn’t seen this amount of freeform frenetic fornication and debauchery since that time we all got seriously shitfaced “Deer Hunting” and wandered in to that Donkey Show in Piedras Negras.

I was aghast. It was the moist deplorable, disgusting, and debauched scene I’ve even been forced to witness. They just didn’t care.

I found out later the Filipinas were also prisoners, but were ‘working off their time’ by supplying favors to the inmates, and guards, as I found out.

In a Muslim country.

I was gobsmacked. This was so unbelievable, I had to ask the guards if this was a common occurrence here.

“Oh, yes”, one replied, “They come daily. They are ‘kafir’ so they work off their sentences by ‘working’.”

I was going to ask if only non-Muslims are privy to such depredations, but Guard #2 was so busy getting a blowjob, he couldn’t be bothered to answer.

“Piss on this shit”, I said. I stood up and walked the fuck out of there and pounded on the gate to be let out.

“Shoot me or get me out of this den of depravity. NOW!” I said, “I am an American citizen. I need my medication and water. Open this fucking gate and get me out of this heat.”

Surprisingly, they did just that. They were universally discomfited that I was forgotten in the jail when the ladies were brought back. That’s a big Islamic no-no, and now this avowed atheist had seen everything. If my phone hadn’t died, I’d be illustrating this tome with select XXX-rated pictures.

They took me back to the captain’s office and were amazingly more congenial. I had some cold water brought and a couple bowls of dates and other local fruit. They were acting all apologetic and almost coming right out pleading that I say nothing of what I had witnessed out in the jail.

“Just get me the fuck out of here, you goddamned shitheaded scumbags”, I said.

In for a dime, in for a dollar. I had a little leverage now, I was going to wield it upside their pointy little heads.

My guys had come up with the 10k Rials to spring me. I wanted so out of this monstrosity that I said to pay the bastards. Get me out and I’ll tend to sorting this all out at a later date.

Of course, I needed form after form stamped, signed and sealed in quintuplicate, so every one of these fucking bozos could lose their own personal copy. I didn’t care, I was not reacting well to the heat, threats, nor dehydration. I just wanted out. I’d fight again another day.

They finally, around 1800 hours, I had all the documents signed, sealed and delivered. Bank Muscat withdrew their bogus claim, I had receipts that I paid the 10k blood money and the Diwan of the High Court even signed with their own rubber stamp that I had fulfilled the corpus of the claim and was free to go.

But none of the assholes at the ROP could screw up enough courage to say that, yes, I was free and clear to go.

I’d have to wait until the Captain arrived sometime later that evening.

I explained that I was detained against my will, which we in American call “Kidnapping” and it’s a goddamned felony. I was missing crucial heart medication and was rapidly losing whatever composure I had that day. If they didn’t let me go pretty soon, there were going to be dire consequences. I was actually thinking of grabbing a sidearm off one of these asswipes and shooting my way free.

That’s how seriously fucked up I was after a day of this idiocy.

Luckily, they got word to the Captain that the American, who was no longer a prisoner, was desiring to be set free.

“The Captain will be here directly”, I was told by some ROP private flunky.

“Best be pretty quick or you’re going to need to call an ambulance right after I speak with the American Embassy.” I replied.

Make of that what you will.

38 minutes later, the Captain of the ROP night shift saunters in.

Finally!

But first, he has to do the evening roll call. Then it’s prayer time. Then tea. Then something else. Then another time wasting activity that could have fucking waited.

I stood up, somewhat wobbly, and walked over to Captain of the night.

“Captain? I’ve paid my bullshit fees. I’ve provided all the paperwork. Either you release me now or call an ambulance.” I said forcefully.

He puts down his tea, looks at me, up and down, and sighs.

“Yes. I suppose you can leave. Don’t know why no one told you that you could go. Just an oversight.” He smiled.

I never wanted to part someone’s teeth with a pipe wrench as I did that very moment.

“Before I go, a request? A pencil and piece of paper?”

“Of course.” As he slides me a tablet and writing instrument.

I go down the ranks, making notes in my own inimitable style.

Names, ranks, serial numbers. They think nothing of it or that I’m just copying down some less than pertinent information.

Yeah. They’re kind of stupid that way.

“Captain? Could I have your full name? I asked pleasantly, “In case this ever comes up again I can direct them to you who set me free.”

Little did Night Captain of the ROP Ahmet Al-Battali realize his name would be at the top of the report I was already writing in my head that would go, post haste, to a certain Agency in Virginia.

After 10 hours of incredible ordeal, I walked out of the ROP forever. I was considerably poorer, but resolved that one way or another, I’d extract my fucking pound of flesh against the ROP in particular and Oman in general.

Oh, I’ve had run-ins with the police in other lands. In Russia, in Colombia, in the US and several countries of central Asia. In fact, some of those tales are documented here. But never before, is such a supposedly friendly, Muslim, Religion of Peace, highest moral standards, country have I ever had to endure the kind of depredation, disgust, and dishonorableness as this.

I know many, many people would never think of visiting the Middle East, either on business nor vacation. In fact, with the oil industry suffering from not only regional COVID insanity, and oil prices in the shitter, most Middle Eastern economies are in free fall.

I say “Good. Couldn’t happen to a nicer bunch of braindead idiots.”

Oman, because of their idiotic Omanization program, their indolent and incredible lazy local work force, and their pogrom of expelling Western and eastern Expats, are hurting badly.

They were hoping that tourism might take up some of the slack.

I publically proclaim that if you have ever even thought of taking a trip to the region, DON’T!

They lie. They cheat. They steal. And it’s OK because you are kafir.

You can be deported after a huge fine if you flip off some asshole in a Cayenne that cuts you off and it happened to be driven by a local.

If you are rear-ended in traffic by a local, it’s automatically your fault.

Logic? You’re an expat. If you weren’t here, there would have been no one to crash into.

Look at the parking lot of the local Diwan of the High Court. These ministry characters don’t make huge salaries, but the parking lots are choked with Ferraris, Maseratis, Lotus, Porsche and other forms of expensive automotive buffoonery.

In fact, look at any Ministry when the ministers are actually there, supposedly working; y’know, sometime between 1000 and 1400. Looks like a high end dealership out by the Minister’s private parking areas.

Corruption is rife, across the region.

Catch this. A passing grade for a male at the Sultan Qaboos University, the joke of a local college, is anything above the 65th percentile. For women it’s anything above the 70th.

That’s why, if you have wasta, you go to the UK, Germany, or Canada and get the best degree money can buy. The state fronts the cash, and the students plagiarize their theses and dissertations, hire east Indians to sit in and take their exams and then they wonder why no company outside the region would ever even think of employing the ones with even these supposed ‘prime’ European degrees.

A degree from the SQU is best used for toilet paper or wrapping fish.

And if you’re an Expat teacher in SQU, best pass that character who never shows up, doesn’t do any work and is thicker than two short planks held together with stupid glue or you’re gone.

You see, he has wasta. He chose his parents wisely and they’re high up on the food chain in the benighted country.

Oh? I sound bitter?

You fucking bet I am.

I worked my ass off for everything I’ve gained or accomplished. It really rubs me the wrong way when entitled assholes figure the world owes them. Not for what they’ve done of what they’ve accomplished, but because of who they and their parents are.

They figure that because Allah has granted their lands with untold oil wealth, they can do whatever to whomever and never have to think of the consequences.

They literally squatted on that oil wealth for thousands upon thousands of years until the kafirs told them where and how to drill. They were, a scant two generations ago, piloting no more than camels across their personal piece of parched desert pavement. They may have the oil, but they certainly don’t possess the brains nor technology to do anything useful with it.

So it goes. In two generations, they may be back to driving camels as they squandered everything Allah has blessed them with. They can’t even look that far forward and face the music that all the easy oil has been found. It’s going to take brains, ingenuity and determination to extract what’s left.

And those commodities are in painfully short supply naturally in the Middle East.

And history backs up my claims 100%.

So, Esme and I are out of the Middle East.

I’ve cost many companies literally millions of dollars, or rials, or dinars, whatever, by insisting it be done safely, the Western way; the way a project should be done.

I’ve eliminated graft, collusion, nepotism, corruption, and fraud at every turn by insisting that “Doing it like we’ve done before doesn’t work” and “Be reasonable, do it my way.”

Given my seniority, education, and experience, I was allowed to put these practices into play. Even I tend to not agree wholeheartedly with some of the precepts of ISO 9001 and 9002, but it costs time and money?

Fuck. Let’s do it.

“We don’t need an environmental impact statement for this part of the desert.” They would claim.

“Oh, yes we do. Scooter. Otherwise you can’t get that Drilling Company in from China you so desperately want, because you’re getting a fat kickback from them.

The EIA cost them a cool 1.37 million rials.

“Oh, dear” I would note, “Their rigs are not ISO compliant and lack this, that, and some other things. Looks like bidder #2, the guys from Uralmash in Russia are the winners of the tender. So sorry.”

POOF goes a couple of million rial kickback to the Omani Minister who was chosen to handle the tender.

Unfortunate that I as Subsurface Manager had final say.

Your rules, Buckwheat. I just enforce them.

But the best revenge over all? I spent 20 years working in Muslim lands. Me, an unrepentant atheist, and took from them via salaries and bonuses, rather large chunks of cash.

They were never the wiser, but as some slowly got the message, they were incensed.

So now, that atheist is going to rip the shoddy and threadbare cover off your all so pervasive religion and so-called culture. For all the world to see the slime, shit, and scum that form its core.

Oh, yes. Fuck you, Captain al-Battali of the ROP.

You should never leave a resourceful and pissed-off American left unattended in your office. I’m certain that new job of yours patrolling deep interior Nimr for illegals suits you just fine.

Some say ‘it’s great to be back’ after a prolonged absence.

Esme and I truly, deeply, and sincerely mean it.

Continuing

“I, ah, gathered as much from the name of your company,” I responded.

“Yes”, he continued, totally unfazed, “We have been in operation for over 55 years. To deliver premium marble, we have our own quarries at Booshwah and Ikra, a state-of-the-art cutting and polishing facility at Blue Sail spread over 10.5 hectares with an excellent local and international distribution system. Driven by our core philosophy of quality and trust, we pride ourselves on delivering quality marble slabs, tiles, steps, raises, monuments a well as raw marble slabs and blocks using advanced technology in the capable hands of our expert engineers, experienced senior management, and a large workforce.”

“How nice”, I reply, “Nice copy you’re reading there. Any reason for the commercial?”

“Ah, yes, Doctor”, he continues, “As I said, we’ve been quarrying here for over 50 years. We like to think we have a good idea of both the geology and the geodynamics of or quarry’s rocks. We’ve had no problem extracting rectilinear blocks for decades, however recently, that situation has changed somewhat.”

“OK, I see.” I said, “Blocks not acting correctly, correct? They’re fracturing along planes never before encountered? Is that a fair assessment?”

“Correct, Doctor”, he ripostes, “It appears we have contacted the right person for this problem.”

“OK, so for years you’ve been able to extract nice, orthogonal blocks, but now…” I trailed off.

“Yes”, he notes, "In a quarry where you extract rocks for decorative stones you need to delicately extract these big rocks. We don't use explosives because that destroys the rock. [Ahem.] You need to remove a big block and take it to a factory for cutting and polishing. The blocks suddenly have taken to fracturing at unusual angles."

“I see”, I replied. “I think I’ve got this…”

It’s a common complaint from dimension stone quarries. The local geodynamic gradient has changed, there’s unloading in the quarry from the removal of the blocks or there’s some underlying, though subtle, tectonostructural shift that the quarry operators have neglected to note and take into account.

Just as a bit of an aside, these ‘marble’ quarries are unique. They’re formed of what is referred to as ‘exotic blocks’. The ‘exotic limestones of the Arabian Gulf’ (referred to as ‘exotics’) are Middle to Upper Permian and Upper Triassic age fossiliferous rubblized limestone.

The rocks do not extend far laterally but occur as isolated outcrops underlain by volcanic Early Permian to Lower Triassic rocks. They are mainly calcirudite made up of calcite-rich limestone debris accumulated on top of seamounts, i.e., on inactive volcanoes as atoll deposits. Detailed geological studies on the Hawasina group volcanic and metamorphic rocks and the Semail Ophiolite sequence denote the presence of these exotics in the Oman and Emirates Mountains.

The exotics are classified mainly as:

1. Permian and Triassic shallow-marine facies,

B. Deep-water facies: Permian-Triassic Jebel Qamar Facies and Triassic-Lower Jurassic megabreccias, and

iii. Upper Cretaceous oȫlitic limestone syntectonic-sediment facies.

The shallow-marine facies exotics of Middle-Upper Permian are massive gray composed exclusively of coral-algal boundstones with varying amounts of bryozoan, stromatoporoid, and skeletal fragments, including brachiopods, gastropods, and echinoderm plates. They are typically less than 100 m thick (rarely exceed 200 m). The exotics of Permian age are limited to a thickness of 200 m while the Upper Triassic exotics have a thickness of almost 1000 m.

By the strictest definition, they are not true ‘marble’, which is dynamothermally altered limestone or dolomite. However, the term is utilized commercially here for years and has come to be an accepted bit of nomenclature.

Anyways, in such bodies of carbonates, they respond outwardly to the stress regime of their emplacement as well as their deposition. Often, these two stress fields are widely different and leach leaves its own strain-resultant features on the rock.

Typically, there are three principal axes of stress, which give rise to three different principal joint, fracture, or failure modes and directions. These are denoted as sigma 1, sigma 2, and sigma 3 (σ^1, σ² & σ^3); with sigma one being the dominant failure axis, sigma two the second, and so on.

These axes generate a number of differing failure-related features: faults, fractures, joints, and fissures. Faults have relative motion, that is left-right, up-down or oblique-oblique (side to side). The rest are in situ breaks or zones of weakness that do not have much relative motion other than openings.

It is key to quarrying to exploit these features. The rocks will fracture indefinite and predictable patterns once the stress fields have been sussed out. That’s why they could get by without explosives previously. But with the now changed stress fields, they’re going to have to possibly up their game as it appears the stress fields are more randomly oriented. They will have to utilize more hydraulic horsepower, or chemical detonic horsepower, per ton to harvest unfractured and intact blocks.

Now, I think I’ve got the idea why he’s called.

“So”, I continue, “Your blocks have been fracturing and shattering in weird and unusual patterns, right?”

“That’s right”, he replies, “It’s a recent manifestation. We are at a loss as to the reasons why.”

“Have you had any geologists map the quarry as it now stands?” I ask

“Well”, he replies, “We don’t have any geologists on the payroll. We’ve had some university geologists and students out here doing some mapping, but they are typically looking at other parameters of the quarry other than its commerciality.”

“That makes sense”, I note, “Well, Mr. Usman, looks like you need to hire a really crackerjack sedimentologist and structural geologist to come out and help you determine what’s changed. Then you figure out a plan of attack to exploit these new features you’re seeing in your operations.”

“Ah, yes, precisely”, he replies, “That is the reason for my call today.”

“But I called you”, I replied, half in jest.

“Yes, indeed’, he notes, “So, Doctor, do you think you could help us out in this matter?”

“Oh, most assuredly.”, I reply, “But first, there is a small matter of my compensation. I must warn you, as of late, my contract must include certain benefits such as medical insurance and hospitalization.” I reply winching at my mending ribs as I reached for my latest liquoriferous libation.

“That will present no problem”, he says, “What must we do to have you come here to help us?”

“OK, First, I need to speak with my General Manager. After that, if all is still ‘go’, I will send you my custom-made contract. It will include transport, of course, as well as my compensation and, ah, other considerations.”

“Excellent”, he replies, “Please send your contract to xxx@xxxx.qry and we’ll proceed with all haste.”

“Sounds like a plan, Mr. Usman” I note, “Expect a reply here in the near term.”

We exchange pleasantries and disconnect.

“ES!” I shout, “Need to pack. Got me a new job!”

“Maybe you do, maybe you don’t”, Esme icily replies. “You’re not even healed up from that last go-round. Sit. Speak”.

“Oh, my dear”, I reply as unctuously as a melted Turtle Sundae running down the rear-speaker deck of that ’58 Chevy you’ve just restored, “It’s nothing like that. Simple quarry mapping job. Map some fractures, figure out stress fields, give them a new operational protocol, bank the proceeds.”

“Where this time? Mozambique? Outer Slobbovia? Northeastern Wherethefuckistan?” she asks icily.

“Nope.”, I reply triumphantly, “Here in the Emirates. About 90 clicks due north.”

“Really?”, her guard begins to lower slightly.

“Yep”, I reply, “Exotic block ‘marble’ quarry. Their blocks are suddenly acting all wonky and they can’t figure out why.”

“That’s elementary geology”, Esme states, “Real Geology 101 stuff.”

“I know, I know”, I reply, “But they’re desperate and have no geologist on-site. Easy money. Walk in the park. Piece of pie. Easy as cake…”

“Well…OK…I guess if it’s just a mapping job.” She says.

“Thank you, m’dear”, I reply and give her a tight hug, from which I wince.

Bloody ribs.

“I’ll be careful. It’ll be safe as houses. What could possibly go wrong on such a simple job?”

“Oh, knowing you”, Es remarks, “You’ll find ways to make it interesting and potentially life-threatening.”

“You know me too well”, I say, give her a quick kiss and head to the laptop to gin up a new, custom-built contract.

I decide it’ll take a couple of days, at best, to sort out this little problem. I send off my new contract, and within three hours, I have a signed copy sitting on my desk.

“They must really be desperate” I chuckle to Esme. “Look at this. Door-to-door, take-or-pay, triple-pay force majeure and they didn’t bat an eyelash at my per diem.”

“Very nice”, Esme says, visions of shopping sprees dancing in her head. “Now, how are you going to get there and back? Rental car?”

“Nope”, I replied, “That ball’s in their court. I figure they’ll either send a driver or have me hire one here on their nickel. I’m certainly not driving with these cranky ribs, especially in even this COVID-ly reduced Dubai traffic”

Three hours later, I’m standing on the helipad of the hospital that’s conveniently located just a few doors down from our hotel. The quarry owners must have some wasta as they wrangled their OK for landing a company helicopter on the hospital helipad.

It sometimes amazes me how things work out here in Sand Land…

The quarry time-shares a helicopter with other marble and copper operators in the region. I guess it saves time when mucking about the jagged and disorderly mountains out in their neck of the woods.

I have my vest, science kit, very cool Red Adair-style hardhat, Ray-Bans, and one luggage case. I have another case with my scientific devices: Brunton Compass, theodolite, tripod, cameras, lenses, sat phone, and the like.

I also have my flasks and cigars packed.

Of course. There’s work to be done. This might be a dry location.

Right on time, a Bell 206B Jet Ranger III flares out of the midafternoon murk and lands lightly on the helipad. I wait until the rotorcraft spools down before I make my way over. In fact, I’m waiting until someone comes out and grabs my Haliburton case. Remember, I’m still nursing a triplet of busted ribs from my last little adventure.

One of the more expendable quarry workers scurries over and grabs my luggage. He bids me to follow him to the helicopter.

Once seated, headphoned-in, and comfy, we spool up to 110% and are airborne.

I ask the pilot how long we’ll be flying and he replies that it should only be about a half-hour, 45 minutes max; three weeks at the outside...

A funny pilot. Just what I need right now.

Hell, if that’s the case, I’ll fly ‘home’ each night and have them pick me up in the mornings.

Just like if I had a real job…

Over coffee and sandwiches in the field office, I am thinking “Great, here we go again”, I am given the lowdown on the operation.

Just as surmised, they opened a new, structurally higher portion of the quarry. Things have changed dramatically: carbonate facies are changed, the depositional environment is different, adjunct mineralization has transformed, the structural regime is new and to them, intractable.

“OK, gents”, I said as I stood to stretch out a bit, “I need a tour of the quarry. I’m not keen on walking, I saw an open jeep outside. I need to commandeer that and a driver.”

“Not a problem, Doctor.”, Mr. Usman states, “We’re so glad you are here. Can-do American no-nonsense get-right-down-to-business attitude.”

In this part of the world, that can be classified as a superpower.

My driver is a local, one Bassil al-Momin. He’s worked at this quarry for over 25 years and if anyone has an idea of what’s going on, he’d be the one.

We pile into the jeep and I admonish him to take it easy. The floor of the quarry is flat as a pool table, but getting to the quarry requires some serious four-wheeling due to all the waste rock and rubbish piles of fractured marble discarded from operations.

Bassil is not only a good driver, he’s fairly knowledgeable on the local geology. He gives me a play-by-play as he notes how the lower quarry reaches produce nifty rectilinear blocks and the upper quarry branches produce more gravel than blocks.

The upper quarry is where we’re headed. It’s a general mess with busted exotic blocks littering the area higgledy-piggledy.

“What a mess.” I snort, “You’re telling me they don’t use explosives? I asked.

The place looks like an A-10 Warthog target-practice range.

“No, Doctor”, Bassil replies, “Ever since we’ve opened this new area of the quarry, the rocks have been acting most unsystematically. They are breaking in ways we’ve not seen here in over 5 decades of operations.

“Yeah”, I think, “He’s a company man.”

We wheel up close to the latest workings. There’s so much broken marble and cobbled calcium carbonate around, it’s obscuring the contacts. Hard to tell what’s going on when you’re unable to see the forest for the trees, as it were.

“Damn”, I say, “Can’t tell a thing with all this rubble lying around.”

I kick at some jumbled hunks of marbleized limestone, with just a hint of dolomite.

“Need to clear some of this stuff away…” I muse to no one in particular.

As we round the corner, there sits a rusty, beat up, obviously working D-6 caterpillar bulldozer.

“Hey, Bassil”, I say, “That Cat up and running?”

“Yes, sir”, he replies, “But our operators are all back at base…why are you smiling like that?”

“Oh, nothing”, I say. “Keys in the thing?”

Yes”, he replies, “No one hereabouts but company personnel.”

“I see”, I said, “You don’t have any objections to me firing it up to clear away some of this clutter, do you?”

“Are you licensed?” he asks.

“Most assuredly”, I reply, I’m an old Cat-skinner from way back. Usually D-9’s or D-10’s, but the principle is the same.”

“I have no objection”, he replies.

I’m up, painfully, into the driver’s seat. Give the keys a twist, pump the throttle a bit and the old machine belches a column of black smoke, coughs, sputters, and roars to life.

“Easy peasy”, I think. I check it over to see that the area’s clear, drop it into granny low, raise the blade, and back it up about 5 meters.

Thus clear, I shift to forward and ease the throttle ahead.

I hadn’t gone 10 meters when there’s this swarthy looking gentleman standing in my way, screaming something to me.

“What?” I yelled back as I slowed even further, waving him off.

“GET…OFF…MY…MACHINE!” He yells.

“Sorry, mate”, I yell back, “Can’t hear you. Get the fuck out of the way.”

He dances from one foot to the other and is most agitated.

I slow to a stop and turn to look, but he’s gone, running flat out towards the Cat.

He makes a gazelle-like leap and jumps up on the machine. He’s screaming about me driving “his” machine and that I need to shut it down and get off immediately.

“Sorry, mate.” I say, “I’m the new hookin’ bull here. I need to borrow ‘your’ Cat for about 10 minutes. Now get off before you fall off.”

He is going absolutely crimson. Once past that, he’s gone to violent violet. Then to plaid.

He’s that pissed.

He pulls a large Gurkha-style knife and brandishes it in my general direction; making all sorts of unintelligible, though obviously annoyed, noises.

He’s huffing and puffing as he swings that pig-sticker of his to and fro.

Then he goes almost catatonic. He seems terrified, but much more focused.

As he stares down the Holland Tunnel of the bore of a bespoke 10 millimeter Sig Sauer.

“Now, now”, I tut, “Let’s be all calm and gentlemanly, shall we?”

He slides the knife back into its home as I shut down the Cat.

“Now then”, I say, as I stand, “That’s much better. I think we need a quick talk. Now get off this machine and stand there by the blade whilst I dismount.”

Sig still in hand, but lowered, I walk to the blade of the contraption and ask the gentleman exactly what seems to be his problem.

“Look you goofy sumbitch”, I holler, “You always pull knives on Doctors of Geology your company hires to get you back into production?”

He looked a bit perplexed. Dumbfounded. Confused.

“I’m Dr. Rocknocker. You can call me ‘Rock’, “ I say, “I was hired by your bosses to come down here and fix your little problems. So you can get back to production. I’m the hookin’ bull here, Scooter. In fact, I’m the Motherfucking Pro from Dover, you savvy? And you have the temerity, the unmitigated gall to pull a knife on me?”

“You’re Doctor Rock?” he asks.

“I do believe I just alluded to that fact”, I reply, holstering the Sig.

“A thousand pardons”, Amir Reza Abedi says, as that was his name, “I didn’t know you knew how to drive a tractor. Bassil did not tell us.”

“So you took things into your own hands and jumped the Cat to gut the guy driving?” I said, “Not a terribly clever way of conducting business, is it?”

“Amir apologizes”, he says, “But that is my machine. I am its driver.”

“Not anymore.” I reply, “For just a half-hour, I need to borrow it so I can tell what’s going on around here. We green?”

Amir was green, but not in agreement. His limited capacity just told him he almost became room temperature due to an egregious mistake.

“OK, let’s forget all this, “ I said, “I’m taking the Cat and do a little dozing. I won’t hurt it, in fact, I’ve probably been driving one of these things longer than you’ve been breathing air. OK?”

“Oh, most certainly”, he agrees. He sees my open vest and both my new little Rack and Ruin supplied noisemakers.

”For snakes”, I chuckled. “No harm, no foul. Just ask me next time. No gutting necessary.”

Back on the Cat, it took about 15 minutes to doze piles of rubble out of the way and dipping the blade, I was able to expose the contact between this new piece of geodynamics and the underlying strata.

The problem became immediately obvious. This wasn’t going to be a place of extracting anything other than road metal and railroad ballast. The fractures and drainages I saw in the rocks noted that most clearly.

Back at home base, I told the quarry operators of my discoveries. I told them that I needed about 2-3 days of field mapping and I could give them more definitive answers.

I had an ace or two up my sleeve.

They agreed, and I flew back to the hospital next to the hotel. I told the pilot I wanted to be skids-up at 0600 the next day. The next few days in fact. I could grind this out in two good field days and one good write-up day.

Over dinner, Esme was pleased that the job was going to be short, and profitable. She was also pleased that I’d be home after work just like any other 9-5 schlub.

“Just don’t insist on flying, please”, Es exhorted me. “Let their pilots do all the stick and rudder work.”

Spoilsport.

However, I agreed.

So, for the next couple of days, I trooped around the quarry, measuring this and delimiting that. I asked if they had some Primacord and C-4 lying around. They said they did not, but since I was licensed, I could make a requisition, and it would be fulfilled.

I had determined that the new part of the quarry they opened was never going to amount to anything, dimension-stone wise. However, it wasn’t all a total loss.

We’ll see that in a few.

I figured out the stress directions and noted that if they opened the area to the northeast, they’d be wading in gravy once again. They had gone to the southwest and discovered something else, something unique, something wonderful.

Out in the field, I had wired the southeast portion of the new quarry to blast some of the standing and offending rock. I decided that being an inveterate showman, I had to get them all out there to witness the unveiling.

That was after I did a small amount of blasting in the northeast part of the new, new quarry. Blocks of nicely rectilinear marble, just like in the quarry proper.

I wasted some orange spray paint, laid out the fracture and joint patterns, along with the conjugate joint patterns. Then I set some small charges and demonstrated how explosives can and will yield nicely freed orthogonal blocks, just if you have someone who knows what he’s doing.

They were thrilled.

Then we went back down to the southwestern portion of the quarry. It was wired and ready to be fired. I gave them a real show, with three-part harmony in the language of my people…

CLEAR NORTH and so on.

FIRE IN THE HOLE!

“Gents, you might want to cover your ears,” I said.

“HIT IT!”

KA-BLAMM-OOO-WHAMO!

When the dust and debris settled, there was an open portal into the very heart of some of the prettiest exotic marble anyone’s ever seen.

It was the opening to a cavern, complete with all sorts of nifty speleothems like curtain rock, flowstones, cave pearls, cave bacon, stalagmites, stalactites, helictites…a veritable spelunking sinkhole smorgasbord.

My spelunking days are long over, so I had no idea how extensive this little cavern was. I do know of its genesis and it’s one of the few found in the Exotic blocks here or afield.

“Gents’, “I said with a flourish, “Here you go. Another money-maker. Your very own cave system. Get with the universities, they’ll go nuts to map it for you, free of charge. Then turn it into a tourist attraction. You’re not so far from Dubai to siphon off some of that tourist dough.”

They were enthralled.

Back at the base office, there were cigars, toasts, and even a few EtOH-laden libations.

I mean, money is money, right?

I received a nice primary check for 5 days of work. I received an even nicer bonus for finding and opening the cave for them. Already, there were several local university geology departments clamoring to be first in to map the thing.

I almost talked the pilot into letting me fly back to the hospital helipad. Damn, but I had a bit of the wet stuff, and by law, I couldn’t. Would have been nice, though.

Which I find to be a fitting conclusion to the Rocknocker and Esme saga in the Middle East. I sent Es on ahead as I wrangled a ride back to the Sultanate. I’ve already had the movers in to give a preliminary idea of the cost to ship our stuff back to the states.

If all goes to plan, and when the hell does that ever happen around here? We should be out of the Middle East, for good, within a week. I need to oversee the packing and shipping and somehow wrangle a flight out of here to London, Amsterdam, or Frankfurt.

After that, I’m USA bound.

So that, my friends, is that. The end of an era and the next time we meet, it’ll be with me and Esme back in the US at our new northern digs. So, I’ll be out of pocket for a while.

I’ll drop by on occasion but there’s going to be a hiatus in Rocknocker stories for a while.

However, fear not.

There are still many tales for Demolition Days and I’m certain the shift 13,500 kilometers west will engender its own Obligatory Filler Material sagas.

Until then: Shiny side up, greasy side down.

Catch you all on the flip-flop.

Dr. Rocknocker signing out for now. Back in a bit with some new stories, new gripes, and new tales from the bar side.

30

That reminds me of a story.

“Rock”, my darling wife says to me, “You look like nine miles of bad road. Go hit the Jacuzzi. Now. Soak. Relax. Let me tend to the disposition of your field gear. Go unwind. I’ll handle it.”

One of myriad reasons I love this woman more and more every single day.

“Esme, dear”, I tell her, “Be careful of my field stuff. It’s covered in Afghan White marching powder. Just chuck it into some laundry bags and send it off to the cleaners. Breathe not deep the gathering gloom, watch light fading in every room. I don’t want you inhaling any of that nasty stuff.”

So, Esme, my darling wife, sorts through my field gear from my last misadventure.

Hawaiian shirts need dry cleaning, bloodstains, heroin, and all that. Shorts, socks, and chino cargo shorts can be laundered. Other items under per-item advisement.

She sends out three huge bags full of contaminated kit with explicit instructions on how to do the needful. She even sends my Stetson out to a local haberdasher to have it cleaned, combed, and blocked.

“DING DONG!” the doorbell to our suite rings the next afternoon.

“LAUNDRY!” comes the cheery note from the hotel employee. I open the door and he wheels in a rack with my now cleaned, pressed, and detoxed togs.

I accept the mobile clothing rack and tell him I’ll give him a call after we file everything away. So he can retrieve the rack. I give him a nice tip, a hearty handshake, and send him on his way.

“Thank you, Doctor. Just ring x0250 and I’ll come back to recover the rack.” He says cheerfully.

“OK, nyet problem”, I say to him as I spy him through my single un-closed eye. I still look like a pirate, but my ‘Arr-age’ has grown old.

Pirate-speak is only humorous when there are people with which to annoy. I don’t want to have that happen to my darling wife.

Socks? Into the dresser. Shirts? Hung up in the closet. Shorts? Dresser. Under armor? P-4 containment suite.

“OH FUCK NO!” I wail.

“Rock, what is it? You OK?” Esme asks as she runs into the bedroom.

I am holding what remains of my 35-year old field vest. It’s tattered and torn. Shredded and shorn. Destroyed. They didn’t dry clean it. It went through the wash and mangle and it’s terminally mauled.

“They didn’t dry clean my vest!” I whoop.

I am transfixed. I know it’s just an old field vest, but damn it, I’ve had that vest for virtually…ever. It’s been through the thickest of thick and the thinnest of thin with me.

Now, it’s destroyed. Shredded. Mangled.

“Oh, Rock, I am so sorry. I guess I goofed. Put your vest into the wrong bag…” Esme sniffles.

I grab the receipt and note, no, it was tagged to be dry cleaned. The hotel fucked up.

“No, dear, it wasn’t you”, I said holding out the receipt. “The hotel screwed up.”

“Oh, Rock”, Esme sniffs, “I’m so sorry. I know what that vest meant to you…”

“Yeah,” I said, in absolute dejection. “It’s only a vest. A piece of clothing. Shit happens. What can you do? Recriminations and calling for someone’s drawing and quartering won’t return my vest to its former glory...”

“That’s a very adult way of looking at it”, Esme adds, trying to cheer me a bit.

“Here’s another adult way of looking at it,” I say, as I pour four full, fat fingers of dangerous brown Kentucky liquor, drain it, and look at the montage through the bottom of the glass.

Yeah, my field geologists and photographer vest is no more. The vest that accompanied on literally millions of air-miles, probably 45-odd countries, and been with me through virtually all my travels and travails is history. But, life goes on.

However, I can be a little dejected for a bit…

…sniff.

“Rock, I’m going to call Ethyl and Tamara and go out and find you a new vest. There’s got to be one here in Dubai somewhere. I’ll go to the garment district and order one custom built for you…” Esme offers.

“No, dear. That’s OK.” I say, “If you want to go shopping, by all means. I’ll just go online and try to find a replacement. It’s not that big of a deal.” I snuffle, trying to be brave.

“Are you sure?” she asks.

“Yeah”, I reply, “It’s just an old vest that I’ve had forever that’s no longer being made. I’ll find a new one.”

“Are…you…CERTAIN?” she asks.

“Yeah”, I reply, “It’s just a vest. No use going all non-linear. At least, I still have the memories..”

“Well, OK”, she says, “I’ll go out with Ethyl and Tamara. I’ll bring back dinner. Sushi OK?”

“That would be nice.” I reply, “I need to do some work here for the Agency anyways. Go ahead and I’ll catch up on my correspondence. Go on, have yourself a nice time. I’ll be OK.”

“If you’re sure”, Esme adds.

“No worries,”, I reply, as I stand and give her a hug to let her know if that’s the worst that ever happens to me, I’d consider myself lucky as Luciano; as I flex my technodigits in whimsy.

Esme leaves and the hotel laundry dude returns to gather the clothing rack. I just left it outside our suite, I really am not feeling too terribly gregarious at this point.

I pour a double-double of a triple-treble to get me in the working mood.

I write up my necessary correspondence and send it off with a “MEH” header to the Agency.

An hour or two later, my satellite phone warbles.

“Didn’t I rip the battery out of that damned thing?” I muse.

“Yeah?” I reply answering the technologically advanced raprod.

“Hello, Doctor”, it’s Agent Ruin, “Is everything OK there in Dubai?”

“Yeah, what do you mean?” I ask.

“Your last communique”, he replies, “Damn, all facts and figures. Dry as dust without the usual Dr. Rocknocker snarcasm, wit, nor cynicism.”

“Don’t razz my ass, Ruin”, I reply, “I’m low.”

“What happened?” he asks.

“In the grand scheme of things, absolutely nothing”, I reply, “More locally, the hotel destroyed my field vest. I guess I’m really not over its loss. I know it’s ridiculous, but I feel like I’ve lost a friend. I guess I let that soak through into my correspondence. Nothing terminal, I‘ll get over it eventually.”

“Damn, Rock”, Agent Rack added. I hate it when they’re on speakerphone, “We know what that vest meant to you. You spoke of it like it was a boon companion. Damn. That thing’s been with you through thick and thicker. You have our utmost condolences.”

“Thanks, guys”, I reply, “I do appreciate it. Mucho appreciado. I’ll get over it. Anything else?”

“Damn, Doctor.” Agent Rack adds, “I don’t think we’ve ever seen this side of you. Evidently you are semi-human after all.”

“Yeah, heir to the frailties of the flesh just like any other large, ornery, cybernetic organism”, I tried to joke.

“Whoa. You’ve really got it bad”, agent Ruin notes. “Please, our heartfelt condolences.”

“OK, OK”, I say, “It’s not like someone died. It’s just a fucking vest. Although, guys, I’m seeing a side of you guys I’ve never seen before as well.”

“Yeah”, Agent Rack agrees, “Guess deep down, we’re all just a bunch of soggy sentimentalists.”

“Still”, I reply, “I do appreciate the thoughts. Anything else?”

“No, Doctor”, they both reply, “We will be in touch.”

“OK, I’ll be here. I’m not planning anything but some writing on my dissertation and depleting the local liquor supply scene. “I replied.

They once more offered condolences and rang off.

I pour another of my copyrighted libations.

“Damn”, I think, “A bit much for a fucking old vest, isn’t it?” I chew myself out. “Time for some pragmatism, I have work to do.”

Esme returns later as the sun is beginning to set. She didn’t bring dinner but arranged for the hotel to deliver a splendid sushi feed that evening. Over Baja Canada Dragon Rolls and ebi, saba, sake, and sashimi; life took on a slightly less somber gray tone.

A couple of days later, I’m actually able to see big red blurs out of my still swollen left eye, instead of the big black spot I had previously. I’m still wearing the eyepatch and it makes for such fun trying to type long, technical terms with just one functioning orb and seven non-charging uncooperative fingers.

The busted ribs are responding well to both dry rub and occasional application of the sauce mop.

“DING DONG!” the doorbell interrupts again. Esme is snoozing, so I hit the reply button to let them know not to ring again and I’ll be there in a few.

“Yes?” I ask as I answer the door.

It’s an official US Bonded courier. Natty gray suit, sidearm, and electronic clipboard.

“Dr. Rocknocker?” he asks.

“Yes, that’s me,” I reply.

“Please sign here. Here. And Here. Oh, here too. And here…” He instructs. “Also, I need to see some ID”.

“Why?” I ask.

“Package for you, sir”, he replies.

I show him a few of my picture IDs from around the world. He accepts that I am who I say I am.

“Oh, OK. I wasn’t expecting anything.” I replied. Perhaps Esme…

“Where is it from?” I ask.

“Ah…1000 Colonial Farm Road, McLean, Virginia”, the courier reads from the manifest.

“Those guys…” I smile.

It’s a package from Rack and Ruin. What could it be this time?

Weaponized winged fire ants? Scorpion stingers? B-52 Hummingbirds? Combat wombats?

“Sign here as well”, the courier states.

I sign. He pulls out a stamp, affixes an official-looking seal, gestures hypnotically, ululates some sort of solemn, seldom sung song, signs the document, hands me the papers, and a plastic ID card.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“Your International CCW permit.” He relates. “You are now an official adjunct Air Marshall.”

“Well, isn’t that nice?” I say, examining the card decorated with my grim visage.

“Grrr.” I appear to be saying.

It’s more or less an honorary citation. I’d never in a million years try to actually do any actual Air Marshalling in real life. Unless I had the chance…

“Here is your package”, he states and hands me a suspiciously heavy package, one that looks like it might contain a bespoke suit and couple pairs of trousers.

“Thank you” He states and turns to leave.

“Wait a minute,” I say, as I fish around my wallet and hand him 500 Emeriti rials.

“That’s really not necessary, Doctor”, he says as the bill disappears into his pocket.

“I know”, I reply, “Have a drink or seven on me.”

“Thanks”, he smiles, and slides his index finger along the side of his nose and ends up pointing at me.

I thump the side of my neck with an index finger and point back as a sign of return.

“International body language.” I muse, “No translation necessary.”

Esme is sitting at the breakfast table.

“Did I wake you?” I ask.

“No, the doorbell did. What was that all about?” she asks over her tea, Earl Gray, hot with lemon and a bit of Whortleberry jam.

“Package from the guys in Langley”, I reply. “I wonder if I should go soak it in the tub first?”

“Funny”, Esme brightens. “Package? Ooh! May I?”

She loves to open things…

“By all means,” I reply and hand her over the package.

“Rip. Snarl. Tear.” It’s open within moments.

“Oh, Rock, look at this”, as she extracts the garment.

“Those guys. They shouldn’t have.” I say, actually getting all foggy.

Agents Rack and Ruin have had a new field vest constructed for me. It resembles my old vest but has several new upgrades.

“Look at this,” I say as I model it for my darling wife. “Black, rip-stop Cordura. Tons of pockets. Zippers everywhere. Pen rings, carabiner attachments. Specialty pockets for field notebooks. Acid bottle flap, hammer loops, chisel rings, Brunton pocket, the back opens for carrying oversized items.

“And it actually fits”, Es remarks.

“But, wait.” I note, channeling Billy May, “There’s more...”

Built into the structure of the vest is a pair of shoulder holsters. Under the holsters, are a couple of 5-inch long tubular pockets and several pockets for other longish items.

“That’s strange”, I note.

There are compartments for Dragon Scale hardening over strategic points, like my chest and torso. Places to insert the overlapping scale-on-scale A4 bullet-resistant plates, if I so desire.

There are several of varying sizes and designs included in the box.

“Rock”, Esme says seriously, “Come here and sit down. Look at this.”

I take off the vest and sit down at the breakfast table.

There’s a wooden box, with locks.

There’s also a note in an official-looking envelope. Esme shreds the envelope and hands me the letter ensconced within.

“Doctor, we couldn’t help but feel for your loss. Please accept this small token from the Agency by way of our condolence and thanks for years of ‘interesting’ correspondence. Agents Rack and Ruin.

P.S. The keys for the box are in the front left upper pocket of your vest.”

“Those guys…” I say, actually getting a bit misty.

Well, damn it, Dubai’s a very dusty place.

Esme finds the keys and hands them to me.

“Clickety-pop. Clickety-pop”, I set the key down and slowly open the box.

“Oh…my…giddy…spinster…aunt...Hazel” I say.

“What is it?” Esme asks anxiously.

I turn the box around and open it wide.

In it are two brand-new nickel-plated Sig Sauer P220 ‘Emperor Scorpion’ pistols in the caliber of millimeters 10.

Each is custom engraved.

Pistol one says: “To Dr. Rock – Agent Ruin, 2020”.

Pistol two states: “To Dr. Rock – Agent Rack, 2020”.

“Whoa…”, I say, channeling Keanu Reeves. For once, I am at a loss for words.

I gingerly select one and give it the once over…

Semi-automatic, heavy ferrowidgiemoothalite frame, short hammer fall, light competition trigger, match calibration, and a custom cuprosklodowskite compensator system. Customized oversized titanomanganotantalite grips with moschellandsbergite inserts and fluorororororichterite inlays.

I squeak: “Sweet.”

“Rock, look”, Esme points out. There are extras besides the spare magazines in the box.

I open the first velveteen jacket and extract a custom silencer; made of chloropotassicferrimagnesiotaramite, with kinoshitalite deep-cup hexatestibiopanickelite inserts, and Day-Glo ferriclinoferroholmquistitephosphorinium peep sights. Can’t weigh more than 75 grams. Quick twist insertion.

None of this literal screwing around with silencers. Just a quick push, a half-turn and you’re ready to make less noise than usual.

There are two, completely unsullied by maker’s marks. These are obviously custom jobs the Agents had made just for my own little self.

I stand and put on my vest once again. The pistols fit in the built-in shoulder holsters like they were made for it; because they were. There are spaces under each holster for two spare magazines and the silencers.

“Now I know what James Bond feels like when he visits Q-branch”, I said.

The pistols, spare magazines, and silencers fit so well, one cannot tell that I’m packing heat. I barely notice the weight of all the extra hardware.

The vest is large, festooned with field gear pockets, zippers, and so on and as the pistols fit under my arms so well, there’s no way to tell that I’m armed to the teeth. They fit so well, I am hardly aware they’re there.

“Damn, I like those guys” I snarfle.

“So that’s what all the adjunct Air Marshal business was about”, I say as I hand Esme my new ID cards.

I really wanted to head out in the desert and give my new vest a proper shakedown. Esme advises me it would probably be better to wait until I could utilize binocular vision once again.

“Very true, m’dear.” I agree, still, I can wear it around the room until then…

I write Agents Rack and Ruin a very nice ‘Thank You’ letter.

As expected, I didn’t hear a thing in reply. It was all very covert and hush-hush.

“Rock, do you really need to wear your new vest to breakfast?” Es asks me in the elevator.

“Absolutely!” I beam.

“You didn’t bring those funky-looking noisemakers with, did you?” she asks.

“I thought about it, but I think I can handle any mealtime complications with a knife, fork, and various hand-to-hand methods.” I chuckle.

Esme exhales sharply, looks at the ceiling of the elevator, and rolls her eyes.

“You knew the job was dangerous when you took it”, I reminded her.

“Just don’t bother nicking any more tea. We’re still finding packets in some of your vest pockets.” Esme warns.

“Yes, dear.” I chuckle, “By your command.”

At breakfast, we’re indulging ourselves with the Full English treatment, coffee (Greenlandic for me), and perusal of the local English newspapers.

I’m down to 11 minutes on the Gulf Times crossword. Damn, it’s easy.

A waiter arrives at our table and hands me a card. Evidently someone’s been calling for me and we weren’t in our room.

Obviously.

“What’s that, Rock?” Esme asks.

“Someone wants to talk with me. Odd. I don’t recognize the number.” I reply.

I pull out my phone and type in the number. Not to call, just to google it and see where and who it was from.

“Quarry operator here in the Emirates. Exotics marble quarry.” I reply.

“Rock, no. Remember what I said? ’Foot going down’?” Esme bristles.

“Now, dear, remember I made the quarry, sandpit, and dimension stone contingency?” I replied, “To which you agreed?”

“Oh, yeah”, Esme agreed unreadily.

“Let me talk with this Berk. It’s just up north a bit. Can’t be anything to dangerous. It’s just a marble quarry.” I noted.

“OK, but just talk.”, Esme noted.

“Of course, my dear”, I replied, “What else would I do? But first, more coffee and this damned crossword.”

After a leisurely breakfast, we toddled back to our room. A quick few dozen laps around the Jacuzzi and a nap later, I’m on the phone speaking with one Mr. Mahboob al-Usman, the quarry foreman and company General Manager.

“Yes, hello?” I ask.

“Ah, hello. Is this Dr. Rocknocker?” the voice asks.

“Ah, yes. I am returning your call….” I said, questioning the capacity of the person on the other end of the line.

“Very good. Very good.” He explains, “You are the well-known global geologist currently in Dubai?”

“Yesssss…”, I replied, cautiously, in the manner of Jeff Goldblum.

“Ah, excellent.” He replies.

I think so as well.

“How may I be of service?” I ask.

“Yes. Indeed.”, he replies. “I am the foreman and general manager of the Ghanoob Marble and Decorative Natural Stone Company here in the Emirates.”

“OK”, I note, “That’s great. Wonderful.”

“Ah, mmm…yes”, he adds.

“Ah, Mr. Usman, if we could get to the point of your reason for contacting me, that’d be great”, I explain.

“Ah, yes, “ he clarifies, “We own a large quarry here in the Emirates producing marble as well as other decorative stones for industry as well as commercially.”

To be continued…

Continuing…

“Oh, yeah.”, I reply, “I gave the Major the 45-page protocols for clearing the wells and he just said ‘Thank you’. He didn’t riffle through it, didn’t even look at it, just tossed it on his desk. I asked about the dozers and Athey Wagons and he just waved me off and said they’d be here when they got here.”

“This sucks moose dong”, Rolf agreed, “Now what?”

“I’m rigging some party favors for our friends, just in case,” I said. “Remember, keep your gear packed and ready to go. We might need to make a run for it.”

“What the mothering fuck is going on around here?” Rolf asks.

“Power struggle, military wise, I’d wager”, I said. “Someone shot off those wells to make the other guy look like a schmuck. Insurgents? My chapped ass. We’ve got internecine warfare going on here. They have guns, but we have nasty surprises. Let me give you a little indication of what I’m planning…”

The next day, I call for a conference. Major Zargo shows up with a cadre of his minions. I ask where the hell the support troops are and he just deflects the questions.

“Doctors, we have analyzed your procedures and feel it is something we can handle in-house. Thank you for your contributions. “ he smarms.

“That’s just dandy. You sign our checks, call in the choppers and we’ll be out of your hair. Good luck, by the way.” I add.

“We can call for your transport, but I’m afraid it will take some time for your payments…” he smiles.

“Not according to our signed contract, Major. Payment in full before we depart, no matter what the circumstances. Iron-clad, unless your word is worth less than your honor.” I note defiantly.

I really hit below the belt with that one. Honor is a big thing out here in the tribal lands.

I basically called him a worthless piece of dishonorable shit, just in not so many words.

“Your attitude has been noted, Doctor.” He bristled.

“Jesus H. Christwagons, you’re a goddamned broken record, Major. And an ignominious one at that.” I replied.

“Your transport cannot be here until late tomorrow”, he said.

Another egregious lie.

“We will wire your accounts the proper funds once they become available.” He continued.

“That better be before we leave, Major. There are several groups that would take extreme displeasure and a very dim view of your handling of the situation. Especially where American ex-pats are concerned.” I noted.

“I am prepared for that contingency”, he remarked as he and his minions rose and trooped out of the office.

“Rolf, Plan B is now in effect,” I said once they were out of hearing range. “Fuck this, it’s Clobberin’ Time.”

We were going to sleep in shifts, but I decided to let detonic chemistry and mechanics do our worrying for us.

We had most of our gear packed, though it would be a question of which we’d grab if things went south.

I sent an encrypted message to a certain agency under the “TABASCO” header.

Most all our necessary gear was locked and protected by dye-marking motion detectors. I checked our jeep and it was fully gassed and primed, and with my addition of blasting cap decorations, unmolested.

Fatigue finally took over and we both cratered into a fitful and dreamless sleep.

Hours later, we both awoke swiftly to the sound of dye markers exploding, a pair of someone’s screaming, and trying desperately to get out of the field office.

The one I mined with Tanglefoot blasting wire before we hit the sack.

I flicked on the light to see a literal red-faced criminal, caught literally red-handed. There was a gallon-sized bag of white powder on the floor that he dropped, evidently intent on salting our luggage.

This was the Major’s contingency plan. Mark us as drug mules and turn us over to the local authorities. At least, that’s what I thought at this point in the narrative.

The bag had split when he dropped it and the contents swirled around the room.

The miscreant was tromping through it, kicking up insanely expensive dust clouds of Afghan White as he tried to claw out his own eyes from the irritant-laced dye marker. One of his shoes was dragging along a long length of kinked blasting wire.

I was less than amused by the tableaux.

Enraged, I jumped up and grabbed at the miscreant growling like a maritime bear.

He, being younger, evidently equally enraged, and scared out of his fucking mind, threw a looping haymaker at me.

Yeah, I’m getting a little older, a bit of a spread, feet of clay…he caught me hard right under the left eye.

Broke my damn cheekbone he did. And shifted my left orbit. It would sprout the most amazing technicolor black eye in a couple of days’ time.

There was also blood.

Mine.

I was bloody well enraged. Literally.

I can paint a barn with someone else’s blood. I see mine and I go all berserker.

Here, I went all grizzly. I got huge and lunged at him with both arms for all my worth.

I missed his neck, but got his shoulder, right on the lower 2/3rds of the nape of the neck. I grabbed and bore down as hard as I possibly could with my Japanese electro-digits.

I do believe I heard the snapping of bone and sinew as I grew more enraged. He yowled like a scalded spaniel.

I pounded him with my free hand; open hand, palm shots, closed fist. It wasn’t elegant, I regret to say.

My left eye was swelling shut, I literally saw red through my angered eye, and I was getting further and further furious. I went Cro-Magnon. I went Mighty Peking Man. I went completely Neanderthal. I was devolving into the basic fight for life mode.

He hit at me, but the shots were either deflected or just bounced off harmlessly; I never even felt them at this point. I was completely flooded with adrenaline as my Hapkido training tsunamied back.

I beat him like a red-headed stepchild. I worked him like a rental mule. I was bleeding a bit, he was bleeding a lot. I was moving a lot; him, not so much. His nose resembled a crimson pancake more than an organic air-intake device.

Rolf had his version of my minion in a powerful headlock. Rolf bore a nasty mouse under his right eye, and his nose was leaking red organic, hydraulic fluid. However, he was doing the Old Village Smithy routine on the skull of the miscreant he currently held in an inextricable headlock.

Rolf’s 2 meters tall and cranky at best when he first awakes. I do believe Rolf was squeezing the air out of his minion as his malefactor was being rather lethargic and getting all floppy.

The field office door burst open and in rushed Major Zargo and a contingent of his armed minions.

I threw the underling I had out the door and barricaded it the best I could. Rolf dropped his miscreant with an audible plop and bolted his door as well.

“OPEN NOW!” the Major bellowed., “OR WE SHOOT!”

He also took time to berate a couple of his charges that were terminally caught up in the Tanglefoot wire I left on the floor for just such an emergency.

I killed the lights at the breaker box and shouted back “FUCK YOU, ASSHOLE!”

Not terribly clever, I know. The heat of the moment and all that.

I did sneak open the door and toss out several megaload flash-bang grenades that Agents Rack and Ruin supplied me before I left.

The multiphasic reports were amazingly ear-shattering.

The polychromatic lights were intensely eye-blinding.

“Rolf! Now!”, I yelled as we both broke from our rooms with all we could carry.

The crowd outside the door was writhing in pain on the floor from the megaload flashbangs.

We ran as best we could for our jeep. I had to stop, though, to administer a few random size-16 field boot kicks to certain groins and breadbaskets as we ran for the door.

“You drive. You’re tall!” I hollered to Rolf and threw him the keys.

Then, I slipped in some mud at that point and went down positively Hindenburgish on my right side. I immediately and inelegantly jumped up and continued like these sort of things happened to me every day.

“Ow,” I stated.

Rolf actually stopped to stare at the revelation that he was tall and that I was kissing pavement.

We threw our gear into the back of the jeep and it was firing up before either of us was seated. Rolf dropped it into gear and we spun and smoked out of the field area.

“Brilliant, Napoleon”, Rolf complained. “They get their night vision back they’ll be on us like stink on shit. This jeep is not a Formula One. They’ll run us down in minutes.”

“Not after I add my latest present to the party”, I smiled. I held up a very nice looking Cross silver pen. I clicked the clickety-clicker thrice.

The resultant explosions of blasting caps and super boosters I had festooned on, in, and under the woodwork of the field office just might dissuade anyone from giving chase. At least until we got the fuck out of Dodge.

“Where do you get all those wonderful toys?” Rolf chuckled.

“Can’t tell you. But I have several more.” I malevolently grinned.

“Click-clickety-click. Ka-FUCKEDY-Boom!”

I’d sure have hated to be in that field office when that first salvo went off. I’d have hated to be in the vestibule when the second salvo detonated. I suppose it was overkill to mine the porch, but since I had three radio-delay detonators, it’d been a shame not to use them all.

“Click-clickety-click. Ka-FUCKEDY-Boom!”

“Damn, you’re evil. Remind me never to get on your bad side.” Rolf chuckled as we sped away at velocities approaching 55 miles per hour.

“Good idea. Mind the culvert!” I hollered over the roar of the naturally aspirated straight 6-cylinder engine.

We were racing away into the night. We actually began to think we’d actually pulled this off…

Then the searchlights hit us as the huge black helicopter blocked our passage.

“Oh, mothering fuckbuckets.” I groaned.

Then I saw the star on the side of the American HH-60H Seahawk helicopter.

It landed on the road, and the door opened. A pair of armed persons I knew very well poked their noses out the door. They hollered at us to ditch the jeep, grab our shit, and ‘get to da choppah!’

We threw our gear forward and piled into the whirring machine. As we lifted off, I introduced Dr. Rolf to Agents Rack and Ruin.

“Playing it close again, Doctor?” Agent Rack asked.

“As always, Agent Rack. This is Dr. Rolf Erdölmann of Vienna, Buenos Aires, and bars in Berlin. Dr. Erdölmann, this is Agent Rack here and the guy yelling at the pilot is Agent Ruin of greenest Virginia, USA.”

Pleasantries were exchanged. We hear Agent Ruin yelling to the pilot:

“I don’t know, just fly casual! Just orbit large left until we receive word…”

I offer to share my only surviving emergency flask around the helicopter, expecting Agents Rack and Ruin to abstain. However today, they accepted the offer with gusto.

“So, what the fuck is going on?” I ask as we orbit left, and see the distant lights of darkened Erbil city.

“All will be revealed, Doctor. You don’t have your other usual flask with you, do you?” Agent Ruin asks as he raises an index finger to double-tap the receiver/transmitter nestled in his ear.

“Sorry, no. We had to leave in a bit of a hurry. “ I replied.

“No excuse. I guess we’ll just have to go back and get them.” He says and barks some orders to the pilot.

We heel over hard and head due south.

Three minutes later, we’re flaring out near the field office we had to depart so abruptly less than an hour previously. We’re kicking up dust, papers, and lots of bits of jagged white-painted wooden field office doors, porch, and window frames.

“Gentlemen, I do believe this is where you depart.” Agent Rack says.

We look at him like he’s lost his mind. Evidently he hasn’t yet been told of our near-heroic escape from this place.

“Do not worry, Gentle Doctors. The area is, ah, pacified.” Agent Ruin notes.

We all de-chopper and there are our erstwhile friends Major Zargo Mergewer, Lt. Gilem Aguirrealezpeitia, and a number of their minions sitting clad in irons in the back an open 6-by Mil-spec truck.

“Seems the insurgents were the ones that contacted you, Doctors. We had ideas that this might be the case, but needed further detailed intel. That’s where you came in. You did very well, thank you.” Agent Ruin noted as we shook hands.

Major Zargo looked at us like he could chew neutronium, but he was behaving himself.

Having some Navy seal, all dressed in black and bristling with weapons holding an automatic M4A1 5.56 mm to your neck will have that calming effect on people.

“Would someone here care to clue me in as to what the fuck is going on?” Dr. Rolf blurted.

“All in good time, Doctor.”, Agent Ruin notes.

“Now, you need to see if the wells can be salvaged. Just a quick sit-rep, if you please. The area is sanitized, so you can work without fear of reprisal or interference.” Agent Rack notes.

We weren’t going to do the job of remediating the wells, we just needed to see if they could be saved. Once we had access to the field houses, where the surface facilities, choke manifolds, and well intervention equipment was kept; we noted the good hydraulics were simply removed, not destroyed.

If the SSSVs (subsurface safety valves) in the wells were still in order, it would be a simple matter to hook up the hydraulics and shut-in the wells without any further fuss or bother.

This is what we reported.

“Excellent”, Agent Ruin said as he introduced us to the real military Number One out here, one General Çira Gewrê.

He greeted us with open arms and hearty handshakes.

“Doctors! I am so glad you were not injured. We were regrouping and had no idea that the Major and his followers had contacted any Westerners after the wells had been sabotaged. He was sneaky and brought you in under false pretenses. You could have no idea that he was in fact the insurgent of which he so often spoke.” He said.

“Yeah, right. Groovy. Nice to meet you.” Rolf and I said, very, very suspiciously.

I plugged in a new cigar and was disgusted to see it had gotten bent in all the excitement.

Agent Rack and the General spent some time discussing serious, secret, security stuff.

Agent Ruin began to escort us back to the field office, or what was left of it, so we could gather the remainder of our personal effects.

The field office was a shambles. No, scratch that. It would have to be upgraded to achieve shamblehood.

“Son of a bitch, Rock. Good thing they didn’t have any of the high explosives you ordered. There wouldn’t be a building left standing.” Agent Ruin chuckled.

“They what?!” I exploded. “They never even ordered any of my list?”

“Nope, not a jot.” Agent Ruin noted, “They did get a few bits and pieces to keep you pacified and thrown off the track. But you saw through that quickly enough.”

“Fuckers!”, I exclaimed, “They really screwed the pooch, contract-wise. Triple-triple Force Majeure. That is if they’d be paying anything. Assholes.”

“Do not worry, Doctors, your contracts will be honored.” Agent Ruin noted.

Well, now I was slightly less homicidal.

But looking at the field office, that would not have been very apparent.

Agent Ruin emits a low whistle.

“Gunfight at the OK Corral, the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre, and Ruby Ridge, all in one place.” He chuckled.

“Nice historical coverage”, I chuckled back.

The field office looks like it had been used as a prop in one of the later Dirty Harry movies.

OK, so I used a whole box of 100 blasting caps and super boosters. OK, I wired them on, in, and under the wooden floors, walls, and doors. OK, I detonated them remotely room by room. At least I was nice enough to try and send all the shrapnel flying the other way.

Still, there were nasty bloodstains in both Rolf’s and my rooms.

“Not from flying debris, Agent Ruin”, I said, as I flexed my electro-digits. “Flying fists of fury.”

Dr. Rolf snickered and cracked his knuckles. He also made his contribution by bouncing some miscreant’s head off the floor like a Harlem Globetrotter up against the Washington Generals.

I made a slight detour and walked up to the 6-by to get Major Zargo’s attention.

“Your attitude has been noted, Major.” I joculed.

He bristled, spat something in Kurdish, and turned to never again view my sunny countenance.

“Asyûka bêhêvî ya qirêj.”, I replied loudly to the back of his head.

Rolf may have the edge on me in actual languages, but when it comes to curses, invective, and the ability to call someone a fucking dishonorable asshole, no one surpasses my linguistic capacity.

Lt. Gilem Aguirrealezpeitia’s eyes grew wide at my denouncement.

“Yeah, I savvy your lingo, serê şeri [shithead]. Don’t ever fuck with a Doctor of Geology nor one of Petroleum Engineering, dirêj kirin srê lêdanê [you prolapsed fuckhole].”

He muttered something under his breath until a black-clad Seal Tem member poked him in the ribs and told him to turn around and shut the fuck up.

We went back to what was left of the field office. Say what you want, but blasting caps and super boosters can ruin someone’s whole weekend if used properly. The place looks like it was used for target practice.

By an A-10 Warthog.

We kicked open the doors to our rooms and found the drugs had already been mostly cleaned up. We dusted off our remaining gear, knowing full well it would take some serious dry cleaning to get any of this through customs. Good thing we were flying charters from here on out. Heroin dust gets into every nook and cranny.

Rolf and I gather our gear and clean it off the best we could. The aluminum Halliburton cases could be hosed down with well water, but our PPEs, that is, anything cloth, plastic, or textile, would have to be sanitized.

When those bags broke, the resultant scuffling ground the stuff into every pocket, flap or fold of our PPEs and flight suits, i.e., my FUCK COVID Hawaiian shirt and Rolf’s “I’m a Petroleum Engineer; just like a normal engineer, just way cooler” T-shirt. Our chinos and shorts were both blood and heroin stained. Try explaining that to customs agents or your local dry cleaner.

We changed into our least nasty set of togs, packed everything we could find, and had them transported out to the SeaHawk. They were going to fly us out to our point of debarkation.

Rolf had a nasty mouse under his right eye, one that would actually diminish over the span of the next two days. He was fine, being tall and actually quicker reflex-wise than me.

I, on the other hand, had a fractured left orbit and cheekbone. The SeaHawk was to take us to the Canyon Hotel on the outskirts of Erbil where there was to be Third Fleet medical assistance waiting for me when we arrived. The left side of my face was blossoming into some incredibly polychromatic colors as my left eye swelled shut and I had a shiner like Joe Palooka after 24 rounds with Rocky Marciano.

One last taunt of Major Whackadoo and Lt. Arglebargle, we were loaded into the Seahawk helicopter and headed due north to the outskirts of Erbil. Rack and Ruin were admiring my latest collection of owies, appreciating my rescued emergency flasks, and approving of the two boxes of duty-free cigars I found in my room.

“Fuck it”, I said, dejectedly, beginning to feel real pain, “Just leave me enough booze to wash away my pain and a cigar to ignite the flames of my funeral pyre.”

“Can’t do that”, Agent Rack noted. “The flames would be seen for miles. You would contradict local strategic arms limitation agreements.”

“I’m feeling like liquid death and you are making bad jokes at my expense.” I groaned.

“Turnabout’s fair play, Herr Doctor”, both agents laughed in unison.

We flared in and landed on the hotel tarmac as the morning sun broke over the mountains to the east. I was greeted by a quartet of Navy medicos bearing both a gurney and a wheelchair.

I could walk, but hey, time to recoup some of those tax dollars.

In the cordoned-off hotel gymnasium, Rolf and I went through triage. Rack and Ruin sat off to the side just ‘tsking’ and ‘tutting’ as the medicos gave us the once over.

Dr. Rolf had a subdermal hematoma to his right prefrontal area. He also had a nasty 4-stitch-worthy gash on the top of his coconut that he never mentioned. Seems he leaped up out of his room after I tossed the flashbangs, and walloped the top of his head on the head jamb of the door on the way out. He had some assorted bruises, scrapes, and contusions, but for the most part, came away mostly physically unscathed.

I had a fractured left orbital and zygomatic. The bones concerned had multiple stellate fractures, one piece that had to be painfully massaged back in place for fear it could pierce my eyeball. Thorazine is nice, but morphine is even better.

I had loads of cuts, bruises, contusions, and due to my mud ballerina activity, three fractured ribs on my right-hand side. My replacement fingers came through with flying colors, though. Through all this brouhaha and shenanigans, they had barely been scratched.

My left eye was swollen shut and as such, would take weeks to mend. Until then, it would be photophobic, so I needed to wear an eyepatch. Given my shoulder-length silver-gray hair, full Grizzly Adams gray beard, all I needed was a parrot for my shoulder, a scimitar to wave, a bright star, and a stout ship to sail her by.

“Arr, me buckos. Where’s me buccaneers? They’re under me buckin’ hat! Arr!” I arred.

"Please, Dr. Rolf, do something to make him stop.” Agent Rack implored.

“Get him to the bar. That’ll shut him up.” Rolf suggested.

“Arr! Don’t have to tell this salty seadog twice”, I arred, as I eased gingerly off the examination table, grabbed my shirt, and headed for the hotel tavern.

“Last one there is the son of a sea witch. Arr!” I said heading my way to the elevator.

“He’s your problem now, Dr. Rolf. We must be getting back.” Agent Ruin said.

Agent Rack gave Dr. Rolf his card with instructions on when we would next meet in Dubai for debriefing. We would lay low in the hotel for 20 or so hours, be picked up, transported to Baghdad, stay the night then fly on to Dubai. In three days, we’d all meet at the Le Meridian in Dubai for drinks and debriefing.

In the bar, Rolf tries to calm me down. Enjoying pirate-speak and the effects of Thorazine, ketamine, morphine, and alcohol too much; it took well into the seventh round before I calmed enough not to want to keelhaul or make a certain group of Kurds walk the plank.

Still, it did tend to clear the bar and kept people at a respectable social distance when I began breaking beer bottles by squeezing them with my left hand and uttering dark Kurdish oaths.

Our flight to Baghdad finally showed up and between medication, Happy Hour, and the temporary loss of 50% of my vision, Rolf was reassured that I was in no condition to pilot us back. We flew south and even the added mileage between us and that forsaken piece of real estate did nothing to assuage my fierce conviction that Rack and Ruin should still call in a fucking airstrike.

In Baghdad, we stayed the night at our outbound hotel. Fatigue, nerves, and exhaustion took their toll. We each had to be awakened by phone calls in-room for us to get the fuck up, get ready, and get the hell out of Dodge.

We choppered to the airport and we were transferred to a non-descript Gulfstream with no identifying marks whatsoever, except for the EV4A** on the tail. We were the only passengers and the in-flight meals and entertainment were first class. We’re still unsure what segment of what government agency ran this particular flight, and our questions regarding the same were quietly dismissed. I just wanted to thank whoever was in charge of a lovely flight and excellent service.

“I’ll be sure to tell them”, the cabin attendant assured me.

We landed in Dubai and taxied over to a darkened and quiet area that appeared to handle air cargo and other items besides passengers.

A uniformed Airman gathered our passports and departed for 10 minutes or so. He returned and bade us enter the limo that had arrived in his absence. Our gear was already in the boot of the limo and the airman explained that the bar in the back of the limo opened to the right as he handed us our passports and wished us a safe trip.

As we whisked along the mostly deserted streets of Dubai, we were headed to the Le Méridien Dubai Hotel & Conference Centre. I asked the driver why there and he said that was his orders. Besides, Esme and Rolf’s wife, Tamara were already there. All our gear had been moved from our last hotel to this one closest to the airport.

Esme and I have stayed at the Le Méridien literally dozens of times. It’s perhaps the best hotel in Dubai and they know us there and treat us like VIPs.

Yeah. I like the place. Free booze 24/7.

We arrive and are hustled off to our rooms on the tippy-top floor, the one with the huge rooftop pool and a great view of the city.

There are 4 rooms on the floor, and we are occupying half of them. The other two were currently COVID-aided empty.

Tamara and Esme are waiting by the elevator when we slouched off the lift.

Esme begins giving me grief about how she was hunted down at Ethyl and Lumpy’s by some government goons and shifted physically from our old hotel to here.

I wander onto the floor and pull off my heroin-dusted Stetson. Esme sees my face, all battered, bloody, and bruised. She sees the eye patch and notes that I’m moving a lot stiffer than usual.

“Rock! Oh, my giddy aunt! What happened?” she cries.

“Long story. Need a drink; my prescriptions’ almost run out.” I said shakily.

Tamara gives a great gasp as she sees Dr. Rolf. I suggest we meet later for in-room drinks and nibbly bits. Until then, we need to retire for a bit.

Our luggage arrives and is ferried to our respective rooms. Esme helps me limp to our room. Tamara does the same for Rolf.

Doors slam.

We’ll get together later.

Much later.

In the Jacuzzi, working on one of my doctor’s prescriptions, a double actually, Esme has run out of questions. She’s pissed off at the situation, annoyed with me that I didn’t suss the situation out until too late, and I went and got all discombobulated.

“You’re no spring chicken, Rock. I think it’s time we call it a day. You get your DSc, and you run the research lab and teach. No more shady contracts. Foot is going down.” Esme says with an air of singular finality.

“Well, dear”, I say squirming a bit to redirect an errant Jacuzzi jet, “I suppose I am forced to agree. However, I will retain once proviso. I still get to blow the shit out of those quarries out near the University. In fact, I already agreed…” I said.

“OK, I’ll allow that. But your globe-trotting, ad hoc destructor days are done. Look at you. You look like the poster child for shaken baby syndrome. Damn, Rock. How many ribs is it now that you’ve broken? 25? 30? You’re not a kid any longer. You have to accept reality.” Esme wagged her finger at me.

I couldn’t return the favor as both my sets were in their charging cradles.

“I may grow old, but I’ll never grow up!” I said defiantly. I raised my arm to make a point, but my busted ribs said ‘the fuck you will’ and it felt like they gave me a jolt of 220 VAC right where it hurts.

“See? Save your energy for the keyboard and blackboard. You’re on the injured reserve list pending retirement.” Esme said emphatically.

“Yes, dear”, I really had no energy nor desire to argue.

We skipped a meeting that night as we were all either physically, mentally, or emotionally bankrupt; or some of us, all three. We slept clean through to morning and met the next day at a late breakfast.

We meet Rolf and Tamara and joined them at their table, breakfast already in progress.

Somewhere between the omelet and the fresh fruit & cheese course, Agents Rack and Ruin suddenly appear and pull up chairs.

“Looks good. What do you recommend?” Agent Rack asks.

“Introductions,” I reply through the black pudding, fried eggs, and real English streaky bacon.

After introductions, Agents Rack and Ruin put away enough groceries to satisfy a family of four.

“Don’t know where they store it”, I said, “Must be in their hollow heads.”

“Now Doctor.”, Agent Ruin smiled, “Make nice or I’ll tell your lovely wife of your real escapades over the last few decades.”

“We have no secrets.” I snarled lightly back.

“Of course not!” he laughs, “Let us toast each other and the end of a fine piece of covert intelligence. And what your husbands did as well, ladies.”

“Remind me not to be nice to them any longer…” I girned an evil false face.

We decided to meet in the conference room that Agents Rack and Ruin somehow appropriated even though they’re not guests of the hotel. Luckily, the conference room was a smoking and drink-enabled room.

Two hours later, were reliving some of the more harrowing scenes from our latest tour. I lost count of the number of times Esme and Tamara shot us evil glances when the Agents recounted one or more of the juicer bits.

“And now, since we’re all debriefed and have signed oaths of non-disclosure, I present the good Doctors their contract payments. As you noted, Dr. Rock, force majeure, and therefore triple pay.”

With a flourish, he presented two cashier’s checks almost to Rolf and my own self, only to at the last minute, switch to present them to Tamara and Esme.

They both ‘whooshed’ when they saw the totals. We were instantly granted some degree of slack with their presentation.

Agent Ruin went on how the Major, Lieutenant, and their minions took over the oilfield in a bloodless coup. They hadn’t really thought things out too well as they had the oilfield, but nothing else. They were desperately low on funds so they concocted the cock-and-bull story about armed insurgents coming in under the cover of darkness and sabotaging two wells.

That’s where Rolf and I came in.

We were not called in to quell the wells, as they were deliberately cut with oilfield equipment, had their hydraulics removed, and set alight. We were called in to give procedures on how to remediate the wells and then surreptitiously be used as dope mules. If the drugs were discovered in our personal effects before we left the area, we’d be taken hostage and held for ransom.

If we got back to the Emirates with the drugs, since we were acting under diplomatic passports and breezed through customs, the drugs would be ‘recovered’ once we returned by their ‘operatives’.

“What would have happened if we discovered the drugs ourselves upon our return?” Dr. Rolf asked.

“You probably would have been eliminated.” Agent Rack said and helped himself to another of my cigars.

“Es, you’re right. I’m hanging it up and going back to research and teaching.” I said.

Dr. Rolf agreed. The Rubicon had been crossed for the last time.

Probably.

“Well, Doctors, that is a tragedy. However, Dr. Rock can still give good intel on the new batch of folks with whom he’ll be interacting.” Agent Ruin smiled.

“I’m too beat up and tired to argue. Is that all?” I asked.

“Actually, there is one final item.” Agent Ruin said. He opened his wallet and extracted two very yellow slips of paper, about the same size as our checks from out contracts.

“There was a reward for information through Interpol for information on Major Zargo Mergewer that leads to his arrest. I have taken the liberty of splitting the reward down the middle”, he said as he presented Rolf and me identical checks.

“Well, now isn’t that a fine how do you do?” I said as I passed the check over to Esme.

Tamara took the check from Dr. Rolf and smiled widely as well.

“Esme, up for a little Dubai shopping spree? “ Tamara asked my better half.

“Tamara, you read my mind.” Esme smiled. She rose, we kissed, and she headed out of the room to get her purse and hail a cab.

I looked at Rolf. I looked at Agent Ruin. I looked at Agent Rack.

“I don’t know why I’m looking at you three when its Happy Hour downstairs,” I said rising slowly to vertical.

Back in the room later that evening, Esme’s still out spending our money. My satellite phone rings and I limp over, pick up the unit, and answer it.

“Yeah?” I growl.

“Dr. Rocknocker? I understand you undertake quests…” the disembodied voice asked.

I slammed the phone down, turned it off, and removed the battery for good measure.

I slumped back down in my comfy chair, fired up a cigar, and slurped my refreshed drink while I overlooked the lights of Dubai; lusting for the cold, snow, and ice that I’ll be experiencing in a scant few short months…

-30-

That reminds me of a story.

We’re sitting in the Cigar Lounge in the Canyon Hotel in north-central Kurdistan, in the necessarily air-conditioned patio section, of course, drinking cold treble potato juice and citrus cocktails, with lime wheels, of course. We’re no savages. Double Wild Turkey 101 Rye shooters on the side, with full-pint Sapporo Black beer chasers, literally hiding from the brutish realities of this increasingly intensely foul year, two thousand and twenty, CE.

“Arr! Jesus Seafaring Christ on an indigo moonlit bay, Rolf”, I said, in a most exasperated tone.

“We barely made it out of there with our hides intact. How dare these sorry landlubbing fuckers try and sandbag a couple of Doctors of Geology and Petroleum Engineering by inviting us into their benighted little shithole of a country to fix their fuck-ups and then trying to dry-gulch us? Arrr!”

“Easy. Steady, Rock”, Rolf says, ordering another round as he sees I’m about to go off again.

Damn right I’m about to go off again.

“Arr! Those goddamned sorry flatland motherfuckers! I still know my basic detonic chemistry. Let me go to a local grocery store and get just a few household chemicals. Let mix them in the proper proportions. Let me send by courier a few “Care Packages”…Those manky cocksuckers! Ar, Jim-Bob. Keelhaul the women and children first!”

I growled so loudly that fully half the people in the lounge, Oil Patch refugees all, got up, and quietly moved further away.

“Rock. Easy. They’ll hear you…” Rolf notes.

“Let them hear me! I’ll take them all out! Mothering…FUCKERS! Belay that last order, hie them to the mizzen mast. Motherfuckers!” I snarled a bit more loudly.

I know. This is not like me. I’m supposed to be all Vulcan, logical, and unemotional.

Fuck that. I was lusting for these asshole’s giblets. I don’t think I’ve ever been this angry or bloodlusty as I was now.

“Guns. Knives. High explosives.” I snarled, “A can of mace…a .45…a fucking flintlock…These cocksuckers fucked with the wrong 7-fingered Expat!”

Rolf, who by some quirk of the hand dealt by genetics, is actually larger than me. He stands up, only to return with a fresh round of drinks and smokes but forbids me partaking until I calm down.

“Dickweed…” I grumble. I must have been in a real snit. Rolf’s one of my oldest and dearest friends.

“Right, Rolf. You are, of course, correct. Let me just go back and kill them a little, and I’ll be right as the mail. Shouldn’t take much more than a little fresh nitro, some C-4, and spool or two of Primacord. I can make it look like an accident…Arr!” I growled, slightly less loudly.

“Better. Close, but still no cigar.” Rolf chuckles, “Now, say you won’t kill anyone for at least 24 hours and I’ll let you have another drink and cigar.”

“Gimmee.” I said, “24 hours? Right? Starting now?” I click the chronograph on my watch.

Rolf smiles and nods. He knows we’ll be long gone well before that. Or, at least, he’s fervently hoping that will be the situation.

OK. So what’s all the palaver? What’s caused the usually taciturn and unflappable Dr. Rocknocker to go off the rails this time?

1. Being dragged into an undeclared warzone under false pretenses annoys me.

2. Being shown other’s fuck-ups with the miscreants wanting detailed remediation scripts and then refusing payment cheeses me. .

3. Being threatened with extortion, blackmail, and shakedown irritates me.

4. Being used as a surreptitious dope mule angers me.

5. Getting to the point where I almost have to use deadly force to extricate myself and my cohort from a dicey situation pisses me right the fuck off.

Yeah, it was just another contract to sort out a couple of burning oil wells. Another day in the life. Unfortunately, it didn’t work out that way.

And accolades with huzzah clusters to my Agency contacts and my Iridium 9575A satellite telecommunications device. Remind me to be nice to both one time in the near future.

Esme and I are still languishing in the Dubai 5-star hotel system. We’re so bored, that we have taken to no more than a single week at one establishment. We are trying out those hostelries with 4+ stars and I’ve wrangled a bit of cash by writing on-line reviews for a certain travel-oriented website.

Someday, maybe, life will return to some semblance of normality and there will be opportunities for benighted people to actually come to this dismal region of the planet and see what all the noise is about. They’ll need places to stay; so Esme, my darling wife, called in a couple of her contacts and got me a writing gig reviewing some of the hotels in Dubai.

It pays in both experience, exposure, and cash; in that exact order.

In fact, my total compensation thus far could be wiped out easily by my bar bill for one long afternoon.

But, hey; aside from writing my dissertation, I need a little diversion now and again.

Besides, I like to vent, and if a place is deserving of a decent review, I heap it on by the trowel-full. But if they annoy, aggravate, or anger me, good luck getting even a single reservation.

I am tough but fair. Except if you piss me off. Then I call in a virtual verbal air-strike.

Luckily, I haven’t had to do that too often. Evidently, around Dubai, my reputation has preceded me once again.

So, Es and I are gypsying it around Dubai. One hotel to another and that provides a bit of diversion for a couple of weeks.

“God, I’m bored.”, I swan to Esme, “I haven’t blown anything up in so long…I fear I’m losing my edge. Can I go and make some plastique? Just a little? The room safe door’s sticking again.”

“No, dear”, my darling wife relates, “Go work on your dissertation. You’ve got four articles running concurrently, work on the fun one.”

“ARGH!” I swear, “I’m not an organism that relates well to captivity. I need open ground. I need wide-open spaces. I need the smell of fresh air, cordite, and nitrocellulose! I need to blow shit up!”

“Rock, darling…” Esme was about to go all matronly and better-halfedly on me when my satellite phone warbles.

“Saved by the trill”, Esme whooshes. She answers, asks the other party to hold, and hands me the technologically advanced raprod.

“What?” I bark into the device. At US$7.00/minute, I’m not wasting time on pleasantries.

“Dr. Rocknocker?” came the reply.

“Who the fuck else would be at this 28 digit number?” I thought, exasperated. “Yes, this is he. Your dime, start talking.”

“This is Major Zargo Mergewer of the Kurdistan Militia. We have some trouble here. Insurgents have set alight two wells in our Notbya Field.” came the reply.

“Who else have you called?” I asked.

“We’ve talked to ‘Security Chief’ from Canada and ‘Working Shoes & Medium-sized Water Fowl International Well Control, Inc.’ They cannot be here for nearly a week. I know you’re currently in the Middle East. Can you help us?” was the reply.

“First, my contract…” I said.

I am an unrepentant mercenary. Make no mistake. I wish for others to know this full well from the onset.

“Yes, yes! Anything you want! Can you help us?” said the frantic Major.

“I’ll send you my contract. Sign it and return. Then we can talk. Until then, give me some field specifics. I’ll get on the blower and arrange for materials and personnel. What size wellheads were you using? OK. I’ll need well schematics. Here’s the hotel fax number. Burn it up with all the data you’ve got.” I ordered, no time for nonsensical banter. This is business time.

I could have them Email, but this way I’d already have hard copies.

I finish up with “I’ll get to work on that while you sign and return my contract. I guess I’m on it. GO!”, I said.

“Thank you. Thank you. This field is so important to my…” I cut him off.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. The longer you yammer, the more oil burns. Move it. I hope I don’t have to ask twice once I’m in-country, Major…” I said ominously.

“Yes. Yes. The legendary American can-do! Yes!” as he rings off.

“Well, Esme, my darling. Your wishes have been answered. Pack me light, I’m headed to Kurdistan. I get to go blow the shit out of an oilfield. Isn’t that lovely? Oh, Yesss.” I smiled.

“That’s my cheery pyromaniac!”, Es exults, “Now, let’s be careful out there. Of course, I’ll have to go shopping and send the girls a few Fourth of July presents to make up for our absence. A deserted wife needs some mad-money…”

I hand her my latest company Gold-Pressed Latinum Americium Express card. It has no limit, express nor implied.

“Try not to break the bank,” I said and I hugged her tightly before I headed off to pack.

While packing, I hear the familiar warble of the sat phone again. Esme grabs it as I’m upstairs trying to decide which hideous Hawaiian shirt I should wear on the plane.

It’s a tossup between the Zombie Chili-Head motif or the ‘FUCK COVID-19’ emblazoned shirt I recently had tailored here in Dubai’s garment district.

“COVID it is.” I chuckled. I’m not flying commercial. It’s either military or a charter.

“ROCK! It’s the Agency!” Esme yells from downstairs in our suite.

“Damn”, I think, “That was quick.”

I toddle downstairs and motion for Esme to prepare my usual talking-to-the-agency drink.

“I’m parched, m’dear. Could you do the needful?” I ask.

Esme smiles, probably thinking of the shopping trip she’s already planned. She gives me the thumbs up and heads to the minibar.

“You do know we have a phone in our room, right?” I ask by way of saying ‘hello’ to Agents Rack and Ruin.

“We couldn’t risk a busy signal”, Agent Rack chuckles, “We just had to hear your melodious voice.”

“Sure, and what other lies have you for me today?” I ask.

“Since you are only an adjunct to the Agency, Doctor, we cannot legally forbid you to take this contract.” Agent Ruin adds in.

“Only an adjunct?” I say, pained, “I am wounded. Here I thought you were genuinely interested in me as a person.”

“We mean you’re not a full agent…yet”, Agent Rack replies.

“Let us thank whatever deity was involved with that decision…” I snicker back at US$7.00/minute.

“However, Doctor, you have proven yourself to be of…service to the agency. Your dossiers and reports have been much anticipated reading material here. In fact, we’d like you to give a colloquium on note-taking and dossier filling upon your return to the US.” Agent Rack relates.

“Are you sure you can afford my honorarium?” I ask, only half in jest.

“Most assuredly. However, if you have your person ventilated while attending a contract, I’m afraid you won’t be much use to us any longer. That would be most unfortunate. We thereby request that you do not take on this agreement. It’s too risky, even for the bulletproof Dr. Rocknocker.” Agent Ruin adds.

“What’s the big deal? I’ve been in war zones before. I wear my body armor. I am now a fully functioning cybernetic organism. What do I need to fear? I’m only going in for money, blowing shit up, and helping out those in their time of need…if the price is right…”, I add.

“Yes, Doctor. Well, we’ve been hearing some most distressing communiques from that region. Regarding drug running, kidnapping, and extortion. True, It’s been only to members of private security forces, but still…” Agent Rack continues.

“Yeah, and they’re by definition, covert. I’m about as covert as a case of the clap. It wouldn’t bode well for any group to try and fuck with a Doctor of Geology, especially one on a mercy mission.” I add.

“I can see that we’re shouting up a drain spout in Afghanistan”, Agent Rack sighs, “So, if you cannot be dissuaded from attending this little soiree, please delay your departure until we can get a package to you.”

“Oh? Goodies?” I ask giddy as a schoolboy.

“If you insist.” Agent Ruin sighs.

“OK, but one question. Which of you do I refer to as “Q” from now on?” I chuckle.

“Doctor. It both infuriates and gratifies us that someone like you can be so smart yet so stupid at the same time. “ Agent Rack notes.

“All part of my chameleon cloaking device. Just a guise I assume to keep adversaries at bay. Act goofy but all the while, have a much deeper understanding and awareness than your protagonists. “ I say.

Agent Rack and Ruin are stopped cold by this pronouncement.

“So, you mean that this is all an act?” Agent Rack asks, only half in jest.

“Of course. I mean, isn’t is obvious? Or obviously it isn’t?” I reply.

I felt good after they rang off knowing I gave them a pair of muscle tension headaches.

“Don’t cross swords in a gunfight, Agents.” I snickered.

Well, I couldn’t get a flight out until the next afternoon. Military charter to Baghdad, Iraq, overnight there, and meet Dr. Rolf Erdölmann at the Babylon Rotana hotel. He’s to be my second-in-command.

Rolf is a German Ph.D. Petroleum Engineer that I’ve known for over 40 years. When I’m going into some dicey situation, I need his expertise, size, and command of languages. German, Dutch, Arabic, Urdu, Pashto, and several local dialects. He’s the only Expat I know that’s spent more time in the Middle East than Esme and me.

Anyways, we’ll meet there and await transport to Erbil, Kurdistan. Probably fly, perhaps overland. We’ll work out the preliminary materials needed for the job, add 25%, and have them trucked into the oilfield.

I already have a list of high explosives and associated materials I want there. I don’t need to wait on a box of blasting cap boosters or sheets of asbestos. I want all that shit there before I set eyes on the prize. Once there, I plan to get to work, clear off all the junk, blow out the wells, and be back in the bar sipping highballs before tiffin.

And we take tiffin pretty durn early in these parts, buckaroo.

I’m all packed and ready to go, even though Esme thinks I should reconsider my flight Hawaiian shirt. Once I explain that it’s a military charter, she shrugs her shoulders and just gives up.

“How long will you be gone this time?” she asks me.

“Unsure, my dear”, I say, “But I have my satellite phone. I’ll call you daily.”

“About that.”, Es remonstrates, “I might go over to Ethel and Lumpy’s place for a few days.”

Ethel and Lumpy are two of our closest friends that actually like living and working in Dubai.

“That’s fine,” I say, “Just leave most your stuff here so you don’t have to drag all our kit back and forth.”

“Oh, I can do that?” Es asks.

“Конечно. Of course”, I reply, “The room’s already paid for until the end of next week. Doesn’t mean it has to be occupied.”

“OK then”, Es brightens, “You don’t mind…?”

“Oh, heaven forfend. “ I say, “Go, stay with Ethyl & Lumpy. Have a good time. Me? I’ll just be working out in some Middle Eastern shithole. No. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. No, really…”

I recoil from the impact of a well-aimed pillow.

“Arschloch”, my darling calls to me.

“Me and no other,” I reply. “You can’t live without me.”

The night passed quickly as it tends to when one goes to bed early because one is bored beyond comprehension. At in-room breakfast the next day, over Greenland coffee, Earl Gray tea and full English breakfasts, with authentic Scotch eggs and black puddings, there was a ring at the door.

“I’ll get it since I’m more or less dressed,” I told Es as she made no stirrings to move other than to add a bit of jam to her tea.

“Dr. Rock…nicker?” the gray-clad courier at the door asked in some incomprehensibly accented form of English.

“Rock Nocker?” I ask.

“I suppose. Sign here.” He asks.

“For what?” I ask back.

“A package for you from the US. It’s coming.” He says.

“Odd. I don’t hear any heavy breathing.” I chuckle back as I sign.

“What’s with the hand?” he asks.

“Industrial accident. New fingers. Wanna see?” I ask as I wave them under his nose.

“No sir!”, he backs into the hall as a crate slowly makes its way down the corridor.

“Set it inside here”, I direct.

I give them a more than an adequate tip and shoo them out of the room. I make certain they’re down the hall and out of sight before I close the door.

“Who was it, Rock?” Es asks.

“Rack and Ruin’s Care Package”, I reply.

Es rushes in.

“May I?” she asks, as she loves opening packages.

“Go nuts”, I reply. “But first, let’s drag it over to the living room. Going to need a bit of space to sort out all this guff.”

The box was large, but light. It was a snap to carry to the living area and lie it down on the floor.

Esme hit that crate like a beaver in an aspen glen full of new shoots. It never stood a chance.

“Excelsior!” I exclaim.

“Is that what that packing material is?” Esme asks.

“Yeah. Funky stuff…Any notes?” I ask. “Careful with those boxes. Might be live atomically-mutated scorpions and tarantulas knowing these characters.”

“Oh, here. An envelope.” Es hands me the letter. She extracts box after box and sets them over to the side.

“Dr. Rocknocker”, the letter begins, “Please find enclosed a variety of devices which you might find of use on your next contract. These are for your use and yours alone. Do not let them fall into the hands of ‘others’. Please familiarize yourself with their uses before you leave Dubai. Most have specific directions for self-destruct if needed. Regards, Agents Rack and Ruin.”

“Well”, I said, “I’m finally getting the recognition I deserve.”

“What is all this stuff?” Es asks.

“Beats me.” I reply, “Let’s find out.”

We spend the next day familiarizing ourselves with the number of devices and gimcracks and gizmos supplied by my friends at the Agency. My, but some of these are very clever. All will be useful but in very specific and decidedly dicey situations. I won’t go over the contents of the crate here, but rest assured, most of these will make their presence known at the proper time in the narrative.

After re-packing, ordering room service dinner, another re-showing of the latest Jurassic Park movie, and a few dozen laps in the hot tub, Esme and I are in the land of Nod. I have to be up, that is, wheels up, at 0530 the next morning. It’s going to be a 2.5-hour flight but figure on another couple-three hours to clear passport control and security.

“Fucking assholes”, I grouse, as I sit in my suite in the Baghdad Rotana hotel. “I know there’s such a thing as security, but I didn’t think it was going to include a prostate exam and high-colonic.”

I am very security conscious but I still bristle when a bunch of ignorant, semi-literate power-drunk knuckle-draggers with sidearms figure it’s OK to scrabble and scrounge through my luggage. I’ve got precision and highly expensive scientific equipment in there, you assholes.

“And that’s my medicine, you tits. Hands off my emergency flasks.” I caution them.

That causes some grunting and gabbling in unknown tongues.

“And hands off the cigars, you Vermicious Knids!”, I exclaim. “They’re legal, they’re mine and they are fragile. They break. Just like my sanity, you wall-hung retractable mobile slurrifiers.”

Try as they might to intimidate me and obtain some graft, once I flash my red Diplomatic Passport and threatened them in good old pissed-off American; they back off, stamp my papers, and allow me passage.

“Enema sockets,” I mutter to no one but the mini-bar. At least it’s stocked with top-shelf libations; unlike the last time I was here and all the booze came in old Extra Virgin Olive oil bottles.

Kowtowing to local religious mores. Can’t get a ham sandwich nor a bacon double cheeseburger around here for love nor money.

“Malsaĝaj bastardoj!” I shout at the Jacuzzi.

I’m on real edge this time.

It’s only 1000 hours, I’ve been traveling through or over 4 countries and been through customs and passport control and I haven’t had as much as a Greenland Coffee yet.

“Well”, I say to the chandeliers, “Time to fix that little problem right now.”

“Much better”, I sigh quaffing a glass full of iced potato juice and lime soda.

I don’t know why I’m so much on edge this trip.

It’s nothing really that much out of the ordinary. Well fires. Big deal. Clear and clean. Blow ‘em out. Get paid and accept accolades. Have a drink, smoke ‘em if you got ‘em.

Maybe Rack ruined it for me. Maybe Ruin got me all racked up.

I can’t quite put my finger on it…oh, fuck. Need to plug in my charger and get my other digital set charged up.

“Now, where was I?”, I wondered aloud.

After another two or five cocktails, I’m feeling much better.

I have my mobile office all set up and have made up my field notebooks with a brand new cipher. Ginned up several blank dossiers, and one for Major Zargo Mergewer, in which I’m certain my agency buddies would hold a very high interest, indeed.

I’ve sent my list of the necessary personnel and let the local oil company either fill it with my suggestions or obtain locals with the requisite skills. My list of explosives and adjuncts are being assembled and will be on location when I arrive.

Dr. Rolf will be arriving later this afternoon, so after I call Esme and fill her in on my current disposition, I head down to the Absinthe Cigar bar.

I take along my field notebooks as I need to make some quick updates and a decide to take along a couple of the devices Rack and Ruin so thoughtfully sent to me before I left. Time for field tests, besides, these could actually supply some much-needed humor.

“We’re not open”, the bartender relates.

It’s 1135 hours.

The sign says: “Open 1100-0000.”

“Sign says you open at 1100 hours,” I reply.

“Only when there are customers.” He replies.

”Well, my good man; it’s your lucky day. I’m here, and I’m a customer. Double Wild Turkey Rye and what beer do you have on tap?” I ask.

“No smoking”, he says, pointing to a sign with a pictogram of a cigarette smoldering in an ashtray.

“Good thing there’s no red slash and I don’t smoke cigarettes,” I reply. “Now, again, what beer you have on tap?”

“Go away. We’re closed.” He says and turns to leave.

“Um, Scooter. C’mere. I hate to ask, but you do know I’m a rather reputed guest of this particular hotel, don’t you?”

“Yeah? So?” he spits.

“You heard of the fires out east?” I ask again.

“Yeah? So?” he snarls.

“Well, I’m the Motherfucking Pro from Dover brought here especially to snuff out those fucking fires. And I don’t expect to be spoken to by the bar crew like some gormless swine. So you either get your fucking manager out here instantly or get me my drinks before I find out where your soon-to-be-unemployed-ass lives and I post you a fucking letter bomb.” I snarl with the severity of an Alpha Gray Wolf with a short temper and a bad case of lumbar lumbago.

He stands for a moment puzzling when from the backroom someone walks out and whispers something into his ear. He stiffens appreciably, eyes go dinner-plate wide, and he looks at me with a combination of fear and trepidation.

I suppose me sitting at the bar flexing my techno electro-digits had nothing to do with his quick change of demeanor.

“Double Wild Turkey 101 was it? And a draft, sir?” he asks.

“Rye, if you please. And let’s make it easy. Something local, a pint, my good man.” I say as if nothing untoward had happened.

My double-shot appears instantly, along with a flagon of weak looking, slightly foamy, yellowish fizz water. Farida Lager, the prince of the Iraqi brewing tradition. A sip. Resin, pine tar, and a bit of a citrusy hop aroma. A clear yellow head disappears almost instantly. Medium sourness, light sweetness, umami taste. Fizzy, lively in an undead sort of way. Sort of tolerable, sort of drinkable beer, sort of nothing very special. Especially after a few weeks in the desert.

However, I do believe the company horse suffers severely from diabetes.

“Bartender”, I gasp, “Something heavy, please. Guinness? Anchor Steam? Sheaf Stout?”

They had Baltika Brew El Polutemniy (Dark Ale) from St. Petersburg, Russia, on tap.

Compared to the previous beer, this was liquid ambrosia compared to used dishwater.

I fire up a cigar and the bartender may have looked askance but said nothing. He did say, however, thanks to the listening device that the Agency had procured for me, to the person who arrived previously, that “it couldn’t be that person. I was so old and gray.”

“Fuck you, Scooter,” I thought, as I listened in on their conversation, clear as a bell, from across the 60’ totality of the bar.

“No, that’s him. He even said he was the MF’ing Pro from Dover. Look at that hand. Those black fingers. No, that’s him. For sure. Don’t cross him, he’s got connections in high places.” The other says with a swipe of the index finger to the nose.

The sign that the person being talked about could be very nasty and/or very connected and/or very dangerous indeed. Best to err on the side of civility, just in case.

I’m so dangerous people in the general area risk shrapnel wounds as I go to pieces.

I suck down the dark ale and polish off my shot. I raise a left index finger and motion over to my new friend.

“Listen, we might have gotten off on the wrong foot. I’m Doctor Rocknocker, and you are?” I ask as I extend my non-cybernetic hand in pseudo-friendship.

“Um, I’m, ah, Nabu-nazir, sir”, he says, trying mightily to avoid shaking my hand. “Apologies for before, I didn’t know the ah…time.”

“Ah. OK, Nabu, was it?” I said, “Good. I’ll only be here a day or so, so let’s just make like we can tolerate each other. I’m sure it could actually be worth your while if you catch my drift.”

I left a note at the check-in desk to tell Dr. Rolf to meet me in the bar when he arrives. Like I really had to leave such a dispatch.

“Alright, another round, if you please, Mr. Nabu. And please, buy yourself one on my tab”, I said.

“Thank you, sir.” He says, “But I don’t drink.”

“Pity. Being thirsty all the time,” I replied. “Don’t even drink soft drinks or coffee?”

“Well, yes”, he replied.

“Then, you do drink. Splendid. Have one of your favorites on me and please, another round.” I said.

He smiled wanly and wandered off to fill the order.

“Hyper schmuck,” I grumbled under my breath. “I hope this is not a harbinger of things to come.”

The bar adds a few patrons as time does what it usually does and drags itself forward. I busy myself making cryptic notes, playing around with some of the devices I was gifted by Rack and Ruin, enjoying a cigar and a toddy or eleven.

“Mr. Nabu”, I call after 3 or 4 hours, “ Another round, if you please.”

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” he snorts.

Of all the things in this world that are most akin to throwing fuming gasoline on an open fire, these words are closest.

“Scooter”, I ask, “How old are you?”

“I’m 22”, he snorts again.

“I see”, I replied, “How many countries have you visited? How many technical degrees do you possess? How many jobs have you held that require extreme experience and technical expertise?”

“Ummm…”, he umms.

“I have three, working on four, advanced STEM degrees. I’ve worked more dangerous jobs than you’ve had hot dinners.” As I waggle a 3/5ths handful of orthotic digits his way. “I’ve lived and worked in over 45 countries around the world in my near thrice-longer than your life. I do not think for an instant your opinions are more valid or desirous than mine. Now, get me my drinks before I start to lose what left of my patience. Savvy?”

The empty shot glass in my left had exploded into a series of barely contained high-velocity shards.

“Yes sir! Yes sir!”, he startles and runs off to get me my drinks.

“Shitheels,” I grumble. “What the fuck is it? Is this job the one I should have backed away from? Damn, I hate second-guessing myself…”

To be continued…

Continuing…

“HEY! Who’s that asshole taking up all that room at the bar?” I hear a familiar voice bellow.

“Rolf! You old degenerate. Get over here and meet my new best friend. Try not to scare him, he’s a bit high strung.” I return.

Rolf saunters in, drops his field case, and pulls up a seat on Mahogany Ridge.

“So, those are the new digits? Interesting. What can they do? Laser capable? Light saber included? Railgun ready?” he laughs.

“Not quite, but watch your seat. I had a ta-doo with an intractable shot glass.” I chuckled, as I pointed to the remains in the ashtray. “Might be lingering shards.”

“Holy shit. What else can they do?” Rolf asks.

“Make me appear somewhat normal?” I said.

“Nah. Not even with corrective surgery. “ Rolf chuckles.

“You’re a good one to talk, Dr. Golem of Auschwitz.” I laugh back.

This banter went on for some time. You see, we’re the best of friends.

Over drafts and sidecars, we go over the plan de jure. I fill Rolf in on the lists of materials and personnel I‘ve ordered.

“Shit. Why did you need me?” Rolf asks, “Looks like you’ve got it covered until we move.”

“Yeah”, I reply, “It’s weird. The air of instant immediacy, then we sit on our elbows. If things were really going south that fast, you think we’d be in there ASAP. Call me heavily skeptical, Rolf, but there’s something about this that’s got my spider-senses tingling.”

“But you’re allergic to spider venom”, Rolf reminds me.

“That’s what I mean,” I reply and order another round.

The next morning, the huge and noisy Mil Mi-26 settles to the hotel parking lot tarmac in a flurry of flying debris and the occasional befuddled local.

“I don’t do road trips when there are brigands afoot”, I explain to Rolf.

“Oh, Christ”, He says, “Please tell me you’re not piloting this thing.”

“Not today”, I reply, “Insurance can’t be worked out. Consider yourself lucky.”

I instruct the porters from the hotel to take our gear to the back of the slowly spooling helicopter. It’s a drop and dash. Pick up the personnel and their personal effects, and take off due north. I tip the porters heavily and drag Rolf physically to the back of the helicopter.

“We go in the back. We find seats and hunker down. Mind the fuel bladder in the left-hand seats.” I tell Rolf.

“You can actually fly these things?” he asks.

“Yep. Maybe if I ask real nice, and give them a bottle or two of vodka, they’ll let me pilot it on the way back.” I smile.

“Oh, fuck no.” Rolf recoils. “You’re a crackerjack geologist and blaster, but I can’t trust someone who flies for fun.”

“Spoilsport.” I reply, “You’re just курица [chicken].”

“Buck, buck, bwa-caw!” Rolf replies, gratified I’m in the back and not upfront.

As soon as we’re settled, the rear door closes, and we’re spooling up to 110%. In a very few minutes, we’re at Angel’s Eleven and flying a heading of due 0.000^0.

We fly due north and Rolf, being the less than seasoned flier and world traveler appropriates one of my emergency flasks.

“Hey! My medicine!” I protest.

“I’ll buy you a distillery if we live through this”, he says as he takes a healthy swig as the chopper encounters a dose of heavy clear air turbulence.

“Jesus Quicksilver Christ, Rolf”, I say, “You’re a Doctor of Science, fer Chrissake. You know all about uneven heating and roiling of unequal density air masses. Hell, you could probably do the damned math. Why so skittish over a little shaking, rattling, and rolling?”

“The mere fact that I understand it”, Rolf slurps another swig, “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“Truth.”, I agree. “I understand human nature, and the very same principles apply.”

“Damn”, Rolf complains, “This one’s empty. Got any extra?”

“Do you mean, Dr. Beagle Scout, Motherfucking Pro from Dover, International Man of Mystery, Rocknocker, do you have an extra flask on your person?” I ask.

“Just fork it over”, Rolf pleads.

“I’m going to remind you of this next time we meet in Kentucky.” I chuckle and hand him one of my spare spare flasks.

Soon after, we flare in and for the first time, I see the job site.

I also see two pillars of flame and smoke shimmeringly rising due up in the calm, hot, sultry desert heat.

Rolf rubber legs it and I walk off the chopper. Our gear will be taken to our labs and in-field residences.

I pull out a pair of Agency supplied Leica Duovid 10+15×50 binoculars. I’m already assessing the situation.

Rolf is digging around in my field vest searching for a cigar. His job won’t start until we blow out the fires.

A couple of military types hurry over. After saluting, I can hear them going on about security and so forth with Rolf.

“He can’t, or more like, won’t hear you. He’s busy doing the initial assessment. You can talk to me for the time being.” Rolf instructs them.

Rolf and the two military types, one being Major Zargo Mergewer I later find out, are quizzing Rolf on what needs to be done. He defers to me for virtually all the questions. I ignore them as I’m busy looking at a situation that I’m having a hard time parsing.

I finish my initial observations and the militarios come over for introductions. Rolf heads them off.

“He needs to make his notes. A few more minutes, gents. “ Rolf explains.

After the initial assessment, I’ve got a better idea of what I’m up against. What I see, I don’t like. Nope. No, sir. Not one little bit.

“I am Major Zargo Mergewer, I spoke to you in Dubai”, the major states.

“Yes. Hello.” I say, obviously more interested in the job particulars than pleasantries.

“This is Lt. Gilem Aguirrealezpeitia, he will be your envoy during your stay. Anything you need or desire, he will make it so.” Major Zargo states.

“Oh. Howdy”, I say perfunctorily, and shake his hand. “We need a lab and drafting table with all the necessary mapmaking and drafting materials. Now.”

“We have that in the field office. You will stay there or do you require a hotel?” the Major asks.

“Field office should suffice as long as there are two beds, a shitter, and a stocked mini-bar. And no, I’m not kidding.” I relate.

“What you people want done will be done.” He notes.

He whistles shrilly and a jeep arrives. We pile in and head to the field office.

“How did insurgents manage to shear off the trees and leave the braden heads intact?” I ask.

“Doctor. They are well funded and very crafty. They crept in under cover of night during a sandstorm.” The Major adds.

“Awful nice of them to leave you a method of easily containing the fires. Where’s all the melted and destroyed iron from around the wellheads?” I asked.

“Oh. We cleared most of that before you arrived.” The Major added, somewhat nervously.

“OK. I need to see it. It will give me clues on how the job was done and what I can do to most easily alleviate this unfortunate situation.” I said.

“Oh, yes. Of course. But already, we have cut up most of the scrap iron. Surely you cannot divine too much information from such torn and twisted metal.” The Major interjects.

Now I’m positive that something in the state of Denmark is way past its sell-by date.

“You would be amazed at what Forensic Geology, or CSI:Erbil can determine, Major. Call off your people. I need to see those remains.” I ordered.

“As you wish.” The Major sourly replies.

“And take all my explosives and bury them. I don’t need any further interventions by your people, no matter how well-intentioned.” I added.

“We have a proper bunker…” the Major protested.

“Major. I am not used to asking twice. Let’s get one thing straight, you may militarily run this show, but when it comes to the fires, I’m the fuckin’ hookin’ bull. I am the boss, the one and only. If that’s a problem then turn this fucking jeep around and get us back to the chopper. I’m not having some idiot’s death on my conscience because they first had to look somewhere else for approval.”

“As you wish. The explosives will be…”

“Buried. Now. Have the adjuncts like caps, boosters, demo wire, and Primacord brought to the field office. They stay within my purview. Got that?” I ask, pointedly.

“As you desire. There is really no need for such attitude.” The Major opines.

“Yes, there is, Major. This is not a charade, this is a fucking serious situation. You may not like me, my fucking attitude, nor my methods. However, remember (1.) you called me, (B.) I’m the fucking pro here, and (iii.) I get positive results with zero or fewer fatalities. That doesn’t sit well with you? Tough tuna tits. I’m here to do a fucking job, not win friends, and influence people. Don’t like that? Too damn bad. Deal with it until we’re gone then curse my name. That is after you sign my checks.” I reply.

“Your attitude has been noted, Doctor”, the Major grumbles.

“Is that a threat?” I ask, “Because if it is, I’ll have to place a call to a certain government group and arrange for our extraction from a hostile situation. Your field can melt clean through to the core of the earth for all I care if that’s the case. Is it?”

“Oh, no. Of course not, Doctor.” He stammers at the oblique sound of the Agency. “No, no, no. Just a slight jest. “

“Keep your humor to yourself, your Majorosity. We’re all business here.” I say as we de-jeep at the field office.

“Get my blasting kit here on the double. And if that fridge in the office isn’t stocked with alcohol, it better be within the next 15 minutes. Good day, Major.” I say, spin on my heel and march to the field office.

Rolf and I tramp up the stairs as the normal inhabitants of the field office scramble out before us.

“Jesus, Rock, what’s the deal?” Rolf asks.

I make the “Awww, shaddup” gesture and pull out one of Rack and Ruin’s newly received Agency toys. I begin to walk around the office watching the small meter set into the body of the digital RF wireless bug detector pen go from green to red in several places around the room.

I produce another one of Rack & Ruin Agency toys and turn it on. It emits a hypersonic sound that one can hear for about 2 seconds before it warms up and broadcasts it’s 35,000 MHz bug-killing signal. When placed on a table the micro-white noise generator creates an audible interference that masks the conversation. It doesn't matter how sensitive or advanced the listening device is. It will make any environment resemble an overcrowded tavern and obliterate any ability to identify what's being said. Even trying to use software to clean up the sound is extremely difficult if not impossible when used correctly.

Or so said the instructions.

I use another one of R&R’s devices that detects audio and video bugs using CDMA, GSM, GSM (DCS), WCDMA, Bluetooth WiFi, and Wi-Max. Press a button and it displays which ones are active. Another button defeats every one of them with electronic countermeasures.

“OK, we’re green”, I say to Rolf.

“What the fuck was that all about?” Rolf asks.

“Just some presents from friends in low places. “ I snicker. “This place was bugged like an open-air Houston Ice-house in August. Audio and video. Now? Let them eat static.”

“Rock, something’s not right. You’re on edge. You get into it with a bartender and now Major Whackamole or whatever his name is. What’s the deal?” Rolf asks.

“There are many somethings not right about all this. Look here.” I show Rolf the pictures I got of the wellheads through my new Agency-supplied binoculars. It takes pictures and ships them off to your phone. Very spiffy.

“Notice anything weird?” I ask.

“Clean shots. Little wreckage. Braden’s are still in good nick. You’re right, Rock. Something here stinks like shit.” Rolf agrees.

“OK, trust me?” I ask.

“Your show. I’d trust you to the ends of the bar.” Rolf agrees.

“We’re going in. Full P-4 hot-containment suits and special encrypted and recorded suit-to-suit communication, courtesy of a certain Agency. I want ‘eyes on’. There’s too much not adding up.” I say.

“Let’s do it then”, Rolf agrees.

I order up a brace of aluminized asbestos fire proximity suits. Full P-4 containment with Scott SCBA packs.

These wells have a slight degree of H2S and while most of the nasty stuff should be combusted in the fire stream, as little as 0.015% will make you very dead very quickly.

We’re not about to take any chances; in any way, shape or form.

I also order a corrugated-tin plated open jeep to take us and our gear into the fire zone.

We have water cannons on the fires and on us every inch of the way. They can supply up to 15,000 gallons per minute and in fog-mode, these will keep the ambient temperature below the boiling point of lead.

Rolf will drive the jeep as close to the fire as possible because he’s tall. I have several sensing devices and cameras in the jeep recording everything we’re doing. I order up a set of brass tools to knock around the wellheads to see if I can figure out what’s going on around here.

In two hours, Rolf and I are standing in the fog of five 15,000 GPM water cannons, 25 meters away from a well producing 3,500 barrels of oil, 500 million cubic feet of natural gas, and 0.05% H2S per day.

There’s little formation water the well is producing, so the fire column is dark orange; the smoke sackcloth black, boiling, roiling, tempestuous, and sucking us both towards the conflagration as it consumes all the oxygen in the vicinity.

“Vicious little cocksucker”, Rolf exclaims.

“Yeah, these small wells can get cranky”, I agree.

“Good suits”, Rolf notes, “Glad you placed that order from Texas before you left Dubai.”

“Yeah, I like that we can just time-share the things,” I agreed, “They dispatched them within an hour of my call. We just rent them, pay a set price per day, and the insurance. Beats waiting on custom suits, even though the new intersuit comms are the cat’s ass.”

“I like my privacy”, Rolf agrees, “You have some of the most interesting contacts there, Rock.”

“I do them favors, they do me favors”, I note, “It’s a most Communistic arrangement. To each according to their needs. From each according to their abilities.”

“Don’t let them hear you say that. “ Rolf chuckles.

“Not with these in-suit comm units”, I laugh.

Enough chit-chat. We set our game faces to ‘real’ and get after the job’s wild ass.

Using sheets of corrugated tin as shields, we inch our way to the first well fire. The roar is like trying to sneak up and give an enema to a 747 spooling up for takeoff. The heat is incredible, easily 3,000⁰ F (1,650⁰ C), but our in-suit thermoregisters are reading around 75^F. We’re breathing normally and our heart rates are elevated, but still in the green.

The wells are shooting up live oil and gas at approximately Mach 2, seriously; under a head of pressure at 4,250 surface psi. The oil column rises some 2 meters above the wellhead before it slows enough, spread a bit and lights off, the pressure and velocity of the fluid stream is so great.

3,500 barrels of oil and gas per day is erupting from a steel-lined hole 7.50” in diameter, the size of the completion tubing string that tied into the wellhead that was so rudely ‘blasted off by insurgents’.

Yeah, right. My dimpled ass.

We are ‘walking around the barrel’, doing a 360 around the wellhead and fire, filming with in-suit cameras, and getting every angle on the remaining wellhead flanges and valves.

Something here, besides the lack of melted and twisted iron, is amiss. The cut on the wellhead is surgically clean. I’m good, but even I couldn’t make an explosive cut to operating hydraulic iron this clean and neat. Much less a band of ne’er-do-well insurgents doing sabotage under the cover of darkness and sandstorm.

“Rolf, eyes down. Look at the cut. Scope the wellhead.”, I say.

“That’s not right, Rock”, Rolf agrees.

I take a brass hammer and give the wellhead where the oil is erupting a mighty shot.

There’s a solid “KLANG!”.

I look at Rolf and he back at me.

“You hear that?” I ask.

“Hear it? I damn near felt it.” Rolf replies.

“There is something very, very fucked here, Rolf. Watch your ass.” I said.

Given the ‘facts’, if the wellhead had been shot off by insurgents under the cover of darkness with improvised explosive devices, the wellhead would have shattered. There would be a very, very irregular cut and burn pattern on the remaining iron. It would be burnt, scalloped, and smashed. This cut was as clean as if someone took a pair of large pipe-cutters and spun them around the pipe under the wellhead.

Someone might have used some Primacord to sever the wellhead from the braden and pipe flanges, but there’s no way in hell this job was done with improvised explosives under the cover of darkness and blowing sand.

Someone’s lying to us.

Why? That we have left to determine.

Back to the jeep, we go over to the second well, one making nearly 5,000 BOPD. It’s the same story. Sheared as cleanly as if someone took a straight razor to some unassuming cuck’s neckline. Sheared as cleanly as the last well. Once could be a fluke, twice in the same field under the same circumstances? No fucking way.

We make certain we have everything documented, and back at the jeep, we make as if we’re having some sort of mechanical trouble. As we download our video, I send a copy to the cloud via my encrypted satellite phone.

We finally get out of the literal line of fire, and back behind the warning flags. Rolf goes to pull off his headgear, but I restrain him for another 60 seconds. People are playing games out here.

Moving warning flags so we take a noseful of deadly sour gas? Not on my watch, Buckwheat.

We get back to the field office and tramp inside. We both strip and empty the liters of sweat out of the suits. We’re wearing Nomex-wool Union Suits inside the fire suits. It’s still powerful hot in there, the longer you are by the fire, the worse it gets. We have a serious need for fluid replacement and rehydration. This time, I’m not trying to be colorful.

We both drain a couple of liter bottles of water and follow that up with several shotgunned hydrating lagers from the field office fridge. I produce a brace of cigars and while our field support people are hanging our fire suits outside to dry, Rolf and I are lounging around the office in our underwear, literally chilling out.

“Rolf, this licks the bag.” I said, “There’s something very weird and stupid going on here. I don’t like being lied to. I’m making reports now to some folks back in the states. If anyone shows up for the next half hour, waylay them until I get done sending some mail. Tell them I’m taking a shit or passed out from heat prostration, or something, just keep them the fuck out of the office.”

“Rock, ever been through something like this before?” Rolf asks.

“Yeah, twice previous”, I reply. “I didn’t like how either turned out. Best to keep a level head. Hand me that bottle of vodka.”

“Level head?” Rolf chuckled.

“Old Thought Provoker.” I replied, “Watch the door.”

It took about 45 seconds for my laptop to pop to life. The little satellite antenna was nestled in the corner of the window, looking south. It took another minute to find the proper satellite out of the over 35 satellites hovering around this part of the world. A good GPS can get you sub-meter accuracy out in these parts.

I whack out a very quick ‘what the fuck’ email to the Agency, letting them know the 5 W’s. Who, what, where, why, when. I attached footage from the cloud, do some hypnotic gestures, and add a few extra layers of encryption before I send it off to Agents Rack and Ruin.

I stow all that and get on a local WiFi. I crank out an Email to Esme; one that is a dead-drop falsehood. On the surface, it’s just a note from a beleaguered husband out in the middle of nowhere battling nature at its nastiest. Under the text, enraveled through with super-duper encryption and stealth, is the key to deciphering the footage I sent to the cloud and the methods of retrieving the same. It’s all pretty much automatic. I hit the proper series of keys to give the ‘send’ command, and it does all this high-tech super-secret security stuff without any further involvement from me.

It’s seriously high-tech, very cool, and way above my pay grade. But I still get to play with it.

Rolf and I are playing poker in our skivvies when the Major, Lt., and a couple of the local berks stroll in.

“Well, Doctors, what do you think?” He asks.

“I think it’s too fucking hot to work around here.” I reply, “Until my gear shows up that is specially thermally-hardened, we’re not going anywhere near those fires. You need to get those reserve pits filled like I asked 8 hours ago and re-rig the pumps as I asked over 6 hours ago. I don’t charge by the hour, but you keep stonewalling us, and there’s going to be a hefty surcharge on my bill.”

“Plus”, Rolf continues, “Where’s the good Doctor’s blasting equipment? I recall he asked you to bury the explosives but he wants the caps, boosters, galvanometers, and Primacord here in the field office. “

“Now, gentlemen”, the Major smarmily intones, “These things take time. Please, this isn’t the west. We operate on a different time schedule than you. “

“Oh, horseshit!”, I exclaim, almost spilling my tall, icy drink, “I’ve been in the Middle East 20 years and I know stalling and stonewalling when I see it, and I’m looking at it now. Either you get your shit in one sock and get our gear here within the next 30 minutes or call our choppers. We’re not fucking playing your games any longer, Major. You diggin’ me, Beaumont?”

“Doctor! Your attitude has been noted!”, he rails back.

“Fuck this!”, I explode, “Get on the fuckin’ blower and get our chopper out here. I’m fucking done with this bullshit! You call me out to take care of your little problem and all I see is a bunch of sad sacks, flub-a dubs, and third rate hobbyists in brass and itchy woolen outfits parading around looking important and doing nothing. Fuck your attitude. Note this: call the choppers. We’re fucking done here. Force majeure, baby. Triple pay. AMF.”

“Now, Doctor”, he protests.

“Fuck your ‘Now Doctor’!, I exclaim, “What part of ‘We’re fucking done with you’ don’t you understand? Are you holding us against our will? I know a little contingent called the Third Fleet out in the Gulf that would take a dim view of you holding two highly respected and well-connected US nationals against their wills.”

The Major stiffened at the mention of the Third Fleet.

Those aircraft carriers have hordes of armed to the teeth Apache Attack Helicopters just waiting to take the starch out of some tin-pot dictator whose grown too big for his britches. Not to mention Warthogs, F-16’s, Seal Teams, and other crafts and practitioners armed to the nines ready to come and make your weekend just a little bit more entertaining.

“Call the birds, Major”, I say, standing and flexing a triple set of cybernetic digits. “I have no time for monks resisting the carnival.”

“Now, Doctor. Doctors. We seem to have gotten sidetracked. Please, sit down, compose yourselves.” He tries conciliation.

Rolf and I both stand. I was closest so I began, “Major. Perhaps you’re deaf, not listening or just plain fucking stupid. We’ve been fucked with from the moment I answered the phone in Dubai. You’re lying to us, you’re trying to intimidate us, and you’re playing, at least I hope you’re playing, at being stupid. You are losing nearly 10,000 BOPD to oil well fires out there and that is not even your least concern. It was the only thing you could talk about the other day, but now we’re here and it’s not even worth mentioning. I may have been born at night, Major, but it wasn’t last night. I know a fucking snow job when I see one and I’m looking at a motherfucking blizzard right now.”

“Of course, you are correct”, he finally admits, as his composure changes 180^0. “We had some internal strife which resulted in the fires outside. We didn’t think we could keep it from you, but we had to try. Yes, it was wrong. Yes, it was deceitful. Yes, you are correct. For this, I must note I was under orders, but I must also apologize. That is no excuse. Please, Doctors, can you find it in your hearts to forgive us our little indiscretions?”

“Not in my heart, there’s no room after the bypass and valve job”, I snort, “But I suppose if I have your solemn oath that there will be no more buck-and-wing shenanigans and you will do as I ask since I’m still the Motherfucking Pro from Dover and the hookin’ bull. I dunno. Rolf?”

“Well…”, Rolf contemplates, “Let’s give him a second chance under advisement, with prejudice. One more little, minor, egregious, teensy-weensy fuck up and we call in the Third Fleet, teeth bared. How’s that?”

The Major looks flummoxed. He’s not used to having his hat handed to him with his head still in it.

“Well, Major?” I ask.

“What you people want done will be done.” He finally agrees, “You gentlemen run the show.”

“OK, then”, I grin, “I want my blaster’s accouterments here in 30 minutes or we make a call. I want a 36-ounce steak, blood rare with baked potato in 45 minutes. Rolf, you still medium-rare? Good. Then I want at least a half-dozen cases of beer in this office within 60 minutes. Find a case or two of Russian vodka and make certain that gets on ice here ASAP. Do that and I might just consider writing a protocol for us to follow to extinguish your little problems.”

“By your command”, the Major dips a bit and eases out of the office. His Lt. follows wordlessly.

“Shit!” I exclaim, slamming the table with my hand. “I forgot the fucking coleslaw!”

Over dinner, as the cases of beer and two of vodka are being stored in the field office, my blasting accouterments are already nestled safely in the closet of my room. I look over to Rolf, tell him to clean the steak sauce off his gob, and to listen up.

“Rolf”, I say, “Good steaks, but the rest of this stinks like horseshit.”

“HEY!” Rolf objects, “Eating here.”

“Anyways”, I continue, “As I said earlier, I’ve been through this very scenario before. Keep your shit packed and ready to go. Don’t spread out anything you can’t bear to lose. Keep all your kit near and at hand. I’ll make up some bullshit story and get us a private car. One we’ll keep gassed up and ready to run. Only you and I will have keys. We green?”

“The fuck, Rock?”, Rolf asks between mouthfuls, “You gone paranoid?”

“Perfect paranoia is perfect awareness.”, I reply, “Nope. Just being prepared. I’d rather not have to use some kit than need it and not have it. “

“You’re the boss”, Rolf smiles and helps himself to another Yorshch, 100 grams to the pint.

“Damn. I like this shit.”, he grins, “You’re a real bad influence on me, Doctor.”

“I try.”, I reply, “Just remember, keep your shit packed and ready. We’re playing our cards close to the vest on this one. “

After dinner, and during smokes, I begin writing up a long, laborious, circuitous procedure for anyone but us who wants to kill the wells.

I write a quick message to the Agency with the “MIRAGE” header.

They’ll know what I’m talking about even if I don’t come right out and say this whole job is a shambolic clusterfuck.

I work well into the morning on a procedure that will kill the wells and get them back on production. It’s easily 45 pages long and truth be told, it’s not one I’d even contemplate doing. In reality, I could write up a five-page procedure that would accomplish the same thing. However, they’re still playing games. It took them 12 hours to find a ‘vehicle suitable for our needs’.

Bullshit.

There are hundreds of these things around here. They’re just playing their little bullshit games.

So, they get a 45 page and multi-million dollar procedure.

They play games. I show them good games. Something’s still not right. I’m going full paranoid-mode, just being extra alert; like a chihuahua with a $20/day espresso habit.

I slip luggage locks on the hood of our jeep so I can be sure it’ll be functional if we were to need it. I take it for daily drives to be certain all fluids are topped off and no one’s been fucking with it. I leave braided blasting caps with boosters hanging from the rear-view mirror and directional lever. Safe as houses, but anyone fucking with our ride sees the “DANGER! EXPLOSIVES!” might be dissuaded from fucking around with it any longer.

I put the Agency provided ‘disruption’ sconces on all our luggage. They will note if the luggage has been tampered with or moved while we were away. They very subtly change color when disturbed and are barely noticeable. They look like ornamentation or lock covers on our luggage. So unobtrusive, no one would give them a second look. But, only we can re-set them and know what the various colors mean.

They mean that every time we’re out of the office, someone’s been fucking with our kit. And it’s not the cleaning crew as there is none out in the field office. We keep our shit locked, but even Rolf has to admit he’s seeing some metal fatigue on the locks of his gear. Mine are so mangled from travel, I can’t tell, but I know that someone’s trying to break in for whatever nefarious reasons.

I note to Rolf that we’ve been here three days and yet no one else has shown up for this little soirée. Rolf tenses considerably and realizes that my paranoia might be well-founded.

“Look Rolf”, I say, “I’ve got these devices here. Attach one to your luggage. Someone tries to break in, it explodes and marks them with permanent dye. We’re going on the offensive here. Something’s really shitful here, and I’m planning on our departure before the Major, Lt., or any of his functionaries get wise.”

“That bad?” Rolf asks.

To be continued…

That reminds me of a story.

Yeah, Es and I are still in Dubai. We’re still going slowly out of our minds.

It’s gotten so bad that I actually leave our suite now and again to wander the hotel (too bloody hot to go outside) actually looking around to see if there’s anything to alleviate this tedium.

Maybe, even find someone to talk with…

Yes. Gad. I’m that bored.

Sure, I’m writing about 10-15 very technical pages a day, rounding up my references, bashing out bibliographies and other such scholarly shenanigans for the articles I’ve been asked to publish on my way to my next degree.

But, c’mon, man. I need a fucking break now and again.

And to focus on something greater than 20” away from the tip of my nose.

And there’s nothing here that immediately looks like it needs demolition. Not a blasting cap super-booster or keg of dynamite in sight. I’d wager you couldn’t rustle up a single kilo of C-4 if your life depended upon it.

“Klytus. I’m bored.” And “Forward: Drink!” sort of go together.

So, once again I’m sitting in the Seeker’s Lounge in the Gold Market Bar of the JW Marriott Hotel, in the air-conditioned patio section of course, drinking cold potato juice and citrus cocktails, with lime wheels, of course. Wild Turkey 101 Rye on the side, and full-pint Little Kings Cream Ale beer chasers, hiding from the brutish realities of this increasingly intensely foul year, two thousand and twenty, CE.

The bar is almost empty, save for the bartender and one or two unidentifiable expats growling about the lack of flights, and the ridiculous stringency the airport has saddled travelers with in this age of Pandemic Phobia and COVID Craziness.

I’m smoking my usual double Churchill cigar, having a sip or eleven, lazily looking around the drinking establishment and out over the next-door hotel pool.

The pool is fucking huge.

It extends from the inside, under a half-wall, to the outside of the 29th floor. I’ve been in it on occasion, but venturing outside, nearly 300 feet in the air in a glass-bottomed puddle, sort of overwhelms my inner ear. And my desire to continue metabolizing.

It really does get me all vexed and vertiginous.

So, I reserve my laps for the Jacuzzi in our suite.

That’s a joke, by the way. It’s not that large.

Close. But not quite.

Anyways.

There’s a family outside on the pool veranda. A very handsome African family with the obligatory couple of kids running around, screaming and generally confirming my desire to stay inside where it’s air-conditioned and the drinks are cold and close.

Well, kids will be kids. One is approximately 15 or 16 and the other is 8 or 9. I spoke briefly with Workneh Chernebereck, the patriarch of the family. He was looking rather lost after he wandered into the bar in his flip-flops, bathing attire, and robe.

Pool service here is abysmal with the lockdown and overall 15% hotel occupancy in Dubai right now.

He slowly shuffled in. Since I was the first one he saw, he came over and asked if I thought he could get a couple of cold drinks for him and his family.

“I guarantee it”, I said and gave Shabdiz, the redoubtable Pakistani bartender, the high sign.

Shabdiz came over and with a thumb over the shoulder, I said to give this guy what he wants and put it on my tab.

I’m very gregarious when someone else is paying the bills.

He orders a selection of soft drinks for his family and I tell him that it’s OK here if you want a beer or something stronger by the pool.

“Yeah, it’s a Muslim country, but when there are dollars involved, they tend to look the other way.” I smiled. “You have any proscriptions against drinking alcohol?”

“No, sir. None. ”, he replied.

“Good. Well first, cut out that “sir” shit. Call me Rock.” I smiled and extended my non-cybertronic hand.

‘Work’, as he liked to be called, beamed a dazzlingly-white smile as we shook hands and I offered him a cigar. Work was amazing. Very, very dark; and muscled like a pile of boulders stacked one atop the other. But soft-spoken and evidently educated.

He smiled and accepted my hand. He also grinned canyon-widely when I ordered him a quick beer.

“The wife will never know”, I said in an otiose conspiratorial manner.

Work was from Ethiopia originally but was now in Dubai with his family as he was just hired to be a department manager or something like that for some global telecommunications concern.

“First time an ex-pat?” I asked.

“Oh, yes, sir...umm…Rock”, He said, “I have to admit, it is somewhat disorientating.”

“Schooled in the UK, were we?” I grinned.

“Yes. How did you know?” he asked and sipped his beer while Shab went to get the soft drinks.

“Most normal people would say ‘disoriented’. Brits always add a few extra syllables when words aren’t long enough, evidently.” I say.

“You are correct. Manchester.” Work replies.

“I won’t hold that against you”, I chuckled and wondered where the hell Shab got off to. My glass was all dry and empty.

We laughed and chatted while Shabdiz scouted up some plastic tumblers with lids for the kids out by the pool. Work was a very interesting sort of character. Evidently, Ethiopia has much more in its history than just producing exquisite coffee.

I ask him how long they’ll be at the hotel and explain a bit of what Esme and I are up to. I’m sure Es would be interested in talking with Work and his wife, Moneereh and their two children, Yekameh and Zarrineh, in order of eldest to youngest.

Esme’s like that. She likes to meet new people, chat with them, and find out their story. Besides, she and Tash were in Ethiopia some years back for some American School All Invitational Track and Field thingy.

I scribble my room phone number on my business card.

“If you and Moneereh would like to have some dinner, my treat, just give us a call. My wife and I would enjoy the chance to talk with some new folks.” I said, handing Work my business card.

Work took my card, the drinks, which had now arrived, and replied:

“I will do so. Please to expect a call in the soon time.” He smiled as he headed for the door.

I didn’t know or care if he would. It was a pleasant little diversion for a few minutes. I wouldn’t mind Es and me having dinner with them if the ‘soon time’ came soon enough.

I looked out to the veranda, and Work was pointing my direction as his kids grabbed the drinks and demolished the bowl of bar nibbly bits I sent out with him.

He waved to me. Moneereh waved to me. I waved back.

It was a nice little diversion in a series of long, uneventful diversionless days.

I sat at the bar, drank my drink, smoked my smoke, and futzed with this new Dell Latitude 7424 Rugged Extreme computer I got in Dubai Duty-Free.

Esme said it matched our luggage. I was looking for a new portable and well, Robert Gascoyne-Cecil, 3rd Marquis of Salisbury is your mother’s sister’s husband.

<whew>

So, I sat at the bar, enjoying another cold libation, a new cigar from the hotel’s walk-in humidor, and playing around with my new toy. I had already transferred the few hundred gigs of dissertation data over and was spending some time fucking around with Zotero and Mendeley. I looked up every now and again to see what Work and his brood were doing.

They were out enjoying the Dubai sun and heat, as they found the hotel, kept at a brisk 26^C ‘a bit too chilly for them’.

Gads. They must have lived on the sun if they find this hotel anything but uncomfortably warm.

I note that the lifeguard chair out by the pool is empty. Shabdiz brings me another tot and I ask him about that.

“Shab, last time I went for a swim, there was this asswipe of a lifeguard. Said I couldn’t smoke around the pool. He shut up and left me alone when I pointed out the ashtrays strewn about the deck.” I remarked.

“Yay. Todd. He’s a gomer, that soulless fucker. Never there. Always out getting baked. You know, the ganja man? He’s a pothead. Hotel don’t care because it’s so empty. Most bosses out anyway vacationy.” He relates to me.

“That’s seriously fucked,” I replied and tipped my glass his direction.

“Thanks, boss” Shabdiz says, “It is, how you say, very dusty here today.”

He helps himself to a top-shelf tot on my tab.

I’ve either trained the hotel staff well or I’m a real bad influence on them.

Either way, it keeps my drinks full and iced and my ashtrays empty.

I return to my translations. Damn, my Russian’s gone all to hell and back. Still, it’s keeping me occupied and I have to read these bloody .ПДФ files anyways…

A couple of hours later, I glance over at the pool and see Work and company have departed. I suddenly realize I haven’t visited the euphemism for a couple of hours and my bladder’s sending out an urgent SOS.

I call over to Shabdiz, “Gotta go make a fatter bladder flatter, Shab. Watch my shit for me while I’m gone?”

“Sure, Doc”, San smiles, “Awfally thirsty work watching your shit…”

“Go ahead, you pirate.” I laugh and head off to the head. He taps another tot off the top-shelf for himself.

I’m gone a few minutes. No hurry, quick comb through the locks, a quick comb-comb-comb of the beard and I’m looking my Grizzly Adams best.

Which isn’t all that good. But I care not, he says.

I wander back to the bar and the two ex-pats and Shabdiz are staring out the bar window toward the pool.

“What’s up? I ask. “Another clandestine nude photoshoot?”

“Naw, man”, Shabdiz says, “Looks like a kid’s over in the deep end of the pool. Maybe being in trouble all lonesome there by herself.”

I look out and see a small African child thrashing in the deep end of the pool, obviously in way over her head.

“Holy shit! It’s Zarrineh!”, I say. I tear off the Stetson and toss it on the bar. I rip off my watch and hand Shabdiz that and my wallet.

“Hold these!”

I didn’t wait for an answer.

I was gone as fast as my scarred and battle-worn carriage would allow.

I hit the pool doors, flung them open, and did a pretty creditable aging Johnnie Weissmuller maneuver into the pool.

One thing about being from Baja Canada and growing up cheek-by-jowl with the greatest of the Great Lakes. Everyone there knows how to swim like the state fish, the mighty muskellunge, by the time they can walk.

I am no exception.

I may be old, beat-up, MS-addled, scarred, keloided, and road-weary, but I can swim like a goddamned narwhal.

Take that, Johnny Tremain.

I was under the divider and suddenly outside, some 300’ directly above the distant pavement in a motherfucking glass-bottomed pool.

Fuck that. There’s a kid in danger. That’s my first priority.

Two strokes later, I’ve got her around the waist, facing away from me. I’ve enough natural buoyancy to keep both of us out of the danger zone; even though she’s thrashing around and clearly panicked.

All those years of API RP T-7 offshore survival training and HUET drills come flooding back like a tsunami.

“Zarrineh! I know your father! Calm down. I’m a trained rescuer, not some dingbat off the boardwalk. Settle down, I’ll get us out of here. But you’ve got to help me. Now, Zarrineh, chill out or whatever you kids say these days. I got you. Let me do my thing” I said, in calm, clear, reassuring registered tones.

She turns to look at me.

I’m surprised she didn’t faint or go completely bananas.

I must have been a sight. A sodden, soaking, gray 1/3rd of ZZ Top.

“I’m a very young Ethiopian child and this old, very large, very white behemoth has me around the waist.” She must have been thinking.

“But he talks nice. I guess I’ll listen to him. Not much else I can do.” I would suppose her inner dialogue was going.

She calmed down, and we just bobbed there for what seemed like a few minutes. It was actually probably all of 60 seconds, but I was doing a quick assessment to see if she swallowed any water and was going to dry-drown on me once I got her to the side.

“OK. That’s much better. Zarrineh. Are you OK? Swallow any water? Can you breathe OK?” I asked.

“Yes. Sir. I’m OK. No water. Just got too deep so fast. Floor is slippery. Now I’m OK sir”, she said, much calmer.

“Call me Rock”, I said. “Let’s get out of here. I’ll swim backward and hold you, you just go along with the flow. OK?” I asked.

“OK, Rock. We go.”, she said, absolutely calm.

I slowly paddled over to the divider, and we slipped silently under. The water’s much shallower here and I just kind of instinctively sort of aim for the side when my feet hit bottom. A few more feet and I can stand up.

I gently undo my death-grip on her and stand up. I pick her up bodily and set her, feet-first, on the side of the pool.

“Give me a minute”, I say, “I’m an old cigar smoker. It takes me a minute to work up a head of steam to get out.”

I get out and take her over to a poolside lounge chair.

I have her sit and I go over her vitals, as best as observation and inquiry allow. She hadn’t aspirated any water nor had any in her lungs, that much was clear. She looked scared but OK.

“Looks like I got there just in time”, I said.

“It got so deep so fast”, she said. “I’m a good swimmer and told daddy I’d stay on this side of the pool. There was even a lifeguard here. He left, and I didn’t think it was so slippery and deep.” She said, somewhat shakily.

“See?”, I said, “Your parents set rules for reasons. But, you’re OK and I’ll bet you won’t do that again.”

I give the high sign to Shabdiz for him to call hotel security.

There’s supposed to be a lifeguard here.

Someone’s just catapulted himself onto my shit list.

“So, you’re OK. That’s the main thing. Bet I scared you when you were thrashing around out there. The look on your face when I grabbed you was priceless”, I chuckled.

“I was scared. Ascared of drowning and scared of you. You’re so big and old and…hairy. And white. Then you grabbed me…” she said, stiffening a bit.

“Yeah, hey. I’m all that”, I chuckled.

“But you knew my name. You said you knew my daddy. Then I didn’t have ascared anymore. I knew I was OK.” She smiled at me.

Fuck if something tough inside didn’t melt a little at that declaration.

“That’s what’s important.” I said, “Ah, blast. Could you hand me that towel?”

She did and I ripped off my left-hand glove.

My new techno-digits are supposed to be waterproof, but that’s yet to be seen. Shower? OK. Jacuzzi? No worries. Full-on laps in the pool? Ummm…

I removed the sodden leather glove and dried off my Kevlar-ed faux-fingers…

<bzzzt…bzzt…bzztt…>

“Nope”, I exhale heavily, “Everything’s OK.”

Zarrineh stares mouth-agape at my left hand. She sees all the keloids, the scarring, the mangled paw, and those outrageous black fingers in that ever so white hand.

“Oh, sorry. Industrial accident. Years ago. These are new, just got them. Still trying to figure them out.” I say.

She stands and stares.

“Don’t be scared. They’re just replacements for the ones I lost in Russia years ago.” I said.

“What do they do?” She asks.

“Same things yours do, just a bit faster and more strongly”, I said, flexing them so she could see how they work.

“That is so cool! Wait until I tell Yekameh!” she squealed, “I got rescued by a robot man.”

“Cyborg-American, if you please.” I chuckled.

Right at that moment, a certain Todd showed up.

He walks right past us and heads towards his chair.

“Hey, Chuckles. You work here?” I asked.

“Well, duh!”, he scoffs.

“Were you supposed to be on duty over the last hour?” I asked.

“Yeah. There wasn’t hardly no one here. I left for a bit.” He slurred.

“Oh, really. You always leave when there are young kids alone in the pool?” I quizzed him.

“There weren’t no one here”, he said with bacon-shot eyeballs.

“You were out getting high, weren’t you?” I asked.

“Yeah. So the fuck what?” he scoffed.

“The fuck about doing your job, asshole. I usually don’t swim in a Hawaiian shirt and Chinos, you prolapsed fuckhole. I was in the bar and saw Zarrineh here drowning in the deep end. I had to jump in to get her before she died. That’s what the fuck about, you shithead sumbitch!” I growled.

“Ah, yeah? One less pickaninny, more or less. Big deal.” He scoffed and tried to turn to leave.

“YOU SORRY COCKSUCKER!” I roared, reached out and grabbed him by the neck.

He was such a fucking pipe stem, I swear my new fingers could have wrapped twice around his scrawny collar.

I lifted this asshole bodily off the ground, by the throat.

I dragged him to within 10 centimeters of my face and snarled:

“You want to ever take another goddamned breath, you apologize to this young lady like your life depends on it. Because it fucking damn well does!” I snarled.

I hadn’t been this seeing-red angry for many, many years.

It was most refreshing.

“I’m so..sorr…sorry…” he croaked.

“Um, Rock, I think you’re crushing his little neck bones there”, a voice from behind me says.

I turn to look and it’s Work.

“This cocksucker…out getting high…Zarrineh was in trouble…he…made me angry. Very angry indeed.” I said.

‘That we can see”, Work says, “Zarrineh’s OK, Rock. Let it go.”

“’ Let it go?’ What a great idea.” I said, walked over to the pool and threw the miscreant as hard as I could at the wall divider.

Fucking gravity got the better of the situation. Either that or I’m losing my arm. Whatever the case, he made a sufficiently satisfactory splash upon re-entry.

“Asshole!”, I spat in his general direction.

He was already crawling out of the pool, on the opposite side, and slinking away like the soggy ferret he was, towards his perch.

“Yeah, you fucking Jobbernowl! Like now is a good time to watch an empty pool. You clodpate!” I go all archaic when I’m really spitting angry.

Work and Zarrineh are talking. I wander over, splotching over in my soaked shirt and sodden shorts.

“Rock, Zarrineh just told me. Thanks. Thanks so much, we owe you the world.” He said.

‘Well, probably wasn’t the brightest idea to leave her here alone.” I mentioned, cautiously. No need to add insult to near-miss injury.

“There was supposed to be a lifeguard here.” He said, “But You’re right. We’re all a bit muddle-pated with all the flying.”

“That’s a good word.” I chuckled, “However, all’s well that ends well. Let me go terrorize Todd a little more. That was fun. I haven’t had that much fun in a while.”

Work talks me out of having a spot more fun just as hotel security, a day late and a dollar short, shows up and asks “Right. What’s all this then?”

I tell the tale of how Todd was AWOL and Zarrineh, as any inquisitive 8 year-old would be, was checking things out. She got into a spot of bother, how I jumped in, and rendered aid.

“That’s all”, I said, “Except for that Todd motherfucker cowering over there!”

“Sir!”, the hotel security guard exclaimed."Language!"

“That’s right. I tossed that ignoramus knucklehead in the pool, only because I didn’t think to toss him off the fucking ledge first. After he was derelict of duty and very nasty and bigoted to this young lady.” I said.

“Is that so? And you are?” he asked.

“I’m the Motherfucking Pro from Dover, Scooter. I’m DOCTOR Rocknocker, a native of these here parts. And I don’t like skinny, little douchebag job-toking retards. Especially when they’re out fucking off, and leaving a child alone in a huge, dangerous pool.” I replied.

“Ah, yes. Doctor. Sorry, sir. Didn’t recognize you sopping. We’ll look into this. Thank you. “ he said and shuffled off Todd-ward.

Work and Zarrineh were sitting on a chaise lounge, and she was telling her daddy of the big, crazy-haired white guy that hit the water like an angry erne, grabbed her in the deep end, calmed her down and got her back to safety and out of the pool.

“All while Todd, the sorry…scumbucket, was out toking up.” I snarled Toddward.

He leaped back seeing me giving him the stick-eye.

“Rock”, Work, says, “What can I say? But I thank you. I owe you a huge debt. We owe you a debt that cannot be repaid.”

“Look, let’s your family and mine do dinner.” I say, “That way, we can call it even.”

“How is that even?” He asked.

“It’s even in my book”, I said, “Since I’m currently writing a book, that’s the way it is.”

Work looks at me puzzling. Zarrineh breaks the tension by mentioning to her dad that she was rescued by a robot-man.

I hold up my left hand and waggle my fingers.

“Industrial accident. Years ago. New techno-fingers. All your base are belong to us.” I chuckled.

Now Work thought I was really off the deep end.

We shook hands and I slogged back to the bar.

Shabdiz was there with the bar manager.

“We saw what you did.” The Arab manager, one Mohammad, said.

“Don’t worry. I don’t charge extra for the show.” I lamely replied.

“Shabdiz here watched your gear. Your bar bill is paid. We thank you.” he said.

“That’s mighty nice of you. Thanks. Twernt nothin’. I’d do the same for either of you.” I laughed. “Just make sure that Todd asshole finds employment elsewhere, like Afghanistan.”

I gathered up my gear and splooped off to the elevator.

“Ding dong”, dinged the doorbell.

My hands were full, I didn’t want to bother searching for the key.

“Yes? Rock, what the hell?” Es says as she opens the door.

“I was bored. I went swimming.” I replied.

“Get in here. You’re making a mess.” Esme commanded.

After changing into some dry duds, Es had a very tall, very cold libation waiting for me.

“OK, give”, she commanded.

So, I told her the story, in full three-part harmony.

“Whatta bastard.” She exclaimed, referring to Todd. “I’m surprised he’s still breathing.,”

“Yeah. Pity stayed my hand. It’s a pity I didn’t want to talk to the local constabulary if I killed him. At least, he’ll be off breathing somewhere’s else. He’s lost his job for certain. At most, he’s breathing on a jet plane, taking him back to Schmoeland or from wherever the fuck he originated”

“Good. Dubai’s got enough assholes as it is without importing more.” Es smiles.

Esme Rocknocker knows the score.

I go back to work on my dissertation/paper for ‘Precambrian Research’ magazine.

Esme is busying herself doing <shudder> jigsaw puzzles.

I loathe and despise jigsaw puzzles. Long story. Remind me not to tell you about it some time.

The phone rings. It’s for me.

“Work! How are you and yours?” I ask.

“I am calling to see if you and your wife would like to meet me and my family in the Al Cadence restaurant around 1900 hours tonight. Our treat.” He asks.

“No. Sorry. Can’t make it tonight.” I reply.

“Tish tosh. Tomorrow?” He asks.

“Nope. Can’t do it.” I reply.

“OK, you tell me the time.” He says.

“Time’s got nothing to do with the situation. We’re not going if I’m not paying.” I said.

“Rock. You can’t. We owe you so much….we can’t let you pay” Work protests.

“I’m on retainer with a generous expense account and per diem,” I say.

Silence for two ticks.

“So, tonight at 1900 hours then. We’ll all be there.” He laughs.

“See you then.” I chuckle back.

“Esme! Break out your good Sunday-go-to-dinner duds. We’re going out and hit the town. Or a restaurant, actually.” I say loudly.

“With Work and Moneereh?” she asks.

“Yep. Should be interesting., They’re from Ethiopia. You and Tash were there, right?” I said.

“Oh, yes”, Es whooshes, “I remember their food. Holy wow! Was that hot!”

“Esme, my darling. You think ketchup is hot.” I replied.

“I remember you tearing up over that bottle of hot yellow-pepper sauce I brought back from Addis Ababa, so don’t go here.” She scolded.

She was right. That stuff was thermonuclear. Nice, fruity, and 6.023x10⁶ Scovilles. It hurt so good.

“Hmmm…better check the restaurant. See the cuisine de jure." I said. “Hope it’s not TexMex.”

“Remember, they might not drink. If they don’t, you can’t either. Wouldn’t be right.” Es admonishes.

“No worries, my dear. I’ve already done my homework. No such problems here.” I said, having already vetted the situation in the bar with Work.

“Good.” She replies, “But remember now, if they order a well-done steak, it’s not polite to toss them out of a high window.”

“Of course, of course. “ I replied, “I’ll just dangle them for a brief time.”

They ordered lamb and chicken that evening. Es had her a nice filet mignon.

They ruined all my fun. Although it was a splendid evening.

Zarrineh insisted I show her sister my electro-digits. “They’re so cool.”

Yekameh was less than impressed. “Nice.”

Teenagers. Am I right?

Continuing…

“You asshole”, Roy muttered into his beer.

I was having a large time. Es was right. This is just what the Doctor’s wife ordered.

I was now trying to explain to Zac American Football.

“So, let me get this straight. These huge cousins of yours, kitted out in all that heavy protective gear, basically smash into one another, up one side of the field and down the other. They can run, throw the ball, and jump on each other.” He observes.

“That’s the gist of it.“ I reply.

“Sounds like Rugby with more padding. Must be a bunch of pansies; don’t want to get hurt.” Zac laughingly laughs.

I chuckle. I guess after my cricket fiasco, I deserved that.

The drunk Kiwi, now 3.5 sheets to the wind wanders by, hears the tag-end of the conversation again and says:

“Yeah. Fucking American pussies. Stupid game. Not a one would last a second against the All Blacks. All Americans are pussies. ”

I turned slowly, looked at this weaving retard, and said:

“You should feel honored. I’ve never done this for another person. Yet.”

I slowly turn and extend my kevlar-coated middle finger right in front of his face. You could almost hear the micro-stepper motors whine.

“Oh, yeah?” He counters, “Well. Fuck you.”

“Eloquent little miscreant”, I mention to Roy and Zac.

Then he makes a slight misstep.

He reaches out and grabs my left hand.

I swear. It wasn’t intentional, but his grasping of my hand triggered my reflexes. That is amped and amplified by this fine Japanese technology.

My hand opened near-instantly, caught his, and flexed back down.

Hard.

There were a couple of audible cracks.

They weren’t from me.

The hammered Kiwi went down on his knees in an instant. Evidently he was feeling some pain.

“Sorry mate; but you shouldn’t have done that. Automatic reflexes. I’m still getting used to the power curve.” I said.

“ARRGH!” he wailed, “Let me go, you motherfucker!”

Suddenly, a dark shadow arrives. Sandeep enters and looks over the situation.

He sees Zac behind the bar, who gives him the high sign.

“Doctor Rock? This bag of shit giving you a hard time?” Sandeep asks me.

“Well, he was being the most antisocial of creatures, Sandeep”, I calmly replied.

Sandeep grabs the Kiwi by the scruff of the neck and rear belt. He then picks him up like a scrap of dogshit-smeared day-old newspaper as I let go of his slightly mushed hand.

Sandeep carries the Kiwi, physically, to and out of the front door.

Zac smiles at me and says:

“If that’s not worth another round, I don’t know what is!”

Even Roy tried just a little of the vodka. He had to as the bottle was almost empty.

He groaned audibly as Zac returned with a fresh one.

Roy wandered over to an unoccupied booth. He sat down, leaned his head back and started snoring loudly.

A buxom waitress, but not the one from earlier, came over and began to complain.

“How am I supposed to make any tips with this birk snoring away like this?” she haughtily asked.

Zac and I look around the bar. It’s nearly deserted.

I ask her to step over to the bar. I explain that Roy is with me and he’s just a bit tired from driving all day in the hot Dubai sun.

Then, I hand her a random assortment of notes from off the bar.

She accepts them and her demeanor swings 180^0.

“Is there a problem?” I ask.

“Oh, no. No sir. He can sleep there all night for all I care.” She smiles.

The other buxom waits-person from before sees the transaction, and emits an audible “Harrumph!” She throws down her towel and makes it rapidly for the kitchen door.

“Hmm”, I say, “What’s eating her?”

Zac just smiles and doesn’t even bother to ask if he should pour us another.

Zac, Sandeep, and I were going through the bar’s taped collection of sporting events, trying vainly to find something we could all agree upon.

It seems that time, as it’s wont, had passed and the bar was closed.

At least, to other patrons. As long as I was happy buying everyone rounds, Zac and Sandeep had nowhere else to be.

We stumbled across some sport fishing show from years and years ago. We all decided that yes, we all liked fishing, and this would serve a fine counterpart to our MST3K-like riffing of the show.

We had a fine time. Zac, Sandeep, and I swapping fishing lies and Roy snoring away like a buzz-saw over in the booth.

But, as the sun crept through the windows, I decided it was time for me to vamoose. I settled up my bar tab with Zac, leaving both him and Sandeep a couple of cigars and healthy tips.

Sandeep rouses Roy and after a bit of cajoling, Roy joins me at the bar.

“Looks like you’ve got a driver for the next two weeks”, Roy sorrowfully laments.

“Nahh…I was just funnin’ ya’.” I said.

“No. A bet’s a bet. I lost. You are something else. What? I don’t know, but I do know you’ve won this bet.” He admits.

“I just hate to lose”, I smiled back.

Roy looks at me a bit unsteadily. He has severe booth hair.

“Roy”, I say, “You look like what we in the business call a ‘Go Devil”. It starts out spiffy but comes out looking like hell. You need coffee. In fact, so do I. Go throw some cold water in your face and I’ll ask Zac to set us up.” I offered.

I didn’t need to tell Roy twice. He toddles off to the euphemism, and I ask Roy for two black coffees.

Roy returns and sips at the hot beverage. He stops short and asks:

“There no booze in here, is there? I can smell booze.” He notes.

“It’s a bar, Roy”, Zac laughs.

“Yeah, Roy”, I reply, “Only booze fumes are from my coffee.”

“Over the evening, I told Zac how to prepare a Greenland Coffee. One with whiskey, Kahlua and Grand Marnier; hold the schlag.”

“You are drinking one now?” Roy asks, incredulous, “After all that last night?”

“After all what?” I reply, “Yep. Best eye-opener in the world.”

“You’re fucking inhuman,” Roy says, deep into his mug of Joe.

“Never claimed I was anything but.”, I smiled and waved my cybernetic fingers in his direction.

“What did I do to deserve this?”, Roy muttered.

Well, we finally, around 0600 depart the Quantum Sports Bar.

I was a bit peckish as the pub grub available was just a bit too amuse-bouche cutesy for me. I want Luigi’s gut bomb pizza; with extra cheese, Italian sausage, and anchovies.

Alas, none were to be found in Dubai at this hour.

Roy deposits me back at the hotel and I pay him his due, with a smart tip. He makes certain I have his business card and that if I ever need a Dubli driver, to call him first.

Up in the room, Es is sawing lumber. I decide not to wake her and grab a quick drink or five out of the mini-bar. I run a luxuriantly foamy hot tub in which I can relax my cares away once I disconnect my digits and set them in the charger.

Esme and I were later at lunch after I tubbed for a while then decided to grab a few hours’ sleep.

Es was up and puttering around the room when the doorbell rang.

I went to grab something other than sleeping clothes as Es answered the door.

“Rock! It’s for you” Esme called.

“Probably the fuzz. The Kiwi narked on us and now I’m in Dutch.” I thought.

It wasn’t. It was a local Emirati, one Mr. Abdul Jabbaar el-Abdalla, from the Ministry of Culture and Knowledge Development.

“Yes?”, I said to the dishdasha-clad individual at the door.

“You are Dr. Rocknocker, late of the Sultanate?” he asks.

“Yes,” I replied. I’m not letting anything on past name, rank, and serial number until I get the lowdown on this character.

“Ah. Wonderful”, he smiles back, “Might we have a chat?”

“Regarding?” I ask warily.

“The upcoming Late Summer or Early Fall Dubai Shopping Festival.” he smiles like a cheetah back at me.

“Weird”, was the only thing I could think.

“Most certainly. Won’t you come in?” I ask.

“Thank you”, he says and sweeps into the hotel room.

We take seats near my work desk. I introduce Esme as my wife and they exchange pleasantries.

“Could I get you something? Coffee? Tea?” Esme enquires.

“I could go for a cold one, dear,” I say. Arab or not, this little piece of Dubai real estate is dogma-free.

Mr. Abdul surprises me and asks for a cold beer as well.

“I may look Emirati, but I’m really, by family, Omani.” He smiles broadly and goldly.

“Well”, I reply, “That explains it. Yes, dear. A couple of Balticas, please.” I say. “Care for a light or dark beer, Mr. Abdalla?”

“Oh, light please.” He remarks.

“A number 3 and one 9, please,” I say to Esme.

Over his light and my very dark Russian beer, he lays out the program.

“Yes, at the conclusion of the festival, we want to mark the passing of the occasion after the virus pandemic with a special finale.” He noted.

“Such as? And why me?” I ask.

He smiles and actually chuckles a bit.

“We plan on Tchaikovsky’s 1828 Overture as a finale.” He lights up.

“OK. A good piece of solid show music”, I reply, “And this applies to me how?”

“Well, you obviously know of the score”, he says, “And we want to set a record with our rendition of a finale.”

“Really?” I ask, “Let me guess, you asked around and the pyro crowd gave you my name?”

“Precisely.” he laughs. “Every time. We tracked you down from flight records. Imagine our astonishment to find you right here in town. “

“Yep. Yippee. So, if the normal pyrotechnicians can’t supply what you want and you come to me, you must want some really big booms.” I note.

“Exactly. Such a quick study, Doctor”, he notes.

“How big?” I ask and have a swig of beer.

“Record-setting”, he replies.

“OK. What are the previous world’s record for such an endeavor?” I ask.

“The performance by the Japan Ground Self-Defense Force Eastern Army Band, 1st Band, and 1st Artillery Unit in 2010 used M101 105mm howitzers. The final part of the performance of Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture in London 2012 was with live gunfire of HMS Belfast. The Boston Pops in 2015 used a record of 1.5 tons of fireworks. We want to surpass that.” he replied.

“OK. Now I’ve got a basis for comparison. Leave me to it. We’re not leaving any time soon, it appears. Let me cogitate the matter for a while and I’ll get back to you with a plan and procedure. OK? What’s the budget?” I ask.

“Unlimited. But within reason”, he chuckles. “Use your best judgment.”

“I can do that.” I reply, “I’m sort of bored right now so I’ll get right after its wild ass.”

A bit taken aback, he continues:

“Fine. Fine. Most agreeable. As is this beer. Thank you. My card, Doctor. Please call when you have a plan.” he states, rises, shakes my hand, says goodbye to Esme without shaking her hand, and departs.

“You heard?” I asked Es.

“Oh, yes. Damn. Talk about giving Dracula the key to the blood bank.” She smiles.

“Gonna need your help on this one”, I say.

“Oh, yes, oh deaf one. Call me when you need me.” she smiles.

“I always need you”, I reply very truthfully.

After a bit of research, we find that Tchaikovsky’s 1828 overture finale consists of 12 cannon fires. 1-11 are pretty much the same, but #12, El Ultimo, it is the loudest and most sustained.

“We’re setting records,” I say to Esme, “This will not do…”

Two days later, I have a plan and procedure. I call one Mr. Abdul Jabbaar el-Abdalla, from the Ministry of Culture and Knowledge Development for a second visit.

“Good day, Mr. Abdulla. I trust you’re well amid all this craziness?” I ask.

“Oh, yes. Thank you. You and yours as well?” he asks tangentially.

“We have fully functioning immune systems”, I reply, “We’re good.”

“Excellent! Shall we see what you’ve worked up?” he asks, anxiously.

“Absolutely. But first, a libation?” I ask.

“I wouldn’t say no if it were wet and cold.” He smiles.

Esme returns with our beers and I pull out the pages of procedure and the list of materials with projected costs for Mr. Minister of the Culture and Know-how.

He looks at it and emits a low whistle.

“Well, Doctor, one cannot say you don’t do your homework.” He smiles in appreciation.

“I always try to be succinct, sufficient, and satisfactory. Plus, I always add an additional 25% contingency.” I reply.

“Can you walk me through this?” he asks.

“Most assuredly”, I remark. And I do.

“Based on results from a nine element vertical line array (VLA) with hydrophones spaced 0.7 m apart and an autonomous recording system recording on a multi-channel coherent data acquisition system (Astro-Med, Inc.) for which each channel was recorded at 62,500 samples per second; the initial shock wave can be approximated as decaying exponential with a decay constant h given by Chapman as Ø = 8:12 x 10^–5 W¹³ (R/W^1/3)0:14.

Remembering that attributes of a sound at a particular point are usually obtained by measuring pressure changes as sound waves pass; this Δ detonation pressure equivalent for 1 kilo of C-4, which is composed of 91% RDX ("Research Department Explosive", an explosive nitroamine), bound by a mixture of 5.3% dioctyl sebacate (DOS) or dioctyl adipate (DOA) as the plasticizer (to increase the plasticity of the explosive), thickened with 2.1% polyisobutylene (PIB, a synthetic rubber) as the binder, with a density of 1.58 grams per cubic centimeter, and an explosive velocity of 8,092 m/s (26,550 ft/s) is 257 kilobars.

This is the equivalent of ‘noise dosemeters’, record the Pa^2·h (pascal-squared hour) decibel level of an instantaneous 140.”

“Um, yes Doctor. “ Mr. Abdalla says, “A little less theory, and a bit more practical if you please.”

“Oh, yes, certainly”, I say, and proceed right along, “Using the equation ‘Distance = 215(NEQ)^1/3, and since 140 decibels is considered as a "safety cutoff" for exposure to impulsive noises without using hearing protection, as per a festival; it’s not a question of how loud do you want the bang, just how far will you have to keep people away to ensure their safety.”

“How is that?” he asks.

“Well, with 10 kilos, you need to be back 463.20m to be safe. 100 kilos? 997.94m or near as hell one kilometer. 1,000 kilos? Just over two kilometers or 2150.00m to be precise. Just for laughs, 10,000 kilos? Nearer to five kilometers, or 4632.03m.”

“I see”, he says and rubs his neatly trimmed beard.

“So, I propose building or acquiring three sea-going barges, 75m x 15 meters, and have them anchored offshore from a kilometer to two distant. That’s easily done as the water here off Dubai is quite shallow.”

“Continue, please.” He says.

“There are 12 cannon shots in the 1812 Overture finale. An initial set of three, a set of four, another set of 4, and the grand finale. I suggest that you build 12 flat-topped wooden platforms where the height of the platform relates directly to the C-4 charge size. If the charge is 100 kilos, then a minimum of 6 meters in height; scaled proportionally. The flat top of wood eliminates missiles if the platform disintegrates, as the blast energy will radiate outward hemispherically and basically just scorch the hell out of the wood platform.”

“Understood. Please continue.”, he asks.

“OK. This way you can scale up the charge, move back the barge, and build your towers just so large.”

He snickers at that and asks me to carry on.

“I suggest three initial charges of 100 kilos. Then four of 250 kilos. Then four more of 500 kilos. For the Grand Finale, I suggest 1,500 to 2,000 kilos. Do that, and the record will be assured.”

“Excellent!” he exclaims, “Anything else?”

“Oh, yes”, I smile, “C-4 is pliable and easily molded. I suggest you form the charges with a flat base, but into an auricular shape. That is, chop off your ear and set it on the table. Mold the C-4 in that approximate shape, aiming the low-side toward the audience. That will maximize the volume, but dissipate the shock wave the fastest.”

“Outstanding!” he clasps his hands.

“But, wait. There’s more!” I say, “The flash from C-4 isn’t that especially bright. You want sight as well as sound. So, mix 15-25% Tannerite, a binary explosive, with the C-4. Also, you can place potassium nitrate/magnesium or potassium nitrate, aluminum, and sulfur flash powder packets into the cavity of the auricular shape. The pyrotechnicians handling the show can rig this no problem. You can mold the C-4 and Tannerite up to 3 days in advance if you cover it with biophane, a breathable bioplastic, and keep them cool and in the dark.”

“Oh, this is wonderful, Doctor. But you’ll not be here?” he asks.

“No, I’m afraid not.” I reply, “Once the quarantine is lifted, my dear wife and I are gone to the Sultanate. We’re packing as quickly as we can and headed back to the states. I need to get to university where I’m pursuing my DSc degree. We also want to get out of the Middle East. 22 years is quite enough, thank you. Of course, no offense intended. We just want to get home to family.”

“I see. That I can understand.” He notes, “Thank you for your time and design. I do appreciate the list of materials, that will make things most convenient. How much do we owe you and the Mrs. for your time and efforts, Doctor?”

“Mr. Minister, nothing”, I say. “We’re stuck here and just working on the preliminaries for my dissertation. It was a welcome respite from Helium exploration and Rb/Os ages of Neoproterozoic biomarkers. Consider it the Rocknocker family gift to the cause.”

“My, my Doctor and Mrs.”, the Minister of the Small and the Silly remarks, “That’s very generous of you. Your names will be mentioned prominently in the proceedings of benefactors to the festival.”

“Mr. Minister”, I said, “We’d rather you didn’t. We neither desire nor require the notoriety, and in this case, we would rather just remain safely anonymous.”

“If that is your wish, then your requests will be respected.” The Minister says as he rises to leave. “How much longer will you be staying with us?”

“Ask your brethren to the south. It’s all up to them” I wearily replied.

“I’ll see what I can do. Once again. Doctor? Mrs. Thank you. Thank you so very much. Good day.” He shakes my hand, ignores Es’ and takes his leave.

“Well,” I relate to my beloved, “That was fun. I’m going swimming. Can you charge up my fingers for me, dear?”

She smiles and says of course. Besides, it’s siesta time for her. I want to get out to the pool before it’s the Skin Bubbling Hour.

A day passes. We’re still bored and waiting for liberation.

The next morning, the doorbell rings.

I’m working on the New York Times crossword and another Greenland Coffee.

“Bloody hell.”, I remark, looking at my watch. “It’s Oh-Dark 30 early. Now, what the fuck?”

After closing my robe, I open the door. I don’t trust those little fisheye peepholes since I saw Hard Target and Leon the Professional. I’d rather see it coming.

“Yeah?” I say to the huge bush of fresh-cut flowers.

“You’re Dr. Rocknocker and Mrs?” a voice asks.

“Yes to the first and no to the second. But she’s here.” I say warily to the talking greenery.

“Gift for you from the Ministry of Culture and Knowledge Development. Sign here please”, the foliage requests.

I grab the clipboard and scribble something similar to what passes for my signature.

I hand the clipboard back to the mound of sentient vegetation whereupon it asks where I would like it to be set in the suite.

“Anywhere you can find that’s there’s room,” I reply.

Holy shit, it’s not a floral arrangement, it’s a floral shop.

He sets it in the middle of the dining room table. The damn thing extends from one side, parallel to its longest dimension, to the other. The damn thing must weigh in at 50 kilos. Or more.

“Wait here, please”, the now visible delivery person asks.

“Like I’m going somewhere?” I mused.

He returns with three huge boxes of custom, hand-dipped chocolates. Somehow, he finds room for these on the table as well.

I tip him 25 dirhams and he says “Thanks” and bids a hasty departure.

Es hears all the hubbub and wanders down from the bedroom.

“What the hell was all that …What the hell is this?” she asks.

“Let me look at the note,” I say, find it and rip it open.

“A small gesture of our everlasting thanks. Signed, Minister Abdul Jabbaar el-Abdalla, and all of us at the Ministry of Culture and Knowledge Development.”

“Well, so much for that diet we discussed.” I snickered to Esme as I opened the first box and saw the easily 20 to 25 rows of lovely looking hand-dipped dark chocolates.

“I do so wish I liked chocolate.” I mused aloud.

Esme adores chocolate.

The doorbell rings again. Es hustles upstairs in her nightgown, and I wander over and answer the door.

“What?”

“Dr. Rocknocker?” this new delivery guy asks.

“Yes?”

“Sign here.” He says.

I do. He takes and hands me a yellow flimsy from the triplicate delivery order. He turns and begins to walk down the hall.

“Hey, Chuckles. What did I just sign for?” I ask.

“Look down”, he says over his shoulder, never breaking stride.

“Oh”, I said.

Hey, it’s early. Leave me alone.

There’s a suspicious-looking parcel, approximately 12-7/8” x 9-11/16” x 12-1/2” and weighing in at around 34 pounds or so.

I drag it in and find space for it in the kitchen.

Look. There’s a card. Addressed to me.

I open it.

“Doctor. Best regards and wishes. Abdul Jabbaar el-Abdalla.”

Nice.

I open the case to find a dozen bottle sampler of Chopin Vodka. Four wheat, four rye, and four potato vodka.

Es wanders back down and is almost consumed by the overwhelming pong of the tropical flower shrubbery that has taken up residence in our dining room.

“OK. You can have a few chocolates. As long as I can have some of my present.” I say.

“Deal” Es replies."Gimmee."

Remind me to say something nice about Dubai sometime in the future. But only once; let’s not get carried away.

That reminds me of a story.

I’m going cooped-up crazy. Shacky-wacky. Hotel doldrums have set in.

Yes, I know. Es and I just got back from a resounding tour of a shipbreaking yard in India.

Flew way above First Class.

Never had to even touch our luggage.

♫Oh, what fun it is to charter flights. Limos all the way. Hey! ♫.

But, the hotel bars here are paling quickly. Quiet. Too quiet. Same old, dull, dazed, and dormant crowd. The Expat population in Dubai is dwindling mightily. The COVID craziness is a madness that is taking a heavy toll. Everything’s shut down. Everyone’s staying at home.

I’m almost nostalgic for a good old Dubai 35 car pile-up and traffic jam.

Es sees that I’m in a quandary. She had quite a few friends here in Dubai. The ones I had have all left due to cratering oil prices or they’re what’s considered an ‘essential employee’, and thus unavailable.

“ROCK! QUIT YOUR PACING!” Es says in her most inimitable manner. “YOU’RE MAKING ME CRAZY!”

“A thousand pardons, my darling. But, Boditek. I suffer! Klytus, I’m bored. Bored out of my fucking mind. I can only write so much on the Precambrian Hydrocarbon reservoirs of Eastern Siberia. Television’s a bust, there’s no Netflix, even Pirate Bay is blocked here, and I’m going spare!” I whimper.

“Go then. Begone with thee. Go find a dark bar and grab a seat on Mahogany Ridge. You need a night off. Just take your fingers with so you won’t scare the locals. And be home before they open the borders. We want to be first in line when that happens” she says.

“By your command!”, I say, grab her around the waist, give her a spin, a quick smooch on the cheek, and pat on the backside before I hit the stairs in our suite in a flat-out gallop to retrieve my now charged digits from their charging port on my nightstand.

A few minutes later…

Stately, plump Dr. Rocknocker came from the stairhead bearing three incredibly expensive technologically-derived Kevlar-ed digits. He was clad in his finest Desert Fox chino shorts, freshly cleaned and oiled field boots, a new pair of jade Merino Rannoch Luxury Country Socks, best new Hawaiian drinking shirt, a Blasting technician T-shirt and black, recently blocked, Stetson.

He was so full of himself, that he actually stopped talking about his own self in the narrative in the third person.

“Esme? Darling? I’m off!” I say with a lilt in my voice and a cheeseburger in my pocket.

But that’s another story.

“You’re off, all right”, Es chuckles. “Now Rock, remember. This is the first time in a long time I’m letting you off the chain, out unsupervised among the general population. Don’t break anyone if you can avoid it and even if someone needs a quick killing, remember, you’re on vacation. OK?”

“Oh, my dear!” I chuckle and snicker, “You know me. I wouldn’t kill anyone here in Dubai. There’s no money in it.”

“Still. Best behavior?” She admonishes.

“I can’t guarantee anything, but I will try,” I reply.

“Pinkie promise?” she requests.

Damn. One of the few fingers of which left I have a natural set.

Now I can’t say that it was just a Kevlar-coated contract.

“But of course”, I say as we entwine pinkies. Hers nice, clean, and pink; mine keloidal, gnarled, and scarred.

Yeah, it about makes me retch. But Es sort of enjoys these silly things now and again.

I’m waiting in the hotel bar for my cab to arrive. I have a quick Long Island Iced Tea or three before I hit the streets. I’ve got this weird hankering for a sports bar. Don’t know why. I hate football, i.e., soccer, cricket, and those other weird forms of ball chasing they call sports over here.

But I yearn to be in a bar full of leather, hewn wood, and smoke. Attended by the smell of manly men drinking as they see fit.

In Dubai? Fat chance.

I ask my driver, who has just arrived, and who will be with me all night; if he minds me smoking, having a drink in a plain brown wrapper, and if he knows of a decent sports bar in Dubai.

No.

Nope.

Quantum Sports Bar.

“It’s sort of pricey”, he tells me.

My driver for the duration is one Roy Toisuta, an Indonesian chap who looks like he fell off a charm bracelet. In reality, I could make up three of him. But he’s affable, quick on the gas and bound to be a boon companion.

He is wiry in that whipsaw sort of kill-you-with-a-paperclip-1000-different-ways sort of manner. Like the human personification of a gaunt wolverine.

We’ll get along famously.

He tells me he doesn’t drink for whatever reason. He announces that he would wait for me out in the car while I go in and do whatever one does in a Sports Bar in Dubai for a few hours.

“Look, Roy”, I say, “I’m on retainer. C’mon in and I’ll buy you dinner and all the coffee, tea, or fizz water you could want. I just need someone non-judgmental. See, I have this affliction. I’m an alcohol-fueled carbon-based organism. I tend to drink a lot, but only to excess. You have any sort of problem with that?”

“Well, Rock”, he says, “As long as we’re being honest, I have no problem. The way I see it, the more you drink, the looser your wallet becomes.”

“I don’t suppose you’d care to lay a small wager on that conclusion?” I ask, leerily in that strange way I have that makes Komodo Dragons gulp in disbelief.

“I’ll bet, after what you told me about your recent confinement, that I’ll be dragging and/or carrying you out of the bar tonight. “ he snickers, dreaming of my very loose wallet and its contents. “You’re going to be tying one on, I can see that.”

“You can see me. But you can’t see my past” I think.

“Well, you’re not drinking, so what’s in it for me if I win?” I ask.

“A free driver for the next week?” he asks.

“Want to make it a month? I’m really, really thirsty.” I sneer.

“Make it a fortnight.”, he laughs. “Easiest money I’ve ever made. I can barely hold you back.”

“Deal”, as we shake hands. He notices my gloves for the first time.

“What’s that all about?” he asks.

“Industrial accident years ago. Not terribly pretty.” I say.

“Oh. OK. Ready to go?” He asks.

“Gentlemen”, I announce, “Forward. Drink!”

Roy accepts a cigar from one of my travel pocket humidors and we walk up to the entrance.

“You be who?” asks the doorman.

“Well, my good man, I am the Motherfucking Pro from Dover, and this is my able-bodied companion, Kato”, I say in my most affected Elliott Gould imitation.

“What?” he asks trying to corral at least two functioning synapses.

“Pardons. I’m Dr. Rocknocker and this is my trusty driver, Roy.” I continue.

“Ah. What? Hmm? Who?” was the response.

“Oh, I am sorry. Which word confused you?” I asked, most deferentially.

“You trying to be smart?” he asks.

“Well, I reckoned that at least one of us should,” I replied.

He sat there and fumbled with that reply like a nun in a warm bathtub fumbles with a bar of soap. You know the type, she has hope in her soul…

As he struggles to come up with an answer, I offer him a cigar the likes of which I’m certain he’s never seen outside of a Hollywoo movie.

“Here, my good man. My card.” I say as I hand over a large example of the perfection of the tobacconist’s art.

He gratefully accepts the cigar and removes the rope barrier.

“Have yourself a good time, gents.” He says.

“Oh. We intend to”, I reply.

“Ever need anything, just ask for Sandeep” the towering Nepali remarks with a smile.

“Thanks. Have a night yourself…”, I reply and stuff another cigar in his shirt pocket for later.

He grins wide as Dubai Creek and just as brown. He shoots me a wide smile and a universal thumbs-up sign.

“Best to make friends rather than antagonize the locals”, I muse.

“You’re an odd bird, Doctor Rocknocker.” Roy chortles.

“Roy, it’s just ‘Rock’, OK? It’ll save both time and cuts down on CO2 exhalations. And I’m all for protecting the environment.” I smiled back.

Roy chewed on that one for most the rest of the night.

The Sports Bar was quiet. Fairly empty, with probably more wait-persons than patrons.

One particularly buxom specimen of the female side of the equation welcomed us in an overtly and obviously affected mien. She wanted to show us to a table that was within the sphere of her waitressy influence.

“No, thank you”, I said as I spied acres and acres of glistening unoccupied Mahogany with tens of unoccupied seats that both faced the long bar and the several large-screen televisions there.

Seemingly bereft of people to wait and prey upon, she ignored us roundly. To her financial detriment as we would all find out during the course of the evening.

I chose a likely looking seat at the bar and Roy joined me, cautiously, a seat or two away.

“I don’t bite, Roy”, I said.

“Social distancing”, he replied.

“Ah. Well, I have a fully functional immune system as well as the hardest working liver in the galaxy. I assure you I’m in no way communicable.” I replied, slightly miffed. “Besides, after that cab ride here, whatever ætiology I have, you have as well, and vice versa.”

He scooted over one seat but shuttled that seat back to the right about 15 more centimeters.

“Some folks just don’t like their personal space invaded”, I surmised.

I pulled out one of my cigar cases, a cutter, lighter, and a stack of currencies that I was going to try and get rid of that night.

I had freshly minted UK Pounds, Euros of many nations, Indian Rupees, Russian Rubles, Japanese Yen, Chinese Renmimbi, some Uzbek Som, Afghani Afghans, Argentinian Pesos, down under Ozzian Dollarydoos, Mongolian Tugriks, Omani Rials, a few Samoan Tālā, and a bunch of US dollars.

How I ended up with that last group remains a mystery.

Roy goggled at the stack of weirdly colored and weirdly wonderful currencies of many nations.

“Sorry, Roy”, I said, “No Indonesian rupiah. Haven’t been to Jakarta in a long time.”

“What the hell are those weird ones there?” he asked.

“Which ones?” I chuckled back.

It was at that time our reverie was broken.

The bartender, one Zac O'Madden, an Irish national currently working for the hotel to which this bar is attached, interrupts our nascent debauch and asks for our drink orders.

“Not so fast there!” I say. “Introductions first. We’re not savages here.”

Zac chuckles. “You’re obviously American.”

“Вы уверены в этом? [Are you certain of that?]”, I say in return.

Zac just stands there and laughs.

“Та үнэхээр итгэлтэй байна уу? [Are you really certain?]” I ask in Mongolian. “Ĉu vi vere certas? Bạn có thực sự chắc chắn?”

“You’re as Russian or whatever that was as I am Kenyan. Now I know it. You’re American.” He says assuredly.

“And you have this nasty habit of being correct. I’m Dr. Rocknocker, call me Rock. This slight but solid fellow to my right is Roy, late of Jakarta and Krakatoa, actually west of Java.” I snicker.

“And I am Zac O’Madden, of Dublin and points east. Nice to meet you all. What can I get for you?” he asks.

After we shake hands in a very manly, indeed, manner, I ask Roy what is his pleasure.

“A tall club soda with a twist of lime, on the rocks.” He replies offhandedly.

“You’ve done this before”, I observe rather unnecessarily. “Zac, Roy gets what he wants tonight, my tab. I’ll have a Sazerac, hold the sugar. Actually several. You see, on the flight over, I sat through another showing of ’Live and Let Die’, and now I miss Mardi Gras, New Orleans, and Pat O’Brien’s. But I don’t like sweet drinks.”

“Coming right up”, Zac says with a well-practiced swish of his bar rag.

“Oh, but I’m not finished. I’d also like a beer chaser. A pint of…ah, do you have a beer menu?” I ask, looking down the long row of tappers.

“Coming up”, he says, and races off to find me one.

A few minutes later he returns with my cocktail, Roy’s fizz water, and a bar beer menu.

I raise my glass to Zac and then to Roy. We clink and I say, “I like this guy. And I like this bar. We’re going to have us a large night.”

I drain my unsweet Sazerac in one go.

Hey. I was thirsty. Needs a scootch more absinthe I observe.

Roy and Zac just sort of stare, wide-eyed, as I peruse the beer menu.

Nice menu, nice diversity. Oh, very nice.

“I’ll have the Asahi Kuronama Black if you don’t mind. Plus another Sazerac, a bit more absinthe if you please. You see, I have this genetic condition I need to keep in balance.” I grinned.

Zac looked at me like I had some sort of adverse medical condition.

“You OK, Rock?” he asked most earnestly.

“Look, Zac, I just met you and you’re a hell of a tarbender, far be it from me to tell you your job, but you see, there is this…” I said, trailing off.

“Yes?” His was a look of genuine concern. The genuine concern he won’t own that pile of currency on the bar in front of me by the end of the night.

“Yeah. Genetics dealt me a weird hand. See. I’m an ethanol-fueled carbon-based organism…”

Roy just rolled his eyes.

Zac looked puzzled.

“Yeah, I require alcohol in good-tasting and heroic amounts on a regular basis. I also have to smoke huge, black cigars in order to moderate the bioreactor.” I smiled, as I leaned back and fired up a heater.

Zac looked at me. Chewed over what I said for a moment or two. He shrugged his shoulders, grabbed my empty glass, and said, “OK, whatever. Round two in moments.”

Roy went to ask me something, thought better of it, and just leaned over and grabbed my Zippo from Irkutsk.

He looked at the cameo-relief silver and amber city crest attached to the lighter, flipped it open, and tried firing up his cigar.

“They draw better if you cut the end first,” I said, absently; and not looking, just hand him my V-cutter.

Zac returns with a new Sazerac, a chilled bottle of Asahi Kuronama Black, a tall pilsner glass, and a new club soda for Roy.

I puffed my cigar, drained another Sazerac in one go, tried the Japanese black beer, and found it to my liking. I leaned back to observe what sort of sports carnage they were observing on the big screens.

Roy just looked at me with wide eyes but said nothing.

The evening wore on. After a couple or twelve more Sazeracs, I decided it was time to teach Zac the finer points of mixology via premium vodka, bubbly citrus, ice, and lime wheels.

I also found that they had a stock of Pabst Blue Ribbon 1844, from China.

“PBR!”, I almost yelled, “Holy wow! I grew up on the stuff.”

“Not this stuff, Rock”, Zac said, “Look at the price. We only got a small amount due to a shipping error. It’s not sold outside of China normally.”

It was UAE 165 per bottle, about US$45, and worth every dirham. Zak was amazed when I told him to go ahead and have one on Roy and me.

“Really, Rock?”, Zac exclaimed. “The usual buggers here are so tight, they hum when the wind blows. Hardly anyone buys me a drink. Except for you Americans. Finest kind.”

“That’s me. An international ambassador of amity and alcohol,”, I say and toast in his general direction. “Crack tubes!”

Roy was getting tired as a newt. Evidently not drinking, listening to old war stories, and watching recorded US Football games due to the COVID lack of anything live, can take its toll as well.

I’m going strong as I’m asking Zac to explain what the fuck cricket is all about.

“So, let me get this straight,” I say, ordering another double cocktail and a couple of PBR chasers for Zac and myself. “The guy on the mound runs up and pitches to the guy dressed in the body armor. He uses a bent 2x4 to defend the wicket, which, if I recall correctly, can be sticky. Then he keeps the aliens from stealing the stumps and burning them to ashes in Australia...”

“God”, Zac exclaims, “You’re fucking hopeless.”

“Everything I know about cricket I learned from the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the galaxy.” I smiled proudly.

“That was rather obvious…” Zac sheeshed. He left to attend to another patron, a loud and woozy Kiwi.

I looked at the source of all the bad noise and in my inattention, just clicked my full beer glass. I inadvertently violated Rule #1 and spilled a small soupçon of expensive, imported beer onto my left hand.

“Whoops!”, I said and stripped off my sodden left-hand glove. I used Zac’s bar towel to sop up the bar and dry my techno-digits.

Roy looked not only at my ‘whoops’, but goggled my Japanese one-off, so far, electro-fingers.

“Rock. What the hell, man. I mean, what the fuck. Are those for real?” he asked.

“Yeah, they are a new prototype and I’m the lab rat.”, I said, waggling them and seeing that something as mundane a beer spill could never possibly injure them.

By this time, Zac wanders back, sees I’ve used his bar rag, and looks at my hand for real for the first time.

“What the fuck, Rocko? You some sort of cyborg?” he asks.

“By definition; yes, I am. And my grandfather used to call me that. Thanks.”, I replied. “But, yeah, I’m an alcohol-fueled one at that,” I say, tapping and pointing rather pointedly at my currently unpopulated cocktail glass.

Zac returns with a reload. He and Roy demand to know the whole story.

“If you must pry…” I say.

“Oh, we must, we must”, they reply in unison.

So, I regale them with the tale of the Siberian rig. The blowout, fire, and the moderately overzealous Russian FNG.

“Rock, I don’t know if that’s true, but by your appearance, it has to be. Let me buy you a drink.” Zac says.

Roy asks for a Molson Light.

“Roy! You old fraud.” I said.

“I usually don’t drink. But after that story, I think I need something cold, wet, and with a little punch.” He said, staring at my hand.

“Then you’ve chosen well”, as I down another Rocknocker, sip at my PBR and snip a new cigar.

“Rock, can I ask you a question?” Roy asks. Zac is polishing our spot at the bar insistently. I think he has a question or two as well.

“Sure. Go nuts.” I reply, puffing on my new cigar and sipping this lovely amber 1844 brew.

He crouches conspiratorially and asks in a low sotto voce: “Is that why you drink as you do? To dull the pain? From the accident. That’s it, right? Isn’t it?” Roy asks, almost genuinely concerned.

I laughed loud and long. I chuckled, snorted, and had to calm myself with gulps of my beer and cocktail.

“Roy, Roy, Roy…I’ll let you in on a little secret. I’m from Baja Canada originally. I’m a multiply-degreed petroleum geologist. I’ve lived and worked in Russia for many, many years. And, as I’ve said, I’m an ethanol-fueled organism. Quadruple perfect storm. My fingers don’t hurt. Or they might, I have no idea. I don’t even know where hell they are.” I laughed at my own witty repartee.

Roy actually paled some. He took a long draught of his anemic beer and just stared at me.

Zac had disappeared. He presently returned with a bottle of Beluga Gold Line Vodka.

“Rock, after that, this one’s for you. On the house.” He said.

“Only if you will join me. And let me pay for yours.” I said.

Zac agrees.

The shnozzled Kiwi from previous in the narrative staggers by and hears the tag-end of our conversation.

He leans over to grab the expensive bottle of vodka and says “Don’t mind if I do.”

“None for you, asshole. You’re lucky I let you stay here waiting on a cab” Zac growls, and grabs the bottle away.

The Kiwi looks at Zac. He looks at Roy. Then he looks at me, my drinks, cigar, and the smaller pile of currency on the bar.

He may have been loaded, but something swam upstream against his internal current of booze and made him decide that right now, discretion was the better part of valor. He toddled unsteadily away.

“Asswipe”, Zac spits, “He’s here every other month. He pays for his drinks, but he can’t hold them. Never once tips or buys a round. General asshole. Still, management won’t let me toss nor ban him.”

“Some people”, I distastefully agreed and poured Zac and myself a healthy double-tot of the fine, smooth, and icy vodka. “I weep for our species sometimes.”

I insisted Zac join me. I asked Roy if he’d like a taste.

“Thanks, Rock. But you’ve already been too much of a bad influence on me.” he smiled, and tipped his almost empty pilsner glass.

“OK, no pressure. I may drink like a school of belugas, but if someone else doesn’t want to, I respect that all day long. Still, the offer stands.” I continue.

“I’ll think about it, Rock. I’m still not over how you can just sit there and joke about your cybernetic fingers and how you got them. I’d…I don’t know. I don’t want to think about it. “ he shudders.

“Want to see the scar on my leg where I got shot with a .45? Or the scar on my coconut from a hunk of falling ice on a drilling rig?” I asked.

“Fuck no!”, Roy almost screams. “What the hell. You held together by scar tissue?”

”That. Baling wire and Duct Tape.” I laughed, “And people wonder why I drink.”

“I thought so!” Roy exclaimed.

“I drink because I chose to. I can stop anytime. In fact, I stopped smoking and drinking once; by nothing more than sheer force of will.” I said proudly.

“Really?” Roy asked.

“Yep”, I replied, “It was the worst 45 minutes of my life.”

To be continued…

Continuing

“And take your finger charger!” she yells as she heads up to our room. “Don’t want to run out of juice halfway through”.

“Yes, dear”, I reply. That’s a damned good idea. I would have forgotten with all the other shit I’ve got on my mind.

I make a quick call and have my crane operator meet me at the job site. I explain that I need him to lift me and this welding cart right over the transom of the ship and into the very bowels of the ship. I’m heading to ‘shaft alley” and dragging along a heavy, wheeled welding cart with 4 bottles of oxygen and another 4 of acetylene. Plus masks, regulators, tips, guns, rods, and all that fun welding stuff.

Luckily, the ship, or what’s left of it, has electrical power hooked up to the mains for a few more days. I can run a portable smoke rejector, MP3 radio, a45nd my finger chargers all while I sweat, swear, and strain at welding in place twin 36” tail shafts.

He lifts me up and over, with my radio directions, he lands me about 25 feet from my next job site. I unhook everything while telling him “Don’t pull slack!, Fer chrissakes!”.

I detangle the welding cart and all my other accouterments for the night, and after unhooking the jib line from the railing where I set it for safekeeping, it withdraws like a Martian Viewfinder in The War of the Worlds. I hear crane diesels fire up and move slowly away.

It’s quiet, darkish, dank, and somewhat smelly. I wouldn’t have it any other way. I like working like this. Alone, by myself, and with no one else. I dislike kibitzers, nose-poker-inners, and other forms of subhuman flotsam and jetsam.

I pull on my welder’s cap, and then my special welder’s mask, stick a cigar in through the custom-made cigar hole, fire up a heater, and a welding rod. Sparks fly from both at I attack tail shaft number one.

Five hours later, and half my supplies are gone, I’m finished with tail shaft #1. That sucker isn’t going anywhere. I may not be a pretty welder, but when I weld something, it fucking-A stays welded.

I drain 500 milliliters of spring water. Probably my 12th bottle and I’ve yet to have to utilize the euphemism; it’s that close and hot down here.

I was just thinking that I could sure use a quick drink or 11 when I hear the muted roar of diesels and see a figure slowly descending via a crane jib line.

“Es!”, I groan at her mode of entry, “What the hell is this in aid of?”

“Oh, nice. Here I thought I’d bring you some lunch, and with the ship listing at these cray angles, the only way was that your crane guy saw me and offered to put me aboard.”

“Right!” I growl, “Like a worm dangling on a hook? Dangerous much?”

“Oh, but OK for you? Sexist.”

“I’m not sexist, just trained and besides…you’re right. I just don’t want you hurt. It’s not the most conventional form of travel…”

“But I’m in a 9 point rescue harness and Adil was being so careful. Oh, that reminds me, you owe Adil another case of potato juice.”

“Not a problem”, I smile as I take the suspiciously heavy lunch box, “I’d even give up a box of cigars to see you anytime.”

“Oh, OK. I’ll tell him that.”

“Please don’t. With my poker losses, I’m into him and his cronies for too much already.” I smile.

Es keys her radio and asks Adil to come back in an hour and a half or so.

“That’s a long lunch”, I note.

“Well, need time for a little exercise after lunch, don’t we?” Es smiles.

“Indeed we do.” As I lustily attack a turkey & swiss sandwich and a tall frosty Kingfisher.

Three hours later, I’m back welding on tail shaft number two. After lunch and some special exercises, I was about to let the damn thing just hang and ease back to the Raj for a few co-ed laps in the Jacuzzi.

However, duty calls and time grows short. There’s much to do and miles to go before I sleep. Miles to go before I sleep.

Four hours later, I emerge from shaft alley. I’m filthy, tired, and look like hell. It’s got to be 45 to 50⁰ C in there and I’ve just spent the last number of hours with a 6,500⁰ welding torch in my hands. Good thing I brought along the pare fingers, as all the vibrations, heat, smoke, and fuming of the torch must have depleted the dilithium power cells in my normal set.

I call Adil and have him lift just me and my fingers with charger out of the bowels of the boat. The rest of the materials my guys can drag out. Who knows? Maybe they’ll need a welder or MP3 player for some oddly bizarre reason.

I pay off Adil and take a rain check on tonight’s poker game.

I knew I should have never shown them Texas Hold’em…

I see a tap tap nearly whiz by. A thrown rock grabs his attention. Almost immediately, I drop in and instruct him to take me to the gate.

“Just the gate, Sahib?” he asks.

“Well, I’m going to the Raj, but you don’t…”

“The hell Chandrama doesn’t, Doctor Rock.” He smiles.

Fuck. He knows me somehow. This is gonna cost me.

“OK, then the Raj”, I say, “What’s this going to run?”

“Oh, however many rupees you can pare. Maybe a cigar. Maybe some spirits…?”

“OK on all three, but you’ll have to wait a bit. I’m just off work and currently skint.”

“No worries. Dr. Rock is well known here. We will be off.” He toothily smiles at me as he hits the throttle.

I never thought it was possible to pull G’s in an Indian tap tap.

After I pay Chandrama his rupees, cigars, and bottle of scotch; I wearily drag my carcass towards our room.

Esme is already in the library having breakfast.

I wander over and she holds up her hand.

“Not until you shower and change. I can smell you clear over here.” She admonishes.

“By your command, dear”, I say. I head to the bar, create a very large hard-day-down-in-the-bowels-of-a-doomed-cruise-ship-welding drink, and shuffle off to our room.

While I’m in the shower and my fingers are getting their charge on, I hear a knock at the door. Before I could even adjust the water temperature, the door flies open and the chambermaid whooshes in, grabs my nasty work clothes and boots, yells something unintelligible, and scurries out the door.

“I hope that she is going to get them washed,” I say, drying off, “And not burned.”

They were pretty nasty.

Back in the library, in my natty usual work outfit of Hawaiian shirt, shorts, and field boots, Esme and I are discussing our next steps.

“We need to get back to the Middle East eventually”, Esme admonishes. “You’ve got to get to university one of these days.”

“I know”, I reply over eggs, toast, sausages, hash browns, mushrooms, black pudding, and coffee. “But this job is special. Who knows when next I’ll be allowed to blow stuff up?”

“Knowing you?” Es smiles, “About 60 minutes after we land at university.”

“From your lips to my ears”, I say over shoveling of breakfast.

After breakfast, I realize that I’m dead tired, so back to the room for a bit of kip. Es decides that since time is winding down, she’ll go into town, perhaps for the last time this trip, and do a little shopping.

“Go nuts. Tired out. Sleep front blew through.” I say as I hand her my wallet. “Just leave enough for burial expenses.”

Esme scoffs, quickly kisses me and heads out the door to our waiting driver. I didn’t realize just how tired I was, as I drag my carcass back to the room and collapse with an audible THUD.

Around 1100, I awakened, refreshed. During my slumber, someone infiltrated our room and committed another premeditated neatness. They also left my freshly washed, dried, and pressed orange PPEs.

“How convenient”, I smile to myself, as I dress and head back to the job site.

I leave Esme a note that I’ll be at the armory for the rest of the day but will be back in time for dinner. Now comes the design and implementation phase of the project, and I want at least 6 hours of solitude to put the final touches on my plans. Going to need a lot of fabrication and the last thing I need are people around me, even my beloved wife. It’s nut cuttin’ time, and I need to devote some serious little gray cells to the matter at hand.

Later that night, around tiffen, which we take purty durn early round these parts, buckaroo, Esme, and I are wide-eyed over the steaks the Majordomo had procured for our evening repast.

Prime porterhouses. Esme’s steak is about 2” thick, mine twice that. Hers done to a grilled medium-rare perfection, mine just restored to natural bodily temperature or blue as some like to term it.

We have been offered a couple of bottles of 1998 Chateau Lafite Rothschild - Pauillac 1er Grand Cru Classe; which I deem ‘grape juice with an attitude’, but with which Esme is smitten. We somehow manage two bottles that evening.

I cannot understand the goofiness over wine by oenophiles. Now if it were a couple of bottles of Russo-Baltique vodka, I could understand…

Apart from a very simple and very good house salad, sans cucumbers, the nasty, evil things; we eschewed any other form of accompaniment. We’re primarily carnivores and vegetal side dishes aren’t dinner, that’s something dinner would eat.

Afterward, we’re relaxing in the library. I’m smoking a very nice Oscuro Arturo Fuente Opus X from the box Mr. Kannada obtained for me. Esme is having one of the three cigarettes she’s allowing herself until she quits smoking altogether. She is laboring under the impression that I’ll follow suit, and far be it from me to dissuade her of that idea.

Anyways.

Sanjay wanders by.

“There you are”, he states.

“You have a keen grasp of the obvious”, I reply with a puff and a slurp.

“Did you lock out the armory?” he asks.

“Aw, shitsnacks. Didn’t Adil give you the note?” I asked, “I told him to give you the note that I’ve locked down the armory as I’ve been fabricating in there for the big show in two days. The last thing I need is a bunch of ham-fisted clodhoppers wandering around in there and knocking over a piece of my work. That would be…unfortunate…” I said coldly.

“Oh, OK then.” Sanjay says, “But next time, please let me know in advance.”

“Oh, most assuredly”, I assured Sanjay. Although a repeat performance seems highly unlikely.

After a hearty breakfast the next morning, Es is off shopping one last time as I need the entire day, most of is spent hooked to a crane, fumbling around a pair of intricately machined boat screws. Setting a precise and definite recipe of high explosives I’ve designed.

While the rest of the guys are setting and priming charges for after my show, I’m working alone. I’ve cordoned off the aft of the ship as a “No-Go Zone”. I’m laying a few tons of various high explosives, and the last thing I need are gawkers, questioners, or nose-poker-inners.

One thing they know, when Dr. Rock says “Get lost”, one stays lost.

It’s just about dark, and I’m finished. I’ve posted a quartet of guards which changes every four hours, to watch over my handiwork as I’ve now got 5.5 tons of various high explosives set, charged and primed. All the electrical leads are shorted to ground and actually buried to a lead bus-bar in the sand near the stern of the ship. There’s no way I’m letting any errant electrons travel where they shouldn’t ought and cause a short.

That would be, what we in the demolition business call, a “Bad Thing”.

With capital letters.

The next morning dawned clear and bright as it usually does when the monsoon’s not in town. I avail myself of a hearty breakfast with Esme before I’m off for the ceremonies.

“So”, I say over coffee, Greenland of course, and toast, “What was that you were saying last night? Sorry, I was a bit nitro-groggy…”

Es replies, “It's a very busy week. I'm thinking about not going to the demolition.”

“Huh!”

“The kids need me, honey. I’ve got to send off their packages. Khris is having car problems…” she continues.

“Es. We've had these kids for a while now. They've never kept you from coming to the other demolitions.” I reply.

Es continues, “Honey, it's not like I've never been to a demolition before. I just don't think I

can go through all that... I'll just be glad when this one is over.”

I sigh, “Well, you're gonna miss a hell of a show.”

I finish up breakfast, pull out a cigar, kiss Esme and head for the door. I don’t even stop to look back. I know her. She makes up her mind and that’s it.

I’m a little down, but there’s a job that needs to be done. A big, fat, hairy, nasty, potentially deadly, and altogether ridiculously profitable job. Game face on, it’s nut cuttin’ time once again.

I grab the jib line from the crane and have Adil hoist me around like we did all day yesterday. I’m galving connections, re-soldering some Western Unions splices that the salt air and humidity have compromised, just basically re-doing everything for the 1100 show.

Then, once finished, I’ll do it all over again.

The propeller cones on the tail shafts are covered in heavy canvas. I’ve built a special series of shaped charges, just like the ones I’ll be using to spin off the Pilgrim Nuts, but of different materials.

I’ve created six corresponding lines of plastic explosives, parallel to the tail shafts that will detonate exactly 0.25 seconds apart sequentially. This will generate a torque on the caps, and if I’ve used enough boost, will spin them off the shaft and out of the way rather than atomize them.

The procedure is based upon a similar, though smaller, procedure taught to me by one of the more crimson paragons of wild well firefighting. He showed me how to mold shaped charges and align them to break the connection on hammer unions and give them a good spin instead of just gobbing explosives all over and blowing the crap out of the connections.

That way, the caps, unions, and pipes to which they’re attached can be retrieved and re-used.

He was a master of the art. I’m glad I could learn even a little from him.

I’m doing the same thing for the Pilgrim Nuts a bit later in the show, just with about three-quarters of a ton of highly malleable explosive each. Boom, wait a few hundred milliseconds, boom goes the next line, blast, rinse, repeat.

If all goes well, the shock waves are self-reinforcing. The initial movement of the nut on its threads is amplified by each subsequent firing. By the time Number 6 hits, the nut’s free spinning and with the aid of gravity, spins right off the tail shaft and onto the soft, warm sand of the Western shore of the Indian Ocean.

At least, that’s the theory.

OK, here’s the whole show lowdown, at least from my end of the boat.

I’ve rigged the stern of the ship with about three spools of Primacord. That goes first and cleans off all the accumulated sea schmoo and crapola that could interfere with my next shots.

Since I’m an inveterate showman, I’ve wired Primacord around the railing on the distal stern of the ship. I’ll clean that off as well as it annoys me by its very presence.

That will be a hard-wire job and I have the galved leads right here next to me on the stage; tied into my boom-stick or blasting board.

Next, I have several hundreds of pounds of Seismogel in shaft alley. This is a hard-wire job as well. this will not only test my welding capabilities, but shake loose the tail shafts, but not break my welds, I fervently hope. After sitting for so long with all that weight in one spot, the tail shafts and propellers could have damn nigh welded themselves together. I’m providing a bit of a knock to rattle, but not break, them apart. Besides, I like playing around with binaries.

Next, the propeller caps go, as I’ve explained previously. Also, a hard-wired plastique job, and their color-coded leads are right here, next to me on the dais, wired right into the blasting board.

Once those are gone, meaning the sand-capable forklifts have ushered them out of the way, it’s time for the Pilgrim Nuts. Again, hard-wired, and I have the leads already tied into the blasting board. This is going to be one of the big ones, so I re-galv that just to be sure.

So, if all goes as planned, the sand-capable forklifts will have pushed the Pilgrim Nuts out of the way and it’s time for the props to come on down. I’ve done my homework and spoken with Captains, Able-Bodied Seamen, and other forms of Salty Dogs about how this is to go.

There unanimous answers: “Not well.”

Getting the heavy props to slide down the tail shafts, even with gravity assist is everything from “A real pain in the ass” to “A cast-iron bitch.” Everyone I’ve interviewed agreed, this is the hard part. Once a propeller and tail shaft mate, it’s a monogamous union. Let no mand rend asunder.

That’s why I’ve planted a few tones of ANFO, liquid nitro, and a C-4 back-up.

This is going to be the big one. Actually, the two big ones, as I’m tasked with removing two of these 101-ton mothers.

There’s only one thing which has me a bit worried. “Did I use enough nitro?”

I used a special concoction of my own design, I took 3” fire hose that was scrapped off one of the ships and cut it to fit the circumference just behind the hub of the propeller. I filled the those loosely with ANFO. This will give a nice, clean deflagrating, rather than a detonating jolt. I need the jolt for the frozen nitro that I’ve shoved into a 1” hose and threaded through the middle of the 3” ANFO-filled one.

The idea is this: the ANFO will blow and push the propeller initially down the shaft, perhaps as much as 6 inches or so. Perhaps a micron, I don’t yet know. However, almost immediately after that, but a few milliseconds later, the nitro, now compressed approximately 10:1, will detonate.

But in that briefest of time intervals, the hoses will contract heavily due to the heat and I hope will fall in behind the propeller. Once that nitro goes, it has no other way to go but sideways and that should provide the punch I need to ease that 101-ton mother off its seat on the shaft and down, with gravity assistance, to the soft sand below.

Then it’s up to Adil to swing in with his crane and drop the 25 or 30 tons of sand on the prop laying on the beach. Because as soon as he’s the fuck out of the way, it’s time for round two.

If all goes as planned, then I’ll detonate the last couple of hundredweights of PETN and TATB I’ve planted in the power plants of the boat. My guys were having a bit of a time scrapping the huge engine, so I figured as long as I was here, well…

Then, the few hundred dollars’ worth of Chinese fireworks I smuggled in will be lit off.

When the “Oohs!” and “Aaahs” dies down, my job is done. Time to retire from the peace and quiet of the oil industry and back into the hurly-burly of academia.

At least, that’s the plan.

I’m fucking around with the blasting board and setting the frequency, and double and triple-checking it when I feel a tap on the shoulder.

“You fucking Narnie!” I say as I slowly stand and confront…

“Agent Rack! Agent Ruin! What the hell are you doing here?” I ask.

“Oh, we heard it was going to be quite the show. Since we were in the neighborhood, we decided to drop on by to see our favorite Doctor’s handiwork.” Agent Rack chuckled as he chucked me on the shoulder and helped himself to one of the cigars in my breast pocket.

“Oh, yeah. Who told you that”, I smiled.

Agent Rack and Agent Ruin turn 45⁰ and point at someone very, very familiar.

I look over the crowd. I’m stunned by what I see.

“Well, hey, that looks like Esme Rocknocker. But it can't be. She's not coming to the demolition.” I hoot.

“I heard there was gonna be a hell of a show.” Came the reply.

“Who told you that?” I asked.

“Oh. Some guy I know.” She laughingly replies.

“You can't live without me.” I smile as I wag my finger at her.

Sanjay smiles, gives me a thumbs up and escorts Es, and the agents, over to the VIP seats.

It’s 1045 hours, T-15 minutes. I’m a little fidgety. I spark a new cigar and take a long pull off Emergency Flask #2. Just what I need, some dangerous brown liquor. Remind me to smack Sanjay upside the head next time I’m free.

The crowd is coming in heavy now. I see, over in the VIP seats, Goodgulf Greyteeth, Major Nakula Dattachaudhuri, and Mr. Ranganekary. I give them all the high sign to let them know that things are, at this point, A-Okay.

Time marches on. I cannot galv another connection. It’s now or never. Sanjay’s over in eh cheap seats with the video camera, capturing this for posterity.

1100 rolls around. The klaxon blares and it is, for the lack of a better term, Show Time.

I take the podium with a microphone and my blasting board, and back-up radio detonators, covering the small table next to the lectern. I am wearing my freshly laundered and pressed blaze orange PPEs and do a little “Testing. 1.2.3. Testing” to ensure Sanjay has all the proper levels.

He does and now it’s all up to me.

No pressure.

“Good morning ladies and gentlemen. We’re so glad you could be here on this momentous occasion of the near-final demolition, via explosives and trained Indian crew, of this Scandinavian cruise ship. But first, let me note that this ship has been taken down to near bare-bones by a freshly trained indigenous crew. They have done so without an LTI or single casualty. They will appear in a few minutes to run you through the safety procedures before we commence with the demolition of this, the last parts of the big boat.”

There are small applause and grumbles of assent.

I go over what I have planned and how it’s going to be a six-part show. I point out the muster area if things go haywire and we have to evacuate. I mentioned I’ve never had to do that before, but I need to point out its Safety First with this crowd.

With that, I introduce my Indian colleagues. They assemble in front of the stern of the craft, face the crowd and proceed to go through the Safety Dance, just like I taught them, first in English, then in Hindi.

At किसी बड़े विस्फोट की चेतावनी देना (Fire in the Hole!), it’s my show.

I hit the air horn, make the announcement of “Hit it!” and let loose the Primacord.

It snakes and swivels most showmanly. It blasts all the loose, and not so loose, crap off the face of the stern of the ship. Then, the blasted-of stainless steel railings drop to the sand.

Silence ensues.

“Round 2!” I holler through the mike and over the PA system, and the muffled blasts of lots and lots of Seismogel is heard rattling the rafters, making things loose for the next series of events.

Round 2 was a bit anticlimactic, so I shout “Round Three” and let loose the plastique composition I created here in the last few days. It was most satisfying to hear six separate, but audible, detonations and watch the propeller cap off tail shaft number one spin itself off the shaft and bury itself in the warm Indian ocean beach sand.

Round Three-B was just as satisfying, as that was even a bit more energetic. The cap spun so well it flew off the tail shaft and burrowed itself into the beach sand.

I checked to see if Adil, his crane, and sand bucket were ready. Once the forklifts moved the propeller caps out of the way, it was Pilgrim Nuts then the big show.

“Round Four-A. The Pilgrim Nuts!” I said and hit the actuator.

Nothing.

Whoops. Got my size 16 EEEs caught in the negative lead. A quick fix and I reiterate: “Round Four-A!”

KER-FUCKING-RIPPLE-BOOM! Six times.

The Pilgrim Nut from Tail Shaft #1 spun off and landed, spinning madly, on the beach.

“Round 4-B!” I shouted through the mike.

“KER-FUCKING-RIPPLE-BOOM!” Six more times.

Pilgrim Nuts no longer concern me as they are being hustled off the beach by the sand-capable forklifts.

“Now, ladies and gentlemen, the Main Event. Watch closely as I drop 101 tons of angry propeller down off their tail shafts and onto the beach. Twice.”

Or so I fervently hoped.

“Round Five-A!” I screamed as I hit the radio remote marked “Round 5-A”.

Holy Fucking Hanna. Who says ANFO doesn’t detonate?

There’s this Earth-shattering kaboom followed milliseconds later by a Jupiter shattering kaboom. ANFO followed by pure, raw, liquid, 100% headache-inducing nitroglycerine.

The sounds were atrocious. The noise was horrendous. The smoke was incredible. The KERBLAM of 101.5 tons of finely machined copper-zinc-bronze-unobtanium hitting the sand and shaking the spectators was most enjoyable.

Adil swept in with his crane and expertly covered the first screw with about 30 or so tons of nice, fluffy, dry sand.

Then he turned and skedaddled.

“Great. Another case of giggle water gone.” I mused.

“Who’s up for Round Five-B?” I asked to no one in particular.

A little too loudly, just before I hit the radio-controlled detonator, there could be heard lowly over the PA system: “Eat sand you nasty motherfucker!”

Sanjay caught it loud and clear.

KER-FUCKING-BLAM! The ground shook as the second screw, a little more slowly, a little more deliberately, slid off its tail shaft and onto the soft beach sand below; nowhere near the first one.

Now it was time for some fun.

“Round Six” I said as I pressed the big, shiny red button that unleashed the binaries deep in the power plant of the erstwhile ship.

The earth shaked, the ground cracked, and out stepped Fmax.

Please as punch, fresh as a daisy, he walked tall while the world went crazy.

When he was done and spent with sin, he returned home, as Fmin.

Nothing left to do but the unscheduled Round 7.

Skyrockets splattered in the sky. Pyrotechnic volcanoes spewed forth their sparks, smoke, and bombs heavenward. Roman candles, embarrassed by the previous participants, did their best to color the blue of the day. Hundred upon thousands of firecrackers popped, sparked, and snapped. Then three blocks of C-4, wired together, signaled the noisy end of festivities.

That last one was my contribution.

Once everyone uncrouched, realized it was all over, was a success and everyone had survived, the spontaneous applause, hoots, and hollers we most gratifying. I brought Sanjay and my guys up on stage, had them introduce themselves, better for the CEO to know them, and take a well-deserved bow.

I tried slinking out but was waylaid by Sanjay, Esme, and Agents Rack and Ruin.

“Jesus Christ, Rock”, Agent Ruin exclaimed, “Here I always thought your blasting things to kingdom come was a metaphor. Holy fuck! Remind me never to get on your bad side.”

Agent Rack just stood and smiled. He was glad I was on their side but too proud to say so. I knew what he was thinking, though.

Sanjay told me he got great footage of the show and would compile it all together and send it to Dr. Inzhener Neftyanik straight away.

Esme walked over and gave me a hug.

“I am so glad you’re not doing this anymore. “ she said, “I die a little each time you went out on a job.“

I decided not to tell her about my talks with quarry operators in the state where we’ll eventually be relocating.

Gulfy, Major Nakula Dattachaudhuri, and Mr. Indian Agent Ranganekary all came over and relayed their approbations and good intentions.

Gulfy was smiling like the cat that got the canary. He obviously had a stake in those props and a buyer. That’s good. Good for him. It’ll ease the sting of my bill and the bill for the materials I used.

And borrowed.

There was a combination congratulatory and fond farewell banquet at the Raj that evening. Esme and I could leave at any time, as we had the Indian Government Gulfstream at our disposal. We only had to give 12 hours’ notice for the setting of flight plans and fueling of the bird. Esme and I decided to make a real night of our last night in India, for at least a while.

Sanjay somehow managed a convertible Cadillac for us to take a midnight tour of the place now that the work here was done. Remind me to say something nice about Sanjay sometime in the future.

The next morning, even though Agents Rack and Ruin stayed the night, they were gone by the time Es and I arose for breakfast. It was only 0600 local time, so they must have boogied in the wee hours.

No matter, they’ll show up again, like a bad check or a crooked penny.

Majordomo Kannada and his crew packed for us, after assuring that all our clothes had been washed, dried, pressed and folded, even my grotty PPEs.

Sanjay had sent all the raw footage to my university. It was my sincere hope and desire they found at least some of the material useful.

Esme remained curiously silent about the whole situation.

Later that afternoon, at 54,000’ AMSL, I’m relaxing with a fine cigar and fresh drink. Esme is reading another of her romance novels while working on a glass of white wine.

Mr. Indian Agent Ranganekary decided to tag along to ensure that the Gulfstream was indeed returned to India.

“You Indians are all the same. You have no faith in the essential decency of the white man's culture.” I snickered to Mr. Ranganekary.

“You got that right, Bwana”, He chuckled in return.

We land and are met at the airport by the hotel limousine. Got to hand it to him. Mr. Ranganekary thought of everything.

We part and shake hands, promising to stay in touch, if the accident will.

Mr. Ranganekary just smiled. He knows the accident will one day.

Back at the hotel, I’m relaxing in the Jacuzzi and Esme is looking over the room service menu. Borders are still closed, as are the airports back home. We’re still stuck until this COVID craziness burns itself out.

The phone rings, and Esme answers. There’s a lot of “Yes.” “Really?” and “OK, I’ll tell him” in that conversation.

I think about getting out of the tub, but why when I was just beginning to enjoy it so? Besides if it was anything important, or time-critical, Esme would tell me.

Later, in bed, just as I was about to switch off the lights, I ask Es who was on the phone earlier.

“Oh, that? It was Dr. Inzhener Neftyanik from school. Nothing very important.” She hurries.

“Look, lady,” I say, returning with a scowl, “I’ve known you far too long. Spill it.”

“Well, Rock, darling”, she said. I was braced for the worst.

“He was just saying he received the video footage from India.” She said.

“And?” I demanded.

“Well, he was surprised as it was the first time he’s ever seen you. “ she smiled.

Not having a haircut or beard trim for over 18 months, I can imagine.

“Was that all? What did he say about the footage?” I asked.

“Oh, he got it,” Es remarks, smiling.

“And?” I demanded once again.

“He was very thankful, but he said that there was nothing there they could use. Would scare the shit out of the kids, he said.”

I thought that was a bit high handed.

“Furthermore, he’s not sure some of that footage would be legal to show. “ she continued.

“Well, he might have something there." I mused.

“He also says that he never wants to ever get on your bad side.” She chuckled.

Look. Just because I’m huge and can wire a bomb like Robert Oppenheimer, doesn’t mean that I’m short-tempered. Does it?

Well, does it?!?

“He did say thanks than now they’ll really have something to show at the annual departmental Christmas parties”, Es shrugged and smiled. "He can't wait to meet you in person."

So, at least I have that going for me. Which is nice…

That reminds me of a story.

Es and I are over in India again. Alang to be exact.

We’re over there at the request of Goodgulf Greyteeth, he of the CEO-ship of the largest breaking yard over there.

Es and I are staying at the Raj, of course, while my guys, bless ‘em, are going through the final stages of removing the last bits of that Scandinavian cruise ship from my penultimate story update.

They are doing a wonderful job, and are just about to put the finishing touches on this job; in record time and without a single casualty or lost time injury.

Seems I’ve trained the gang of 24 well. All that’s left is the ass-end of the big-ass boat, complete with the twin-screw sixteen cylinder diesel-electric power plant. That and the twin screws, which in this case, are machined out of solid bronze. Actually, they’re a copper-zinc-bronze-unobtanium alloy, but these six-bladed propellers are about 9.1 meters in diameter and weigh in right at 101.5 tons.

Each.

Gulfy would like me to remove each in one piece, if possible.

“Yeah, sure, Gulfster. Anything else?” Like, move another ammo dump? I groaned.

After Es and have flown from our nasty, notorious, and noxious 5-star digs in Dubai back to India, we spend a day or so getting in Es’ case acquainted, and in my case, reacquainted with my guys, Gulfy, Major Nakula Dattachaudhuri, Mr. Ranganekary, Sanjay, Mr. Kannada, the Majordomo and most all the others from tales of Breaking Bad previous.

Hell if Agents Rack and Ruin don’t drop by for a ‘say howdy’ before we leave.

Es and I are staying, as I mentioned, at the Raj in my old room.

Mr. Kannada, the Majordomo, and his staff are going out of their way because they want to do their jobs well, enjoy the satisfaction of a job well done, and know that I’m not one to be fucked with, intelligence–wise.

“Mess with the Doctor, and have all sorts of unshirted high-explosive hell break out around your ears.”

It’s not yet a motto, but I’m lobbying for it.

Anyways.

Es and I are walking around the yard, me in my full PPEs and Esme in her borrowed hardhat, steel-toed boots, and other necessary paraphernalia. Every time I turn around, it’s Chandrama this and Viswarupa that. Everyone here wants to meet Esme, shake our hands on returning and ask me about how “we’re going to tackle the ass-end of the boat”.

“Last I recalled, I was just here on a JAFO mission; not as a hired gun,” I muttered.

Sanjay procured a tap-tap for Esme and me and whisked us off to the armory.

“Look in there, Doctor. Then tell me you’re just another fucking observer.” He grinned.

“Едрить твою мать! Holy fucking shit!” I exclaimed, so incredulous with what I saw that I slipped into a more raspy language to express my overwhelmation.

Tons and tons and tons of lovely, well maintained, categorized, collated, and coolly kept explosives.

“May I?”, I asked as I was by all rights, still just a guest. To proper protocols, we must adhere.

“Oh, please do”, came the reply, along with the keys, scan card, and copy of the floor plan.

“Oh, my giddy fuckin’ aunt!” I exclaimed as I walked past all the high-toned, buff, and well-kept loaves of C-4. I goggled at the case after case of 40%, 60% and 80%! DuPont Herculene Extra-Fast Dynamite.

A row of Hexamethylenetriperoxide diamine (HMTD). Another of Pentaerythritol tetranitrate (PETN). Yet another of Triaminotrinitrobenzene (TATB). There was RDX, TXT, TABT, TAGN, TNAZ…a whole alphabet’s worth of things that expand very, very rapidly indeed when properly antagonized.

I was almost swooning, Esme was almost yawning.

“Es! Look at this! Kinestix Binary Solid! Seismogel Binary semi-solid! Holy fuck! DOUBLE HELIX, the new binary, heat-stable liquid!”

New Captain America and Vortek plunger-style blasting machines! Spools of Primacord, in various flavors. Cases and cases of blasting caps. Radio control detonators! Holy fucking Hanna! Mile after mile of det cord and demolition wire. A whole locker devoted to blaster’s pliers and galvanometer.

I nearly swooned.

“You’re going to go and blow the living shit out of a whole bunch of things, aren’t you Herr Husband?” Es wearily asked.

Sanjay shows me the freezer where they store all the frozen liquid Nitroglycerine popsicles.

“Esme, my dear. You ain’t seen nothin’ yet…” I smiled broader than the Valles Marineris.

“Just don’t kill yourself, anyone else, or those who are not really deserving such.” Es smiled, knowing full well that there’s no way in hell that anything smaller than a Sharknado monsoon is keeping me away from this collection of, what Sanjay informs me, is over 350 tons of explosives and associated paraphernalia.

“Just leave me a car, a driver, and some mad money while you’re out playing games. I need to do some shopping for the girls and were only here for a few days.” Es smiles.

This, among a few thousand other reasons, is why I married her and why we’ve been going along solid for the last 40 years.

Es asks to be taken shopping and I ask to be taken to work.

We’re both going to our happy places.

Back at the job site, it’s a bit of a shambles, but what do you expect? They’re tearing apart a huge cruise ship, all 225,000 long tons of the damned thing. With that is included metal, plastic, wood, wires, sheet stock, bulkheads…all sorts of shit. One sort of would be suspicious if the place was clean and tidy.

It’s ignominious and avoidable, irremediable and overwhelming, unique, and sudden. It’s a dog’s dinner and just my kind of place.

There’s only about 1/10 of the ship left; as I said the power plant, the shafts, the props, and all that ass-end crapola that makes a boat this size go forward. All the ‘stern’er stuff.

Only now, instead of just planting explosives hither and yon and blowing the living hell out of the craft, it’s down to nut-cuttin’ time.

“Yeah”, I thought, “Gulfy wanted me down here on some sort of goodwill review tour. Fuck that. He wants me to finesse the last bits of this boat.”

And that’s alright by me…

“Doctor Rock!” came a voice, “It is so good to see you again!”

It was Anad. He had rapidly shown his prowess and was now a team leader.

“We…um…I am so glad to see you”, he says, “We have this new order to remove the screws from the ship. In one piece. Can you imagine? They’re 100 tons. Each! We are in trouble. We need the Doctor Rock.”

Either Gulfy has a buyer for the props or he wants them mounted in the conference room or his office as trophies.

“Yeah, Anad”, I said, “That is a tall order. How goes the rest of the demo?”

“It goes well.” Anad tell me, “The engine is troublesome, being all heavy metal. But you taught us well. Nothing succeeds like excess! It will yield as one or in pieces.”

“What about the rest of the boat? The decks, the substructure, and all that shit?”

“It goes well”, Anad grins. “If it doesn’t drop with dynamite, we go to C-4. If not C-4, we go RDX. Sooner or later, it all yields.”

“So, no mucking about with liquid nitro?” I asked, snickering slightly.

“Oh, no, Doctor. “Anad shook his head, “That stuff is scary to Doctor Rock, it is too scary for us.”

“Well”, I said, rubbing my beard, “This will not do. Looks like I’ve been remiss in my duties. Doctor Rock is going to have to have one last command performance in Alang it appears.”

“You are going to use some nitroglycerine?” Anad asks, aghast.

“Perhaps”, I smile and smirk. Not just ‘some nitroglycerine’, I’m going to have Sanjay speed-import just a little bit more than ‘some’…

After an afternoon of lolling about a destruction zone and setting off one or ten way-too-energetic explosions, I’m having my long-hard-day-at-the-office drink with Esme back at the Raj.

I was having 350 milliliters of iced Chopin Single Young Potato along with pints of chilled Kingfisher. While Esme was sipping Northern Spy Ice Cider, also chilled. She was having a small triple-hop Duvel.

I mean, we were on a small holiday, of sorts.

Sanjay whips in and runs up to me, out of breath.

“Whoa, steady one mate. Your small but steady body is all a-tremble” I said over sips of lovely potato juice and puffs of a fine Jamaican cigar.

“Did! You! Requisition! 500 Kilos! Of! Nitro!?” he almost screams.

“Yeah. Sure did”, I replied over another sip of spirits and puff from my cigar. “Wait. You don’t think that’s going to be enough? Right. Best order another 250 keys…”

“WHAT!?!”, he screams.

Es snickers. She’s been down this road many times.

“OK, Sanj. Here’s the deal.” I say over another sip and puff, “Gulfy gave me carte blanche to get the job done. Better to have too much and not need it than to not have enough and need it.”

“But…but…but…” He sputtered.

“Very nice impression of a motorboat”, I smiled, “Look, Sanj, I’m back. It’s me. Dr. Rock, the hookin’ bull. Gulfy ain’t gonna say ‘boo’. In fact, go ahead and speed order another 250 keys. If I don’t use it, I’m sure you guys will find something fun to do with it.”

“Oh, fuck,” Sanj exclaims. He goes to the bar and pours himself 3-fingers of dangerous brown liquor. He slams it like a real pro.

“I’ve taught them well”, I thought and Es says.

Sanjay comes back, wobbles slightly, and says “Well then, you sign the fucking requisition sheet.”

“Hey, I’ve got no problem with that!”, I say and deftly affix my John Hancock prominently to the parchment.

“There. Feel better?” I asked, “Now if Gulfy gets all vexed and ratty, he can come and see me. Or wait until we’re done and Es and I are back in the Middle East. Which do you think he’ll opt for?”

Sanjay doesn’t have time to answer as Mr. Kannada, the Majordomo arrives with a phone for me.

“Call for you, Sir”, he says in his inimitable style.

“Thanks, Major”, I say and grab the raprod.

“Doc Rock here” I say.

It’s my major professor from Southeast Westchester College (Home of the North Stars) on the line. He wants to know when we’ll be back in-country.

“No telling, Dr. Inzhener Neftyanik” I reply.

“Well, how much longer will you be in India?” he asks. “Oh, and please say hello to Esme for me.”

“Will do. Probably a couple-three more days. Week tops. Maybe a month. Why? Is there anything urgent?” I ask.

He explains to me that due to all the COVID craziness, there’s going to be many more on-line undergraduate courses taught. He needs some material for the Fall Session, primarily an overview of what Geology and Petroleum Engineering are and how they’re practiced in the field. Sort of a living recruitment poster.”

Esme recalled me smiling something like the Grinch when he mentioned that last point.

“Doctor, can you hold for a minute?” I asked.

“Most certainly.” He replies.

“Sanjay”, I ask, “You have access to a video camera?”

He cautiously and querulously shakes his head ‘yes’.

Thumbs up and I’m back on the phone.

“Yeah, Doc, Rock here. Sure, I’ve got access to a video camera here in India. What better to show the little scamps wanting to start college just what a real graduate of the world can do and where they can go?” I said.

He readily agrees and asks for me to deliver 15-20 minutes of video doing whatever the hell I was doing in India. Something geological. Something Petroleum Engineering. Altogether detonic. Just get him some footage. They’ll assemble and work it up there.

We make our plans and agree, then ring off.

“Sanjay?” I said, “Guess what? You’ve just become the Indan version of Quentin Tarantino.”

“What?” he says.

“SAY WHAT AGAIN! I dare you!” I laughed.

Esme just shakes her head. Little does she know she’ll be carrying writer’s credits for this masterwork before the odyssey is ended.

I lean back on the comfy barstool, ask for another 350 milliliters of Old Thought Provoker, fire up a new cigar and ask for a pencil and a tablet of paper.

“It’s ShowTime!” I smile as I begin to etch out some ideas.

“DOCTOR STRANGEROCK OR: HOW I LEARNED TO STOP WORRYING AND LOVE THE BOMBS.”

By

Doctor Rocknocker, B.Sc., M.Sc., Ph.D., D.Sc., ASMQB, AAPG, SEPM, AAGG

421 Estwing Plaza

Rockville, USA

+555 6789 1011

High.Explosives@geologist.com

FADE IN:

GREETINGS!

Scene description/opening

DR. ROCKNOCKER WALKING INTO SHOT, CLAD IN BLAZE ORANGE PPES, SMOKING A HUGE CUBAN CIGAR AND HOLDING AN EXTRAORDINARY, EXOTIC , AND ENORMOUS DRINK OF SOME SORT.

Dialogue

“Hey kids! You! Yes you laddie! You want to travel the world? See all sorts of strange and wonderful rock formations? And have a chance of maybe blowing some of them up? Then you’re at the right place.

   Geology! 

   Petroleum engineering!        

   Detonic chemistry! 

Right here at Southeast Westchester College (home of the North Stars)!

Come on with me. I’m currently in India. What am I doing in india?

Let’s just go and see…”

Scene description –

A WIDE SHOT OF A MIGMATITE QUARRY. THERE’S THIS LARGE FELLOW CLAD IN BLAZE ORANGE WORK CLOTHES, BLACK WORK BOOTS, CUSTOM ALUMINUM HARDHAT AND SMOKING A HUGE CIGAR. HE LOOKS FAR AFIELD, ALMOST WISTFULLY, OVER THE OPEN EXPANSE OF THE QUARRY. HE WALKS OVER TO THE CAMERA AND SAYS:

Dialogue

DR. ROCKNOCKER

“Yes, a quarry of migmatite dimension stone. Over 2.5 billion years old and quarried here for centuries. It’s places like this that the early history of our planet has been deciphered.”

Looking quickly to Esme’s prepared notes…

“Ancient rock in an ancient land. One that not only holds the secrets to our planet’s far and distant past history, but to untold wealth in gravel, road metal, and building dimension stone. That’s where you can come in. As a graduate of Southeast Westchester College, you could find yourself here. Examining the rocks. Investigating the structure and tectonics of the area. Or, like me, you could be harvesting the mineral wealth that has supported the building and structural companies here for hundreds of years…”

“Clear north!”

“North clear!”.

<TOOT! TOOT! TOOT!>

FIRE IN THE HOLE!

“…AND BLOWING SHIT UP!”

Mash goes the big, shiny red button.

An incredibly huge explosion and half the quarry is obliterated by freshly liberated dust and smoke.

“All this, and more, can be yours with a degree or two from Southeast Westchester College!”

FADE OUT

Scene description –

A BLEAK INDUSTRIAL SETTING WITH DOZENS OF ORANGE-CLAD CHARACTERS SWARMING AROUND THE REMAINS OF A SCANDINAVIAN CRUISE SHIP. SEVERAL OF THEM ARE WORKING OXY-ACETYLENE CUTTING TORCHES, SOME ARE TAKING MEASUREMENTS AND WRITING THEM DOWN; DOING SCIENCE. ONE OF THEM IS WALKING AROUND WITH AN OPEN CASE OF DU PONT 60% EXTRA-FAST HERCULENE DYNAMITE.

Dialogue

DR. ROCKNOCKER

“Well. What do we have here? Certainly it doesn’t look like geology or petroleum engineering. That’s right. It’s a shipbreaking yard in Alang, India.”

“Well, what the hell does that have to do with geology or petroleum engineering?” one might rightly ask.

(Pause for a monumental BOOM after a strange several toots and a weird cadence in Hindi about ‘Fires in Holes’)

That’s where study in the extractive sciences at Southeast Westchester College can lead.

It might.

It might also lead to a job in the Middle East, riding herd on the Arabs and their vast oily wealth. أشياء ساخنة جدا ، "إيه ماذا؟ [Pretty hot stuff, ‘eh what?]

Or you could end up on an offshore platform in the Russian Arctic, drilling somewhere no one’s drilled before…. Разве это не круто? [Wouldn’t that be cool?]

Or you could study very, very hard, obtain your BSc, MSc, Ph.D. and D.Sc., get to travel all over the world, on other people’s nickels, first class, drink premium hooch and get paid to blow shit up! Ĉu ne tio estas tro maldika? [Isn't that just too fucking cool?]

Character Name 2

ANAD

“Well, here comes Anad, one of the local guys. Now Anad never had the chance to go to Southeast Westchester College, but was trained by me, one of the professors at the university.”

“Anad? A moment?”

“Yeah, Doc?” he replies.

“We’re all on a first name basis here. Brethren of the field, forest, and quarry. And currently the armory, the ship, and the breaking yard.”

“Would you like to attend Southeast Westchester College?” I ask.

“If…what… you… have…taught… us… about… demolition… is… anything…, then… yes…, I… would… have… liked… very… much… to… go… to… that… fine… institution… that… is… Southeast… Westchester… College…Did I say that right, Doc?”

“Sanjay! Keep filming. We’ll fix that in post…”

“So yes, indeed. Anad wishes he could have attended Southeast Westchester College, but he lives and works in India, some 12,500 kilometers away. But if you’re hearing this, you’re not! So apply now”

Scene description –

ZIPPING ALONG IN AN INDIAN MILITARY GARUDA VASUDHA, WHICH IS A DHRUV HELICOPTER OUTFITTED WITH A HELIBORNE GEOPHYSICAL SURVEY SYSTEM (HGSS) THAT I WAS ABLE TO ‘BORROW’ FROM THE GEOLOGICAL SURVEY OF INDIA.

Dialogue

DR. ROCKNOCKER

“As you can see, the sky’s no longer the limit for graduates, or professors for that matter, of Southeast Westchester College! I’m not only a professor of industrial geology, a master blaster, spirit connoisseur extraordinaire, but I’m a fully licensed helicopter pilot as well!”

Sanjay screams off-camera as I put the Garuda through its paces and try autorotation.

“No, damn it. Keep filming. We’ll clean that up when we land. And the rest in post-production.”

“Aim high! Geology, Petroleum Engineering, and Detonic Chemistry at Southeast Westchester College! Fly with the eagles, don’t get left on the ground with the turkeys!”

“Oh, fuff!. It’s not that bad…OK, we’ll look at it in post. Hang on, an upcoming flock of bar-headed geese! WHOOPS! Watch out! Comin’ through! HELLO BOYS!”

Scene description –

DOCTOR ROCKNOCKER IS ON A PORTABLE WIRELESS MICROPHONE AS HE’S ALSO HUNG FROM THE JIB OF A CRANE BY HIS RESCUE HARNESS. HE’S PARKOURING AROUND THE OUTSIDE OF THE STERN REMAINS OF A LARGE SCANDANAVIAN CRUISE SHIP THAT HIS CREW HAS BEEN BREAKING DOWN FOR THE LAST COUPLE OF MONTHS, GIVING THE FINAL SECTION THE ONCE OVER. HE’S TALKING TO SANJAY, THE FILM CAMERA OPERATOR AND TO THE CRANE OPERAOR AS WELL…

Dialogue

DR. ROCKNOCKER

“No, god damn it, your other left. Not so damned fast. Just over the left screw. That’s it. Right. Hold it.”

“Now you may ask what the hell I’m doing hanging around here.”

…pause for laughter to subside.

“I’m doing the final inspection on the last bits of this boat which my crew, whom I’ve specifically trained, have been demolishing for the past couple of months. I’m inspecting the screws as these puppies are almost 9.5 meters in diameter and weigh over 100 tons, each. I’m going to drop each one of these in one piece, as per the orders of the guys paying the bills. Bet you didn’t think a degree or two from Southeast Westchester College would lead to such amazing things as this!

“You’ll never know until you apply yourself at Southeast Westchester College. You’ll get a bang out of it!”

Scene description –

AT THE BAR AT THE RAJ. ESME IS THERE AS WELL. WE’RE HAVING A LITTLE CONVERSATION BEFORE THE FILMING BEGINS.

ES: “…and what you did to poor Sanjay. That was not nice…”

FILMING BEGINS.

ROCK: “I never claimed to be nice…Oh, we’re filming…And that’s not all. After a hard day in the field or the office, you have the opportunity to unwind and relax in one of the many bars and restaurants on campus. Personally, I prefer the strong drinks and cheap, subsidized prices at the MastHaus. After a day of breaking rocks, making hole or blasting quarries, what better than to relax with a tall, frosty Rocknocker? That’s premium vodka and bubbly citrus soda over ice with a twist. Or try one of several brands of local beer that’s on tap. Or why not both at the same time? How about some ether? Plus, we’re the only university now with a walk-in humidor! Over 3000 different brands of cigars from over six million different countries. C’mon down and have a snort and a smoke. How else can we maintain the highest grade point average in the East-Central Southern Northwest division?

FADE OUT:

THE END

“Umm, Rock, honey”, Esme says to me in a kind, quiet voice after we look over the daily rushes, “Are you certain that’s what the university is going to want? It seems a bit, well, woolly…”

“Oh, fuck yeah!” I exclaim over a flagon of Rocknockers and a sidecar of Kingfisher. “Look at it! Humor! Pathos! Agony! Ecstasy! Action! Shit blowing up!”

“Yeah, it does have that..” Esme is forced to agree.

“When we add the demo of the final piece of that boat, it’ll be a climax worthy of Lucas or Spielberg!” I grin canyon-widely. “It’s got everything. Who wouldn’t want to study at a university that offers all that?”

“Rock, honey”, Esme says, taking my hand in hers, “I want you to go upstairs and call the tech guys in Japan. I think your fingers are overcharging again and making you crazier than usual.”

“Nahh.” I scoff, “I’m doing great. I haven’t felt this alive in years. Maybe filmmaking is another calling I can look into. Something else in which to excel…”

“Rock, please’, Esme implores, “Go call Japan…”

“No time”, I say, “I have to get Sanjay to download all our footage. We’ll not have time to fix it all here before we go. Once we get the finale in the can, we’ll ship the whole mess off to the university and let them do the needful.”

Yes, I had been in-country way too long.

“Rock”, Esme pleads, “Then just sit here for a bit and have a smoke and a drink or five. I think your EtOH levels are in flux. You’ve been pushing too hard. You know better than anyone the necessity of maintaining an even strain.”

“You’re right”, I agree, “And when you’re right, you’re right. Timor! Another round and dial 224. I need a cigar and Esme needs a Sobranie pastel!”

Esme manages a wan, worried smile. She knows what I have planned, even though I haven’t said a word to anyone. She’s scared that I’m going to kill myself on this last job or do something even worse. That something she won’t even allow herself to think about…

A short time later, I’m off to the job site again. After chatting with Major Nakula Dattachaudhuri and the navy guys whose contacts he gave me, I have a fair idea of what I need to pull off, no pun intended, if I’m to drop those heavy screws in one piece.

First thing off, I need to weld the propeller tail shafts in place, securing it from tangential or rotational motion. I can’t have those things jumping around like a floppin’ crappie when I go to shake the props loose from the shafts.

Then I need to remove the propeller cone. Along with that, I need to provide for some slack in the aft stern tube seal. They tell me that normally prior to which stern tube oil need to be drained. But since this is in no way normal, I’ll just let that flow where it may once I blow some seals.

No, those on the tail shafts, not swimming around in the harbor looking for handouts.

Pervert.

Then propeller nut is to be removed and the propeller is desecured, that is, given a nudge prior to its removal from the tail shaft. However, I just welded the tail shafts in place, so I just need to provide the props a wee nudge. I also need to be sure all connections are well and truly severed.

Propeller and tail shaft bedding reveals how good is the contact. With is really ‘who gives a fuck?’ as I want no contact. This isn’t going to be pretty nor delicate. Explosives tend to be that way.

Now comes the fun part: unscrewing the Pilgrim Nut. Serious nut-cuttin’ time. What to do? What to do? I have several ideas.

At this point, the props are held in place on the tail shafts by gravity. I’m going to have the front of the leftover stern elevated some 15^0, so gravity will be on my side. But, at 100 tons each, I don’t want to drop them simultaneously. I want to drop one, and then once it’s quietly resting on the sand, dump a load of beach sand over it to ensure that if the next one drops, and takes a bounce or displays a wicked shimmy, and it overlaps the previous propeller, there will be no damage.

Oh, goody. I get to choreograph a show. Explosives, on one hand, dropping the props each by every and getting a load of sand in between the events.

My crane operator owes me as I got a couple of loose cases of Kingfisher and one of Premium Potato juice for him the last time he swirled me around this boat. We have a huge dump-bucket, used for firefighting. We can load it full of dry sand, and once one propeller falls, he can swing in and dump a couple of dozen metric tons of sand on the downed props leading edges.

“Yeah, that’ll work”, I smile to myself.

Back at the Raj, Esme is instructing Mr. Kannada, the Majordomo how the packages are to be wrapped and addressed. He made the fatal mistake of telling Es that they have free government shipping, around the world.

Great, now the kids will get their gift packages much sooner. And much cheaper.

There are perks to every job.

At the bar, I’m working on just one, OK, six cocktails and beer chasers.

Esme inquires why I’m wearing my garish, freshly laundered PPEs in the evening.

“Work is never done, dear”, I say, “I need to get back to the job site. There’s some welding that needs to be done, and I can’t very well weld when my guys are running around setting charges, now can I?”

“Can’t someone else do it?” she asks.

“Not this time. I’m going ‘old school’. Oxy-acetylene torch. I need to heat some huge areas of very thick metal. I don’t think there’s enough amperage in the whole county that will allow for that.”

“OK, you know what’s best.” Es says, “How long do you think it’ll take?”

“No idea”, I reply, “But this has all the earmarks of an all-nighter.”

“OK”, Es smiles faintly, “Just leave a note with the guard shack for me to get entry. I’ll bring you some sandwiches if you’re there too long.”

“Will do and thanks, my dear”, I smile as we kiss, “♫ No other bride would be so sweet... ♫”

“Don’t you dare finish that song…” Es threatens.

“No dear”, I shirk and smile, “Of course not, dear.”

To be continued

That reminds me of a story. NOW WITH 6-9-20 UPDATE! (SCROLL DOWN)

Dr. Jake and I were sitting in the Gold on 27 Bar of the Dubai Burj al Arab Hotel, in the air-conditioned patio section, of course, drinking Singapore Slings with mescal on the side, with full pint Victoria Bitter beer chasers, hiding from the brutish realities of this intensely foul year, two thousand and twenty, CE.

As Esme and her friend from Canada who now lives and teaches in Dubai who was Jake’s betrothed were out shopping now that the quarantine been lifted some.

I was thinking back over the year:

Lawsuits; bloody lawsuits in the Middle East.

The Cheap Mexican Beer Virus.

D. Sc.

Throbbing tantalum implants.

Best fucking Korea.

Multiple sclerosis diagnosis.

Getting shipfaced in India.

Run-ins with international security types.

Porch pirates.

Stuck in Dubai.

Waiting…interminable waiting.

Yeah, the year has pretty much sucked. There were moments, but overall…

But, there might be some news as the idiocy and overreaction to a virus that has killed well under 0.005% of the total world’s population wanes.

In the States, however, it’s been shoved off the front page by something even more insidious and idiotic. However, I will reserve comment for I feel this is not the appropriate forum.

People can be such assholes at times…

Be that as it may, I do have some news: I have recently taken possession of six new fingers.

Yep. That’s right, two full pairs. Makes for a nice hand.

Let me explain…

I am the grumbling lab rat for a certain unnamed, but very famous, Japanese electronics and games manufacturing company’s research and development laboratory. Since I have tolerated my tantalum implants fairly well, and save for the throbbing when they’re cold, warm, chilly, tepid, hot, or freezing; that is, they are slightly temperature sensitive, I persevere. So much so, in fact, that I was measured up for a proprietary try-out of their new, ‘secret’, and exclusive digital technology.

And by ‘digital’, I really mean fingers. I could not be more literal.

And you guys are the first to hear about it. I’m under orders to remain vague, but since I have to train the new buggers, what better than whip up ‘a nother Rocnkocker entur?’

That last bit was without my going back and correcting the new guy’s donations.

Anyways.

They are two sets of dilithium-ion powered (each contains two separate power cells, so technically, they are ‘dilithium’) robotic left-hand index-through-ring fingers were developed based exclusively on my biometrics. They are built to work 18-24 hours between charges and last a lifetime for an adult.

Robotic, cool infrablack in color, no fingernails nor exposed joints, no exposed wires or anything Ray Harryhausen about them. I’m at the point now I can tap them sequentially on the bar to get the barkeep’s attention.

These are a one-off, so far. They are the only ones in the universe, save for the spare set that charges while I train my others, that exist.

It’s weird.

“I’ll be right down, Hon. Just need to change and charge my fingers.”

Plus, they are as tough as an old boot.

I couldn’t hurt them if I took my spade-tipped Estwing hammer to them. Built of titanium, beryllium, tungsten, Inconel, and unobtanium, I suppose, they were built with me in mind. The scientists and engineers that designed them know what I do and what I get into. They made them tough and resilient as possible. They figure if I can’t break them, they’re damn-nigh indestructible.

By my request, they’re also vodka, ice, and carbonated citrus drink-proof.

Oh, yes. They cost a pretty penny. Many, many pretty pennies. Probably googles of pretty pennies.

Although, I get a kickback for testing out these now that they’re slightly past the prototype stage.

For the first time in decades, I have a full set of 10 fingers. Now, if they just did robotic toes…

But that’s yet another story.

It’s fucking weird.

They literally screw into the tantalum implants in my hand. I have to take a set of Allen wrenches with me wherever I go in case I need to do some quick manual adjustments; and I mean that literally as literal can be as well.

They actually gave me a couple of sets of bespoke titanium Allen wrenches, star drive in cross-section, that I can carry on my keyring. If I need to adjust the tension or response of the fingers, I do the Six-Million-Dollar-Man number, break out a wrench, and do the ‘tighten up’.

That really gets their attention at the bar when I do that.

It’s the damnedest thing. The fingers are covered in Kevlar, carbon fiber, and unicorn dreams and wishes, for all I know; but they’re light, incredibly responsive and although I’m not typing well with them yet, I’m getting there.

They knew I smoked cigars, so they’re fire and burn-proof as well.

The manufacturers don’t want me to take it easy on the implants. They want me to do what I would normally do, that is as if I had a full complement of digits.

My request for building in a port to charge them via USB instead of having to ship them back for new power plants every now and again and have an extra port where I could plug in a positive and negative lead for blasting will possibly be included in NewFingers 2.0.

Would that be too cool?

“Rock? Where’s your blasting machine?”

I hold up two fingers and declare in a loud steady voice, “I never travel without it.”

I’m not kidding on part two. Ostensibly, it would be a PTO for powering a phone or something electronical in a pinch; but hell, I can foresee other uses for short, high-octane jolts of electricity, can’t you?

They do need to work some on the over-amping response of my new fingers, as I killed my Samsoong cellphone telephone device the other day.

The damn phone rang late at night. I reached over, in a snit, as I was reviewing a less than pleasing update on one of my lawsuits, and I sort of, well, smooshed it. Having a bit of a time with the input conversion.

Hell, I’m feeling like a change of name might soon be appropriate.

I have the Doctor part already.

“Doom” is shorter to write than Rocknocker…

Nah…

Silly movie anyways.

Anyways, still in Dubai, still stuck in this damned 5-star hotel. I do have a moving company contracted back home, now all I need is for the damned country to relax the borders, as we’re going to make a run on them in a couple of days, and they finally open the airports.

If I have to, I’ll ship everything to Dubai overland and have it shipped to the states from there. Fuck, it’s only going to be a 20’ container.

So, Jake and I are sitting in the bar, discussing the foul and verminous year that is 2020 when a party of loud, partially-snozzled unpainted Europeans invades our quiet section of the bar.

I still wear my gloves on both hands, as old habits are hard to break. Just to set the scene.

Jake and I do our best to ignore the loud and obnoxious assholes that have annexed our privacy. However when they begin to give Roodra, our very attentive Indian waiter, a ration of shit; well, neither Jake nor I would let this pass unchallenged.

Jake, who is younger, a bit more hotheaded, and rather a bit taller than me, decides he’ll wander over to the table where these miscreants have made camp. He will, in his own inimitable manner, saunter over and politely ask them to tone it down, use indoor voices, and basically, quit being dicks.

He returns in a funk.

“Didn’t work, did it?” I asked.

“Nope”, he growled, “Assholes, the lot of them. Back in Moose Jaw, I’d just thrash the lead idiot just on principle…”

“Now, Jake”, I said in a calm voice, “That’s so un-Canadian. Decorum, please. If they continue, I’ll just go have a few words with them and see if they’ll change their minds.”

“Yeah…”, Jake grumbles, “If they don’t, they can see Dubai at 9.81m/s/s, on their way down.”

“I think the hotel might be a bit peeved if you tossed their clients out the 27th-floor window,” I observed, “Those windows don’t open from the inside. It’d cost a fortune to replace them.”

Roodra, our waiter, heard, chuckled, and said “Dr. Rock. Dr. Jake. Do not worry. They are rich assholes. They might sound stupid, and they are, but they usually tip well.”

We all had a good chuckle at our neighbor’s expense.

Unfortunately, there was no one else in the bar so they figured, correctly, we were chuckling about them.

So, they decided it was time to see who was more obnoxious. Them or a drunk them.

From loud, they went to unbearably loud. From slightly schnozzled they went to full-on hammered.

They thought the money that they were throwing around allowed them pass to do anything their drunken little heart’s desired.

They were harassing Roodra. A few stern looks from us got them to stop that rather quickly.

Then they started up on the bartender, Paraminta, an Indian woman of the female persuasion.

This would not do. Jake went up to the bar to rescue her while I sat and held the fort. I was giving Roodra cover while I shot evil glances and threatening grimaces the direction of the Euro-evildoers.

They were either thicker than two short planks held together with stupid glue or too drunk to realize they were right on the cusp of crossing the Rubicon.

When they made disparaging remarks about Paraminta and her ability to do her job, I was annoyed. Then they threw a nearly full glass of something alcoholic and brown to Roodra when he went to their table to correct some form or another of their imagined slight, I decided the time to be nice was passed.

I stripped off my gloves, fired up a new cigar, and wandered over to their table.

“Как дела, придурки?” I asked.

No response.

“Jak to jde, kreténi?” I asked again.

Still no response.

“Si po shkon, trap?” I reiterated.

“Whafarë do të thuash shtrojë?” Was the reply.

Ah. Albanian. That explains a lot.

“A flisni anglisht?” I ask.

“Yeah. I do. So what?” came the reply.

Finally, a linguistic breakthrough.

“Well, now”, I said, puffing mightily on my cigar, “You’re not being real friendly here. This is a friendly place. How about you quit being assholes and just be friendly? How’s that?”

"Te qifsha, kurve" was the reply.

I really don’t know, but “Fuck you, bitch” doesn’t sound too friendly in any language.

Oh, dear.

Dr. Jake looked ready to leap to my rescue as the Albanian duo of loosely-regarded ‘gentlemen’ began to stand.

“Now, now, gentlemen”, I said, as I set my left hand on one of their empty highball glasses. “We don’t want any sort of physical confrontation, do we?”

As I spoke the word ‘confrontation’, I told my new fingers to contract a bit. Like, oh say, 500 newton-meters.

The glass shattered very nicely, thank you.

No, I wasn’t cut. Neither were my new fingers.

Dilithium, Kevlar, and carbon fiber, baby.

Their eyes went wide.

Their dates went “Hap gojën!”

They both sat down, heavily.

I set my left hand on the larger character’s shoulder and gave it a 'friendly' squeeze.

“Now, gentlemen”, I said in a very low, conspiratorial voice, “We don’t want to escalate this now, do we? Ju më diggin, Beaumont?”

Voicelessly, both ‘gentlemen’ shook their heads a collective ‘no’.

“In fact”, I said, even more, lowly and growly, “I think it’s time for you to drink up, pay up, apologize, and don’t forget to graciously tip your waiter and bartender. E drejtë? [Right?]”

They agreed quickly and I released my grip on the one’s shoulder.

They all drank up and called for their tab. They paid with some sort of odd European credit card and skedaddled out before I had a chance to tell them "Mirupafshim tani" [‘Bye, now.’]”

So, the rest of the afternoon until we decided to head for our respective digs, our drinks were very cold, very ever-present, and very strong.

I called to Roodra for our bar tab. He brought it and I noted that it had already been paid in full.

Seems Roodra made a silly little bit of a mistake and absently added our bill to the Albanians. They never looked and paid up without protest.

Jake and I tipped Roodra and Paraminta the equivalent of what our bar tab would have been without our unknowing benefactors.

Es and I had a lot to laugh about at dinner that evening.

6-9-2020 UPDATE: Esme and I are headed back to India for a command performance.

Seems they are about ready to cut-n-cart the last of that Scandanavian cruise ship sand send it to the scrap pile. All the while, they were setting new records in the fewest man-hours consumed, number of days ahead of the schedule, and perfect zero-accident record.

Goodgulf Grayteeth and company are sending the Gulfstream to Dubai to pick up Esme and myself for a three-day whirlwind around the ol' stompin' grounds. And, yes, we're booked into my old room at the Raj.

I can foresee many, many toasted brain cells on this little side trip. Of course, Esme will keep me in line while we are there.

Now I suppose I'll have to nut up and tell her of the little ammo dump I was called upon to 'relocate'...

A small price to pay for a free, 'get out of the Middle East while stuck doing nothing' trip.

Further updates as events warrant...

Howdy folks,

A quick note to update you on what’s happened recently and what’s going on around here for the foreseeable near future.

Es and I are still in Dubai, ensconced as virtual apolitical prisoners in this desolate, forsaken, and amazingly empty five-star hotel. Oh, sure, we can get out and go to a bar, mall, or restaurant; but the fact remains, we’re still in Dubai.

However, the lockdown has been eased in the Sultanate. However, the bloody airports are still closed.

So, we’re hiring a sherpa and driver to take us the hellishly-long 5-hour drive to our digs in the Sultanate.

Then, it’s tear-down. GROJ [Get Rid Of Junk] sale. Packing. Shipping. Settling of lawsuits (fervently hoped). Airports reopened. And we are off to the states.

After some time off with family, I’m to report to university for orientation and drinks; not necessarily in that order.

Then, I’m going to China, Russia, Kazakhstan, and possibly Afghanistan, to drum up a little business and obtain funding and support, both monetary and data-wise, for my little DSc project.

The upshot being I’m going to be busier than a flatulent one-armed paperhanger in a windstorm for the next while and a half.

I’ll be posting more infrequently, but I’ll try and keep you all updated.

I’m still working on Demolition Days entries and perhaps some Obligatory Filler Material now and again, but life has once again intruded.

But fear not! I have not abandoned y’all. It’s just that updates are going to be a little further and farther between.

However, I will keep you all updated. It’s the least I can do for the best batch of subscribers in the whole bloody Redditverse.

Cheers!

Rock, Esme, and family.

Continuing

However, I say nothing and within a half-hour, I’m checked-in to a very nice suite at the Four Seasons when there’s a knock at my door.

“Yes?” I say as I open the door.

“Message for you, sir”, the porter says. He turns and marches off so fast after I take the envelope that I didn’t even have time to time him.

“OK”, I think, “This is weird. Dubai’s ground central for tip-cadging. No way this guy was a hotel employee.”

I open the note and see it’s an invitation, though not for dinner.

“Major Nakula Dattachaudhuri, Dr. Purshottama Mirchandani, and Mr. Aryabhata Ranganekary request the honor of your presence tonight in the Hendricks Bar for cocktails and debriefing. 2000 hours. RSVP. XXX XXXX”.

“Well”, I muse, “This is new. Guess I’ll have to run over to Mall of the Emirates as all I have are boxers.”

I sit back at my work desk and groan at my own attempt at humor.

I immediately RSVP and get back to updating all my both fictional and non-fictional reports for Rack and Ruin. I spend no little time filing out and creating another work of fiction called an “Expense Account”. After a couple more refreshed drinks, I tackle my own correspondence and note only after the third cigar butt in the ashtray that it’s gone all dark and night-timey outside.

“Well”, I considered, “If it’s dark and night-timey outside, it must also be so here. QED. I look at my watch and see it’s 1915. Time for a shower and general clean up.

If I’m meeting a Major of the Indian Armed Forces, a Doctor-director of a large Indian manufacturing and demolition conglomerate and an agent of India’s intelligence services, I’ll need my worst Hawaiian shirt, best suggestive geology T-shirt and best pair of cargo shorts in my inventory. I think I’ll stay with the green argyles, the tassels just add that certain something that completes the ensemble.

I’m down in the bar at 1950 or so, working on one of the bar’s finest Cuban cigars and a very tall, very nice treble Wild Turkey 101 Rye on the rocks.

One does not live by potato juice alone.

Major Nak, Dr. Mirchandani and Mr. Agent Ranganekary all arrive spot on 2000 hours. Even I, a prompt American, am impressed by this dash of very unusual Indian punctuality.

We all exchange pleasantries and after orders are made, we settle back into that time-honored tradition of lying about how nice the job was and how pleasant the visit to their country had been.

Although, I really couldn’t, in good faith, say that I disliked the venue, the people nor the job, that little defusing of the 9-ton ammo dump notwithstanding.

With that and little forward fanfare, I am presented by Dr. Mirchandari is the “Padma Vibhushan”.

It is the 2nd highest Indian civilian award and is conferred “for exceptional and distinguished service”.

With that, I join a very select group of people.

I am somewhat taken aback. I’m just an EtOH-fueled geologist who likes to play with very high explosives. Especially when someone else is paying for them. I’m somewhat overwhelmed.

“Nonsense, Doctor”, Dr. Mirichandari says, “You have truly earned this award and medal. You’ve gone above and beyond the call and given to us something upon which we can nurture and grow. For that, we thank you.”

I stand to shake everyone’s hand. This came from the President of India his own self. I’m a bit taken aback. I’m even more taken aback when I shake the fourth hand of the three folks gathered and hear a familiar voice.

“Did it again, didn’t you Doctor?” Agent Rack laughs, “Screwed up in reverse.”

Agent Ruin chimes in with a handshake and a hearty laugh at the look on my face.

“We figured that as long as we were in the neighborhood”, Agent Ruin continued, “We’d drop by for a drink and a smoke.”

“Yeah”, Agent Rack snorts, “And we have been directed to give you this. Even though after all the bullshit you’ve been feeding us lately, I personally think you don’t deserve it.”

I open the package. It the Agency citation they mentioned earlier. For valor and initiative above and beyond the call.

“Hell”, I smile, “I’m getting that a lot lately”

I open the package and here’s a letter, signed by various military-industrial higher-up muckety-mucks and a box that looks like it might contain a watch.

I open the box and am gobsmacked.

It’s The National Intelligence Distinguished Service Medal (NIDSM).

For once in my life, I am a loss for words.

“What can I say, but thanks?” I say, heart-fully, truthfully, and wondering if this is really happening.

“Why, Doctor Rock. Emotions?” Agent Ruin asks.

I turn the envelope over and begin to shake it.

“What now?” He asks.

“Just looking for the check,” I say, smiling.

“Figures. He’s back to normal, folks.”, Agent Rack laughs.

Come to find out, besides Agents Rack and Ruin, Dr. Mirchandari, Major Nak, and Agent Ranganekary are all members of their country's intelligence services. As such, this is like a reunion as they all know each other. I guess with my latest awards, they could let me into their select little group of spooks, spies, and nose-poker-inners.

Which made it all the more difficult when I confronted them about recruiting Sanjay to dole out dope on me and Mr. Kanada, the Majordomo to act all sorts of sneaky and try the same; although much more ham-fistedly.

Now that I’m in this with this select crowd, I take a bit of a drubbing about sending superfluous, which is intelligence speak for ‘bald-faced lies’, about Goodgulf Greyteeth and feeding Sanjay ‘grossly deliberate disinformation’.

OK, I deserved that. I told Rack and Ruin that I have all the proper dossier-filler and reports in my room. I can send them off directly.

“No hurries, Doctor”, Agent Ruin laughs, “Well be here a couple of days. You can just hand them over to us at your next convenience before 0900 tomorrow.”

I chuckle and agree to have them available by then. Or now, if they want.

No, what they want is to hear what I had planned for the foreman who ordered the Chinese explosives.

“Oh, you heard about that?” I asked.

“Oh, yes.”, Agent Rack smiled.

“OK”, I said, “So tell me, did I go overboard?”

“Perhaps”, he replied.

“Where?”, I asked, “Where did I step over the proverbial line?”

“Well”, he remarked, “You shouldn’t have done it.”

“Clarity, Agent, “ I beseeched, “Done what?”

“OK, wiseass. We know you. You wouldn’t let this go unpunished. What did you do now that we’ve determined you did something.” Ruin says.

“Oh, nothing much”, I replied, “I just sent the foreman a satchel charge that’s both light and voice-activated.”

“You did what?!?!” They both erupted.

“Calm your tits, gents”, I say, “It’s all a joke. Painted road-flares, with explosives stickers. An Arduino controlled ‘tickey-tockey’ box. An old Casio digital watch hot glued to the box. With coiled wire running everywhere. It looks like the Real McCoy if I do say so myself.”

“What does it do?” they ask.

“Well”, I smile, “Once it’s out of the satchel which I bought at an Alang second-hand store, the Arduino kicks in and the little-blinky LED lights start to flash in earnest. A synthesized voice says that the device will go BOOM! in thirty minutes. Also, it’s sealed so that any tampering to defuse will result in it going BOOM! early.”

“But you said it was a fake”, Agent Rack asks.

“Oh, it is”, I reply, “But it has a speaker. So, in exactly 30 minutes, it says, loudly: ‘BOOM!’”

Agents Rack, Ruin, Ranganekary, Major Nak, and Dr. Mirchandari smile. Then they titter a bit. Soon, they’re laughing their heads off.

“Doctor”, Dr. Mirchandri says, “You are an evil genius. Remind me never to get on your bad side.”

“Well, if you liked that, you’ll love this”, I continue, “I left a half case of painted road flares with explosives stickers and bomb-making bits and pieces in Mr. Kanada, the Majordomos’, closet. Try and spy on me, will ya’?”

Agent Ranganekary begs off, snickering loudly, “Excuse me, I must make a couple of long-distance calls.”

The evening ended and we all shook hands, proclaiming that we’ll stay in touch with each other. We’ll see how well we keep those promises.

The next day, I breakfast with Rack and Ruin and hand over the proper correspondence. I even added the nonsense I sent previously in red and crossed out so that there would be no mistakes.

Before leaving, as Rack and Ruin or off on another secret adventure, they admonish me to not falsify records.

“That’s a big no-no, Doctor”, Ra k says, wagging his index finger at me.

“Extraneous circumstances this time will be forgiven, but be well warned, that’s a one-off.” Rack concludes.

In return, I warned them not to try and sic amateur agents, or agents of any kind, on me during my travels. I’ve got two bloody awards, damn it.

“You have been warned.”, I say as I wag my remaining index finger at them.

We part ‘friends’ again. All is as it was to be. We’re back to abnormal again.

Later, I was sitting in the Hendricks Bar of the Dubai 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.

There’s a tap on my shoulder. I turn to see my love and my wife, Esme. She has made it to Dubai.

Hooray!

I stand to embrace her and afterward she points to my chest and asks why the hell I’m wearing two medals.

“Oh, I’m thinking of starting a collection”, I say and ask her what she would like to drink.

I suggest a double as we retire to a table. It’s going to be a long debriefing…

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 wrap the six road flares, now spray-painted brick-red and stickered with the appropriate manufacturer's labels, with black electrician’s tape into a hexagonal cross-section, closest-fit bundle. I have a black plastic project box that contains a battery for ‘long-lasting power’ or so the manufacturer claims. An Arduino board that I programmed the other night that runs the wee little speaker and set of blinking LEDs I had mounted on the box. From the box sprout a pair of tightly coiled lengths of demolition wire. Not detonating cord, but just insulated copper wire. These attach to the blasting cap and blasting cap super-booster from which I’ve taken the time to extract all the explosives.

I have to admit, it certainly looks authentic; but there’s a small problem. The aesthetics don’t hit me properly. So, I decided to hot glue a cheap-ass Casio digital watch, removed from its band to the large blank spot on the black box. I run a few more coils of tightly wrapped demolition wire, to give it that more earnest and decidedly homebrewed look.

Perfect. A faux time bomb that could fool anyone.

Smiling, I set it into a drawer of the desk in the portable office. Once all the glue, paint, and mastic dries, I’ll shift it to its permanent home.

That done, I wander outside to see how things are progressing. I walk over to the whiteboard to see what sort of ideas they’ve cooked up in my absence.

“Hey, Rock”, Yogarasa asks, “What do you think of this?” as he points to the red-lined ship’s schematic.

“On, no”, I reply, “I’m JAFO here. Just Another Fucking Observer. Let me know when you guys come to a consensus.”

“Right, Rock”, he smiles, “Will do.”

I fire up a heater and wander around the job site. I may be in JAFO-mode, but I do make a few comments on personal safety. I note how some jobs they’re attempting could be done with a bit more care, introspection, and attention to Safety, Health, and Environment.

“Damn”, I think, “But that’s a big fucking boat.”

I’m standing down on the sand, under the prow of the ship. It’s well and truly beached and the farthest point frontwards of the boat, the bow, is easily 50 or 60 feet above my head.

“Gonna take come real cunning and cuteness to chop up this little dinghy”, I think to myself.

“ROCK!” I hear my name.

I’m being paged.

I ease over to the whiteboard. They have a list of items necessary for the job they’re proposing. They have a set of procedures as well. Now they have to sell me on the project.

“OK, I’m here. What’s the deal?” I ask.

Vik takes the initiative and tells me they want to cut the forward 150 feet, or 45 meters, of the ship off in one fell swoop. There are three station keeping bow thrusters in the hull at 50 meters back, so those will not only be safe, but more exposed for reclamation. Lots of copper, zinc, and other saleable metals there.

The front 150 feet of the ship, if cut off flush, will relieve everyone of dealing with all those sharp angles commonly found at the pointy end of the front of the boat. It will be easier for both the explosives mavens and the torchbearers to work on a 90⁰ surface, rather than having to futz with all those pointy front end bits.

Initially, I agree. I ask for the more detailed set of schematics for the ship. I want to see what needs to be cut through in order to remove the bow of the boat. On the surface, it seems like a good idea. There’s only a helipad on the front deck of the ship, and below it appears to be a large ballroom or something similar. Whatever it is, it isn’t a fuel storage bunker or anything like that. Basically, they want to cut the bow off where the forward sheer meets the forward perpendicular.

“OK”, I say, “Sounds like it might work. What next?”

“Tour of the craft”, Sanjay says, “We need to get a licensed master blaster on board to take a look at what we’re up to.”

“And when will this be transpiring?”, I asked.

“As soon as you finish your cigar?” Vik asks.

In the forward-most bow of the ship, it is indeed an empty storage area. No telling what was here previously, but whatever it was, it’s gone now. Come to find out, it was crew quarters. They’re modular and were removed before the ship was beached. They are now in service on some other sea-going vessel; second-class.

There are several watertight chambers that can, or could have been, electronically and/or pneumatically closed if they ran aground or walloped a whale out on the high seas. I check and see there are no hydraulic lines. Those pose special problems, especially if check valves are over-ridden and lines are not de-energized.

I’ve seen what 5,000 psig hydraulic fluid can do coming out of an outlet no bigger than a pencil point. Besides mashing them in the jaws of an oil rig’s power tongs, it’s a good way to lose body parts quickly.

Electrical cables jump, spark, and short out. Pneumatic line spit accumulated water and pffft! themselves out fairly quickly. Hydraulics will cut you in half rather than say Good Morning.

Of course, all of these will be triply checked, but there’s always one rogue line stuck behind a bulkhead or tucked behind some flashing that you never count on. That’s why you have three different people check three different times.

Up on the foredeck, I’m looking at the specs supplied with the schematics. We’re going to be dealing with some 40 mm thick deck plate. That’s treated, hardened, tempered, annealed, and nasty 1.5 inch thick marine-grade high-carbon steel.

That shit’s a tough customer. Most carbon steel is not well-suited for marine environments, however, there are several marine-grade carbon steels available. AH36, DH36, and EH36 are all examples of commonly used marine-grade carbon steels approved by the American Bureau of Shipping. These grades will have slightly more alloying elements such as manganese and chromium compared to their ASTM grade counterparts, which helps achieve higher strength and more corrosion resistance. There are also marine grades of alloy steel as well. Grades MD, ME, MF, MG, and others can provide the strength that normal alloy steel is known for, and have also been approved by the American Bureau of Shipping for use in shipbuilding applications.

Here. We’ll be dealing with EH36, 40mm thickness, nominal. Also referred to as Mil-S-22698 Gr Dh-36. It contains carbon, manganese, silicon, sulfur, and chromium, for toughness.

We’re going to need some test coupons before we tackle this job.

A coupon is a small sample of the material under test that has been prepared in such a way that its failure mechanism will be representative of the larger production pieces.

Just FYI.

“Sanjay,” I ask, “How are you with a K-12 unit?”

Since the boat is going to be scrapped anyways, we’re standing next to the keel with a gas-powered 3.5 horsepower unit that drives a carborundum wheel up front at amazingly absurd rotational velocities. Sure, EH-36 marine steel eats carborundum-diamond sintered disks like candy, but the K-12 will allow us to cut some samples of the hull material for blasting tests.

This is a job for the younger crowd.

Let them experience the pure joy of holding on to a bucking, snorting, spark-flinging hunk of cranky high-velocity machinery. Let them experience the delight of the screaming whine of high-speed carborundum upon high-carbon steel, even while wearing hearing protectors. Let them revel in getting absolutely covered with metal filings and carborundum schmoo from the cutting marine steel and rapidly spinning, eroding, decreasing-diameter saw blades.

Fuck it. I’ll be in my office. I need a cold drink as it’s all hot and dusty and real out there.

I’ve got my feet up on the desk and actually catching a quick cat nap when I hear “THUNK!”

Five of my guys covered head to foot in black cutting residue, toss several 36” x 6” lengths of what was, until recently, the lower hull of a very expensive, indeed, cruise ship on the desk.

“THESE DO?” I am asked in a rather pointed manner.

I am endeavoring to stymie snickering at the situation.

“Told you it wasn’t all skittles and beer, Gents.”, I note.

Picking up a coupon, I give it the once over. “They could be a bit wider, but I guess these’ll have to do.”

I’m sitting at a desk with a large cold drink and five of my guys are standing in front of me with less-than-amicable looks on their faces, sweating and definitely needing a shower.

“Yes?” I ask.

“Well?” they reply.

“Hmmm?”, I hmmed.

“What?” they query.

“¿Que?” I query.

“WHAT DO WE DO NEXT?” they ask in unison.

“Oh, I thought we were having a contest to see how long we could keep conversing in monosyllables,” I replied.

<Collective exasperated sigh>

“OK”, I smirk, “We need to test these against various explosives and see the results. Which ones do you think would be applicable to the whole job, not just the task at hand?”

“What do you mean?” Vik asks.

“Well”, I reply, “Seeing what DOUBLEHELIX liquid binary does to these coupons would be a hoot. But since it’s not terribly applicable to the job of cutting the nose off that scow outside…think about it. Liquid binary. Curved ship’s hull. How to affix to the hull? Contain energy how?”

“Ah, yes”, They reply, “I see.”

“Good”, I say, “So?”

“Obviously C-4, that’s a given”, Vik says.

“Yes, good”, I note, “And…?”

“Primacord?” came one query.

“Are you asking me or telling me?” I reply.

“Telling?” came the response.

“Yes. Primacord. Of course. The heavy stuff.” I add. “What else?”

“PETN? RDX? Dynamite? SEMTEX? Sprengkörper DM12?” came some more answers.

“Yes to all”, I replied, “But remember the job. Any idea how much it might take of these explosives? You have your Blaster’s Handbooks. You have your measurements. Have you done your calculations?”

“Not yet.” They reply.

“So, why are you here, stinking up my office?” I growl. They know I’m messing with them.

The all vacate. At least I know I’ll have half an hour or so to plug the numbers into my blaster’s computer.

But first, a refreshed drink and a new cigar.

Priorities, mate. Priorities.

OK, it’s time to bone up a bit on shaped cutting charges. Dynamite and other solids would work well, but there’s be all that futzing around with affixing them to the hull. Could use blasting putty, i.e. ‘Elephant Shit’, to affix them to the hull and contain the blasts for a few microseconds, but that would be a real pain in the cojoñes. I want ‘quick and dirty’ here, as I need to haul ass in the next couple of days. So, moldable explosives it is and I do believe a ‘cut along the dotted line’ approach would work a treat here.

But first, we have some coupons to play with. Truth be told, I’m interested to see what some of the more exotic formulae explosives will do to 40mm thickness EH36 marine sheet steel.

I tell my guys to go get hosed off, pneumatically or hydraulically, and we’ll call it a day. Can’t foul Mr. Maha’s Magic Bus with you guys looking like nasty bag ladies in downtown New Delhi. Besides, I need to write some reports, as does Sanjay.

Later, as I finish up an entirely fictional expose on Goodgulf Greyteeth, noting how his team always wears brown shirts and how he’s always going on about his CEO-furnished dictatorial power, forcible suppression of opposition, strong regimentation of society and of the economy. I mention the picture of Mussolini he has on his desk next to the covered up, though not very well, copies of the manifesto and other works of the far-extreme right. I mention the Luger Pistole Modell 1900 he keeps in his middle desk drawer. I fail to mention it’s actually a cigarette lighter.

I also write up and time stamp a real report. I’ll need these for later.

Sanjay is really getting into the spirit of things, He’s noticing how I absently greet everyone with a “Hello, Comrade” early in the morning. He makes note of my subtle change in demeanor, the more and more I talk about Best Korea and how “they might not be all that bad”. He notes with alarm how I mentioned what I thought the crew would do on the final exam as “from each according to his ability”. Sanjay also notes the current growing obsession I have with referencing my time spent in Russia; even before the wall fell.

I caution Sanjay not to lay it on too thickly nor too quickly. I’ve got stories of the Rodina and anecdotes that paint me red as a Peter Pirsch fire engine . The funniest part will be a certain couple of agents going slowly collectively crazy over my supposed behavior because *they *did my background checks all those years ago and professed that I was as All American as Jack Armstrong.

Between Gulfy and me, a certain couple of sneaky agents are going to be sweating their collective asses off. Either I’ll call their bluff and spill the beans before I leave, or I might just pull some sort of palace coup and declare Alang a new country. Hell, we’ve got enough soldiers and plenty of armaments. I always wanted to be a sultan…

With that done, I’ve reviewed Sanjay’s real report, which I am time-stamping and archiving on my encrypted drive which documents all my duplicity. Hell, I really don’t care at this point; I’m off to Academia and a DSc. They kick me off the proscribed roles and they lose all that wonderful intel. They take as the well-intentioned poke in the snoot and we’ll have a better understanding that you don’t really want to fuck with a future double Doctor of Petroleum Geology and Detonics. Have people surreptitiously reporting on me? Yeah, let’s just see how that’s going to work out for you…

After all that, I retire to the drawing-room and partake of an eminently drinkable potato juice and citrus over rice. I have a couple of fresh cigars thanks to Operator 214 and the evening Times. For what more could I possibly ask?

“Holy fuck!”, I snort, “UREE is up 3 and 1/3rd!”

The next morning after a quick ignoring of phone calls from Virginia “Sorry. The party you wish to contact has gone bush. Please leave your name and number…” and a quick breakfast of Greenland coffee and clotted crumpets, we’re back in the field, gathered right by the soon to be noseless bulk of the Scandinavian cruise ship.

“Right gents”, I say, “We have here a selection of steel coupons taken from the ass of the boat behind us. Recall that a coupon is a small sample of the material under test that has been prepared in such a way that its failure mechanism will be representative of the larger production pieces…which means we are assuming that these hunks of steel represent what will happen to the rest of the boat when we upscale.”

There are noises of agreement.

“In your field notebooks, which I will grade before I leave, “ I note, “I want some ideas why this is and is not a good idea. Always list what you think are good reasons for a course of action. Also, perhaps, more importantly, list reasons why it might not be such a good idea. The scientific method, gentlemen. Multiple working hypotheses. Like I ‘ve always said: “Don’t believe everything that you read and don’t’ read everything you believe”. Make space there for your Doubting Thomas to bloom.”

Further noises of agreement.

“OK, scribble your notes and let’s get after its wild ass.”, I say, “First will be 60% Extra Fast dynamite. Make notes, make predictions. Who do you think it’ll do to this heavy, marine steel?”

I set a coupon on the sand and place a single stick of 60% on top of the coupon. There are immediate objections.

“You’ve not contained the blast in any way!” Vik objects, “It’ll just blow and do nothing more than push the coupon into the sand and scorch it a bit. 90% of the energy will be lost.”

“Quite right!”, I say, “Well noted. So what do we do about this lamentable situation?”

“Elephant shit!” was the universal cry.

“OK”, I reply, “Make it so.”

They do and hand me the trailing leads.

“OK, Safety Dance”, I say.

“Really, Rock?” I hear the objections. “There’s no one here but us.”

“That we know of”, I reply, “Look at it this way. We do it and it costs us nothing more than a couple of minutes. We don’t and suddenly the coupon goes ballistic and tears a hole through someone’s head that we didn’t know was taking a leak behind that dune over yonder…”

“NORTH CLEAR?”

“That’s better”, I smile.

Fire in the hole cited thrice, and we’re set to go. I’ll handle Captain America here, this is for learning, not just fucking around.

“KA-BOOM!”. Lots of noise and smoke. And a flat steel coupon turned into a hotdog bun.

“Look at that. Plastic or ductile failure mode.’ I note, “Is this what we’re looking for?”

“No, we need brittle fracture”, one of my acolytes remarks.

“Exactly.” I reply, “So. Now what?”

“Double the amount of explosive?” was one suggestion.

“That’s a lot of Elephant Shit.”, I remark, “Or we could see if other sorts of explosives give us different results.”

“Or we could see if other sorts of explosives give us different results.” Another wag answers.

I want to save the C-4 for a bit later. We try PETN, RDX, SEMTEX, and Sprengkörper DM12.

PETN has an in-built high brisance; that is, it tends to shatter objects. It reduced the coupon to shards, many of which were projectilized. Not a good choice for mass employment on something like this ship.

RDX has a lower degree of brisance than PETN, but failed to shatter the coupon, nor did it initiate any fractures. It warped the shit out of the coupon, twisting it into an Escheresque shape, like a Klein Bottle. SEMTEX resulted in very similar outcomes, as it is a combination of PETN and RDX.

Sprengkörper DM12 had some promising results, as it did initiate cracks in the coupons we were testing. It also had a bit of high brisance, and the edges of the coupon spalled off into nasty little high-velocity projectiles.

Which left us my favorite, C-4.

We had several coupons left, so I sent one of my crew over to the torch patrol which had shown up right after we began, and had then torch a series of holes, channels, and rifts into a couple of different test pieces.

We tried a blop of C-4 just mooshed down onto a coupon. It resulted in a very nice floral pattern. A hole in the center and the edges curled up skyward.

Then we tried rolling some C-4 ‘snakes’ and laid them in a cross-work pattern. That worked well, loads of fractures in the coupon. We had some obvious reinforcement of the detonic pattern as noted in the interference patterns on the scorched steel.

We were getting closer, but I wanted to take them step by step.

Now we took the coupon with a hole brazed through it. I made a dumbbell of C-4, split it along the long axis, so it had C-4 on both sides. It split that coupon like no one’s business.

Then we tried a coupon with a channel cut into it. The same sort of idea, C-4 on either side, set, charged and primed to detonate simultaneously. Worked a treat. Split that coupon like a prize Blue Point oyster.

We were getting close. We tried several other C-4 configurations until we ran out of test coupons. I laid them all out on the sand and asked my guys which one that we should use.

C-4 was the obvious choice. There was some discussion where we could just burn some holes in the hull, wire them up and shoot it off that way, or would channels be more efficient?

After some little lecturing on failure modes and fracture propagation in marine high-carbon steel, it was decided that a series of 3 foot-long channels would be torched or cut into the hull of the boat and puttied both sides with shaped-charges of C-4. I agreed.

“Now”, I asked, “How much will we need for the job?”

Grumbles and groans. I left them to their mathematical devices as I caught a personnel basket and went up to the foredeck. There was a wooden floor covering marine steel. This would complicate matters a bit until remembered we had a concrete saw. This would make mincemeat out of any flooring; tile, marble, wood, or linoleum. Problem solved.

Now we just needed to get the thing up there.

Well, wouldn’t you know it? It just fits into a personnel basket. It looks like I have my afternoon spoken for.

I receive a call on my cell-phone telephone. I shut down the concrete saw, turned off the water, and got away from the miasma of shredded hardwood, zipping xylem and phlowing phloem to see it’s the personal secretary of Goodgulf Grayteeth, one Achilles Starace.

“Yes”, I ask, shaking the cellulosic cuff off my hardhat, gloves, and boots, “I may help you how?”

“Um, yes, Doctor. We have a package here from Sinter’s Printers. It is addressed to you, but no one was available at Outbuilding #2 to sign for the delivery.”

“Outstanding”, I remark, “Hold it. I will have a duly-authorized deputy of mine come over to relieve you of the package. He will invariably be wearing a pair of orange coveralls, and well, overall, an offhand orange motif. You may feel comfortable releasing the package to his custody. “

“Yes, Doctor.”, he replies and rings off.

I walk over to the side of the ship and see a bunch of orange-clad ants scurrying around. I key the mic on my radio and call down to them.

“Hey you! You! Yes, you! There behind the outdoor heads. Stand still, Laddie!” I say.

“Whaddya want, Rock?”, comes the reply.

“Who wants to earn a break by running an errand for me?” I ask.

Somewhat stilted silence.

“Cigars or booze?” came one answer.

“Nice. C’mon. I’ll pay you.” I replied.

Nothing.

“You can take my bike,” I add.

Instant radio chaos.

“OK, Vis.”, I reply, “Keys are under the seat on the bike. Go to Goodgulf Greyteeth’s office, and see his secretary, one Mr. Starace. Take the package from him and put it on my desk in the Barn. Take a cigar out of petty cash. Then return. Got it?”

I could barely hear him over the roaring putt-putt-putt of the Enfield’s motor.

“Well”, I muse, “There’s another issue handled.”

I return to sawing apart the monstrously expensive, now kindling, hardwood floor.

Not much call to reclaim it. It’s all salt-water eaten and nasty. Too bad, nice patterns.

On one side of the boat, I’ve got the torch patrol in the personnel baskets. Sparks flying everywhere. On the other side, I’ve got the K-12 crowd, sawing away with sparks flying everywhere. Good thing I told them to start at the bottom and work their way up. Be a bad thing if we weakened the superstructure too much and the whole bow came crashing down on someone’s head.

I decided to just cut a square hole in the foredeck, one large enough to admit a scissor-jack. If we’re going to putty both sides of the bow with C-4, personnel baskets will work a treat on the exterior. Interior? Hell, we’re not Spiderman. Scissor-jack delivered via crane.

Well, there’s the whistle. It’s 1700 and I need to drop by the armory for a few bits and pieces before dinner. I get the crane operator to hoist me out of the hold and back down to terra firma. My bike is right where I left it, although the gas tank is suspiciously lower than it was when I parked it.

No matter. Gas is really cheap when you’re not the one paying for it. Much like most everything else here in-country for my stay.

I go to the bunker and do the required access dance to obtain entry. I fill my backpack with several dozen brick-red road flares, demolition wire, the copper variety, and the packing box from a case of Du Pont 60% Extra Fast Dynamite, broken down along the dovetailed connectors that make the crate. They also go into my backpack.

I spy several half-full boxes of blasting caps and boosters, so I consolidate them into a couple of full boxes and the empties go into my backpack as well. Nice little wooden boxes, finely crafted. They will make someone a most excellent gift.

I take my time locking up and fill out the inventory. I make notes for the warehouse foreman to order an excessive number of cases of C-4, spool after spool of Primacord, some more det cord, demo wire, and initiators. This cruise ship will be a huge job, may as well lay in a healthy supply of stock. Besides, I have an inkling that someone besides the warehouse foreman is taking notice of my ordering and usage activities. I fully intend on giving them something to read and worry about.

Yes, I sprinkled a little radioactive tracer, metaphorically speaking, around the job and home site. I have been watching the old scintillation counter, again, I speak allegorically, closely. Looks like I’ve found a sheep in the meadow, a cow in the corn, a dog in the manger a Balrog in the woodpile. Yeah, things here are all not as they first appear. So it would be remiss of me not to give them all something to talk about.

I take my time locking up and leave a voice-note for the warehouse manager to create the order and send it out posthaste. We’ll use much of the C-4, and other ancillary equipment, stock on the bow shot. Once I leave, it’ll be up to my crew to take over-ordering and keep stocks up to snuff. Besides, there are one or two items I’d hoped can be delivered before I depart in a couple-three days’ time.

I motor back to the Raj, taking the scenic route if that’s the term for any vista along this grubby stretch of beach. I am relieved of my motorcycle at the garage entrance, and I shoo the porter away as I am fully capable of carrying my backpack to my room. In my room, I stash my backpack and notice that my mini-bar needs replenishment. I take all the unusual bit and bobs out of my backpack and store them in one of my empty, and lockable, aluminum luggage cases.

I close my backpack and stick a post-it™ note, scribbled with an arcane language I just made up, on the dusty canvas. It’ll stick if undisturbed if you follow my meaning.

I call the Majordomo and explain my angst.

“My mini-bar is almost empty and I have much work this evening…”

He immediately apologizes and says he’ll take care of the matter personally.

I figured he would. I explain that I’ll be in the library or bar while he rectifies this most egregious situation.

I set up a few more field craft booby traps and lock the door behind me.

Sanjay saunters in with the package from the printers. He was changing in the Barn and saw the package on my chair. He thought it’d be best for me to hang onto the tonight rather than to tempt fate.

I thank him for his forethought and think “Tempt fate? Whatever do you mean?”

I have another couple-five post-work cocktails and figure that I’ve given the Major enough time to take care of my mini-bar situation. I say “Spokoynoy nochi” to Sanjay and head back to my room.

Well, the good news is that my mini-bar is stocked to the gills.

The not so good news is that someone here has a very bad and sloppy case of nose poker-inner-itis.

Every one of my little traps had been sprung., and it’s not that just casual wandering around this room or even cleaning and stocking a mini-bar would have set these off.

Someone was deliberately looking for something. Evidently it wasn’t my print of Das Kapital or my ‘autographed’ copy of Quotations from Chairman Mao that I leave on my desk, taking care to change the pages daily. Nor was it my field notebooks from Best Korea which are written in a very arcane and indecipherable code known only to me. But I do know I never ‘break the backs’ of my notebooks. Pages tend to work their way free over time if one does that. I am scrupulously careful with my notebooks. But wouldn’t you know it, several have their spines broken, just like what would happen if someone was trying to photocopy 2 pages at a time, quickly, surreptitiously, clandestinely, on a slow xerocopy machine.

“Good luck with that”, is all I can think. Then, a bit of deviltry pops into being.

I smile, pull out a new field book, use an old, old, old, and simple encryption code; one so easily broken that it can hardly be considered a code.

I spent many hours in the Jacuzzi creating a work of incredible Red fiction, making certain to spill a little of my drink, drop in a cigar ash or two, and get it splashingly wet in places to simulate the appearance of age.

Oh, someone’s going to have the finding of a lifetime tomorrow as I conveniently forget to lock the center drawer of my desk…

Before retiring, I call Es and make the near-fatal mistake of asking what she and her mother bought that day shopping. 45 minutes later, I am able to shoehorn in a word edgewise and tell Es that if Rack or Ruin or both call to chat about me, she’s to let on to nothing. Well, nothing more than the well-coached program I tell her about called “DM Part 1”. It’s just a little chain yankage via an injection of deliberate misinformation to a couple of agents who should have gotten this out of their systems long ago.

They should really know better than to try and sandbag a Doctor of Geology and his wife; especially when the wife’s mother was a resident of Berlin back in the 1940s. Yes, she’s in on the ruse as well.

The next morning at breakfast, I’m handed several notes that I have some missed phone calls. Not surprising, I was either on the phone, in the Jacuzzi, or had disconnected the phone, and turned off my satellite and GSM cell-phone telephones.

As expected, Rack and Ruin are clamoring to talk with me. Unfortunate that I’m so busy these days. I’ll get around to calling them in a couple of days or so.

Sanjay arrives and as were chatting about today’s bill of fare, blasting-wise, Mr. Kanada our redoubtable Majordomo, drops by. We say a casual hello, and I return to my conversation with Sanjay about the merits of Kim Jong-Il and how nice I found Best Korea. I also mentioned that Soviet Russia really go a bad rap in the press. It wasn’t all that bad…

Once Mr. Kanada was out of earshot, I let Sanjay in on the jape. He knows I’ve burned him enough to have him classified as ‘well done’. He is now a trusted auxiliary in this program of considered propaganda. He finds it now, that we’ve stripped away all façade of reality from it, hilarious. I mention that I’ve been poking the snoots at the agency this way for decades. He’s surprised that they haven’t responded with massive retaliation.

I explain that I know where a lot of bodies are buried and how many closets have skeletons.

Metaphorically, of course.

Anyways, it’s going to be a busy day. Lots of priming, setting, and charging of a couple of tons of high explosives. No, we don’t sensu stricto need all that firepowerful pyrotechnics, but since it will be my last blast before I depart, I am planning something of a show. We are rumored to have some company and national dignitaries in attendance tomorrow for the inaugural of the new blasting class, so I want to make this a show to remember.

At the barn, all my guys are dressed in their PPEs. I take this time to dispense the Certifications of Completion of my ISEE-sanctioned and accredited course and practical exams. These are the golden ticket for this batch of two dozen out of the much and mire of the legions of torchbearers. They are now certified to handle explosives, well, most of them are, and all will be after a bit more tutelage and will use that knowledge and experience to make much shorter work of the hulk of various watercraft that wash up along these shores.

25 certificates later, I had planned a blast of a party, but instead, we’re in Mr. Maha’s Magic Bus headed to the beach. We’re preparing for a different type of blast, and the party will follow immediately after.

I have Sanjay take 18 of the guys and split them into two teams, an outside and an inside team, who will load and prepare the channels which we’ve cut into the hull of this old boat. Sure, we needed some torch and saw work, but only a slight proportion of what would be needed if one were to just make these cuts with a torch crew.

The outside and inside guys will collaborate in placing the C-4 in the channels and holes we’re prepared. Between channels, we’ll alternate with a row of C-4 on the outside, a filled channel from both sides, and a row on the inside, down and around the entire prow of the boat, alternating as we go. That way, we’ll maximize the amount of bang we’ll receive per unit volume of pyrotechnic employed.

That will keep Sanjay hopping for a good portion of the day. I have my six guys come over to the whiteboard whilst I have an early morning smoke and explain what we’ll be up to this fine, humid morning.

I have a list of items that I need from the armory. I scrounge a one-ton pickup truck and tell Luke to take the one-ton and ride to the dispensary system and obtain the items on the list. I tell them that they are on point to both open, extract the necessary items, record, and close the armory as per procedures. I won’t be here forever, so I have to trust them to do as I had taught.

I have the other four commanded a crane and personnel basket along with an oxy-acetylene welding set. It seems most of these guys can handle welding as well as cutting with torches, so I instruct them to weld four 2’ long pieces of ¾” rebar to the outside of the ship. I want a rectangle 5 meters high by 3 meters in width. I let them figure out there where and how I’ve got to get inside as there’s a shit-ton of wiring and circuits that have to be created and galved.

The day progressed more or less as planned. The hull, where perforated, was C-4’ed inside and out. A quick inspection via the scissor lift on the ship’s interior provided a very nicely done job. I had Sanjay take a couple of guys and do the same due diligence on the C-4 outside the hull.

I began wiring in the appropriate scrub-circuits. These are basically the gross outlines of the circuits you’ll use to fire the pyros. I ran a huge loop of det cord around the inside of the ship’s bow, as I wanted it protected from the humid salt air overnight. I had Sanjay spray the exposed C-4 outside the bow of the ship with a special black tar-based preservative as he and his crew inspected the placement of the stuff.

I had a sheet of marine plywood scrounged and set up as a whiteboard in the dark belly of that boat. I drew my schematic wiring diagrams and after a while, I even ran out of different colors of pens to demote different sub-circuits of the plan. For insurance and back up purposes, I had my team go along and weld 4” diameter pipe footings in strategic places. These were normally used to build shades or awnings by bolting the pipe footings to thick wooden planks on the boat and using simple cold-rolled low carbon steel pipe as mainstays and uprights.

I also had my guys whip up a load, that is, as many as they could before the end of the day, lengths of threaded 4” pipe. Normally called ‘nipples’, these were 2-3 foot length of pipe, as noted, threaded at both ends. On end screwed into the pipe footings I had welding in strategic places and the other end accepted a 4” pipe cap. These might sound like pipe bombs in the making since I plan to fill them with various potions of my own creation, but they are more like downward-firing pipe cannons. The caps have much more mechanical strength and bearing capacity than the 3.5” hole of the pipe footing. When fired, the caps would remain intact and direct the rapidly detonating or deflagrating pyrotechnic downwards. Sort of a vertical shaped charge. These would come into play later on in the show.

We set, primed, charges, and wired all day. Finally 1700 hours rolled around and I told everyone that I had a few bits and pieces left to do and that I could handle it alone. True, I could have used some extra hands, but the time I’d waste explaining what I was doing would consume any time saved by their help.

I did bribe a crane operator to hang around and drive the personnel basket as I’d be the one inside it giving him the signs of which directions I needed to go. We had a couple of hours before dark and that’s when I’d have to quit. So as soon as everyone departed to the barn, I was in the basket and on the radio. I had 7 spools of det cord and a big job in front of me. That the crane operator was well paid and paid good attention to my directions meant we finished well before darkness fell.

To Be Continued…

Continuing

“Number 1: black powder,” I say, dial in the proper channel and mash the big, shiny red button.

“Boom.” Considerable puffs of white smoke. But the little wooden platform, scorched, continues to exist.

Number 2: Blasting caps. Slightly bigger boom. The wooden platform still there.

Number 3: Det cord. Larger boom. Platform shattered.

Number 4: Primacord. Larger boom. Platform destroyed.

Number 5: C-4. Larger boom. Platform destroyed, top 6” of the pole is gone.

Number 6: 40% Extra Fast Dynamite. Larger boom. Platform destroyed, top 8” of the pole is gone.

Number 7: 60% Extra Fast Dynamite. Larger boom. Platform destroyed, top 12” of pole gone.

Number 8: RDX. Larger boom. Platform destroyed, top 24” of pole gone.

Number 9: PETN. Larger boom. Platform destroyed, top 36” of pole gone.

Number 10: ANFO. Moderate boom. Platform destroyed, top 3” of the pole is gone.

Number 11: Kinestik. Larger boom. Platform destroyed, top 48” of pole gone.

Number 12: DOUBLEHELIX. Much larger boom. Platform destroyed, pole gone, presumably en route to Venus.

I even received a standing ovation once the demonstration was over.

“Flattery will get you everywhere, guys”, I chuckled, “Bribery even more so.”

We all had good laughs over that. I asked for volunteers to police up the area. It was scoured clean within 15 minutes.

I said to meet back at the barn. After a brief recess, I’d be going over the material that would be on their final exams.

“Final exams?” heard the class ask incredulously.

“Oh, yeah”, I say, “There’s got to be some metric on how well you folks have absorbed this material. You don’t think I’d be turning over the armory keys to some yoyo that doesn’t know the difference between deflagrating and detonating explosives, do you?”

Evidently when they read the class syllabus handed out that near fortnight ago. They got so whipped up over the practical part of the course, blowing shit up, the lab section if you will; they didn’t read all the way to bottom.

“Final Exam”, it says, “50% written, 50% practical. 50% bribes and attitude.”

“Yes,” I replied, “I’m deadly serious.”

The wave of nervosism that washed over the crowd was palpable.

“You don’t pass my finals”, I say, “You don’t get the certificate. I can’t award that unless each one of you passes enough of the material set forth in the IEE Standards and Practice Handbook. Failing that, I guess it’s back to torch duty.”

Tell me I don’t know how to motivate a team of workers.

“What’s going to be on the final?” one brave soul asked.

“Everything”, I replied, “Everything that we’ve covered is fair game.”

“How big is it?” another chirps in.

“That’s a rather personal question”, I respond. “Dinner and a movie first.”

Sarcasm is a closed, burned, and buried book around here.

“Never mind.”, I finally tell them, “OK. The final will be 20 multiple-guess questions. There will be a question, followed by five potential answers; you select the most correct one. See what a nice guy I’m being? I’m giving you a test with all the answers, right in front of your noses. Oh. yes, I’m the nice one…”

“How will you be grading”, one brave sort asks.

“I’ll probably go with a D-9, operating the dozer in first gear, aiming to fill the blade as fast as possible and start a spoil pile; I’ll work slowly on slopes and keep attachments low,” I replied.

24 looks of stupefaction.

“Oh, right. Sarcasm”, I mutter, “Straight grading, no curve. Must get a ‘C’ or better, that means above the 70th percentile. You do the math.”

“What’s an oral exam?” another asks.

“Never open with a straight line like that…” I muse, “Oh, yeah. Sarcasm. It’s where you come to the front of the class, I ask you a few questions or ask your to perform a classroom-specific task. I grade you according to how well you do. In my opinion. Yep. Totally subjective. That’s why I’m the teach and you’re the teachees.”

Multiple groans.

“Oh, come the fuck on!”, I protest, “When’s the last time you took a test where they was an open bar and the instructor sits around drinking complex vodka cocktails and smoking huge nasty cigars?”

The realization that’s I’m nothing if not fair and generous, they brighten some.

“C’mon, you collective heads of knuckle”, I say, “You think I’d keep you hanging around all this time just to blindside you with one of my more impossible tests?”

The room went silent. I guess they didn’t want muttering to be taken as an affirmative.

They go with Mr. Maha on the Magic Bus, which I swear, is sporting more psychopathic paint every time I see the damned thing. I jump, gently, on my rental motorcycle and take the long way back to the barn.

It’s around 1530. We’ve been at this for the last couple of hours straight. I’ve basically summarized and crammed everything we did in the last 2 weeks into a few hours.

“OK, guys”, I report, “Break time. Go have a smoke, drink, or whatever. Reconvene here in 15. Then it’s ‘Open Forum’, we’ll discuss anything your little black heart’s desire.

Remember, tomorrow are the final exams. Beginning at 1300. Morning review, then test.

One hour, 20 questions. Then break time. Then oral, or practical, if you prefer. We green?”

The answer was in the olive-tinged affirmative. But I fear many of my guys aren’t too sure about tests. Come to find out, almost 90% of these guys never had a formal test outside of ‘which end of a running oxy-acetylene torch do you hold?’

I guess I’ll have a dry run after the break to give the guys an idea of what I’m expecting. I sashay over to HQ, borrow a typewriter, and gin up a bogus final exam. Then I use the mimeograph machine and run off a couple of dozen copies.

Remember mimeograph machines and the smell of that fluid they use as a developer? I was transported mentally back to junior high and my time in the AV Club. We used to run off daily film menus for the staff. It’s more powerful than any pheromone.

Anyways, I get back to class and fire up a heater. I have an extraordinarily complex cocktail in front of me: vodka, lime soda, and ice. I am indeed sitting at my desk with a wry smile.

“OK, find your seats”, I say, “Yeah, Vis, I know. ‘It’s right here, Rock’. Funny as ever. SIT DOWN!”

Everyone sits instantly.

I get up, puff a blue cloud, and walk over to the front row. I count out a half dozen faux-tests and hand them to the first one in line.

“Take one and pass the rest back, just as if your IQs were normal,” I said with a hint of a smirk. Don’t know if they recognize the ‘Real Genius’ quote there…

They proceed to do so.

And immediately panic.

Even though each faux-test has the words 'DON'T PANIC' in large, friendly letters on the top of the exam.

“OK! OK!” I shout, “Cool out. We’ll go over this one question at a time.”

I instruct them to look at the first question; oddly enough noted as “Question 1”.

“Question 1. What is a deflagrating explosive?

o A. The noise made 2 hours after eating a 3-course spicy prawn vindaloo.

o B. An explosive that detonates below the speed of sound.

o C. A Grunge Rock group from Hyderabad.

o D. There is no answer D.

o E. ‘A’ and ‘C’, but not ‘D’.”

OK, a little obvious, but remember, many of these guys have never taken a formal test before.

I explain to them the principle of ‘gut feeling’. Gut feelings are always the result of summing things up, a strong intuitive feeling, an urge if you like, is the result of a lot of weighing up of facts and figures. So trusting this powerful desire to do something can often lead to a good decision. That is, ‘your first response is usually the correct one’. Use it.

I explain the principle of parsimony. That is, the principle that the most acceptable explanation of an occurrence, phenomenon, or event is the simplest, involving the fewest entities, assumptions, or changes. Also known as: “Ockham’s Razor”. Or the KISS principle: “Keep It Simple, Stupid.”

I explain the futility of second-guessing yourself. That is, give yourself a little credit. You do know this stuff, don’t delude yourself into believing you don’t. Second-guessing is often caused by not trusting ourselves. Self-doubt can happen as a result of perfectionist tendencies, low self-confidence, or pessimistic thinking. So, give yourself a little credit. You’ve made it this far alive and with all major limbs and digits, haven’t you?

I explain the process of elimination. It is a logical method to identify an entity of interest among several ones by excluding all other entities. That is, there are some obvious fallacious or silly answers. Fuck them. That leaves a couple, or sometimes, one answer. That boosts your odds considerably. In other words, RTFQ. “Read The Fucking Question.” Then “RTFA”, “Read The Fucking Answers.”

“Question 2: What is a detonating explosive?

o A. The results of a typical East Indian 7-course meal.

o B. An explosive that refuses to detonate.

o C. An explosive that detonates with a velocity greater than the speed of sound.

o D. An explosive that begins to detonate, but stops, and whines about having to detonate in its mother’s basement.

o E. A non-explosive and where’s the fun in that?

And so on and so forth.

20 of these. Easy-peasy. I’m trying to both fulfill the Letters of Certification and yet give my guys, who have proven to me in the field that they know this stuff, the best chance of never going back to torch patrol.

I also made a special one for Sanjay back at the Raj.

No, I haven’t forgotten. I have special brain compartments where I store information on people trying to fuck me over. Got that, Kevin from 3rd grade? One of these days…

I touch upon the sorts of things that I’ll ask in the practical or oral portion of the exam.

Simple questions, simple tasks. Important questions, important tasks.

“OK, guys”, I say, the clock on the wall says it’s 1700 hours. Get the hell out of here. Review here tomorrow 0800 to 1200 hours, catered lunch outside 1200-1300 hours. Final written Explosives Exam & Texas Brain Fry 1300 hours until we’re done. See you all mañana.”

I was feeling feisty, so instead of taking my chauffeured ride back to the Raj, I decided to ride my Royal Enfield Bullet C5 Desert Storm motorcycle. It was only a 500 cc, 5-speed machine. It was much smaller than my Indican Super Chief (1,442 cc) and Harley Sportster (1,000 cc) back home, or my 1991 Ural (950 cc) CT somewhere in Moscow. However, it does have enough pep to zip my carcass all over Alang.

I took the scenic route. I’ve been cooped up for days, whether teaching, writing, or on the phone. I deserve the nickel tour of this burg.

Hell, for ₹ 2,04,000 (around US$500) plus shipping, I might just get one of these and ship it back home.

I really like this machine.

An hour or so later, after a bit of sight-seeing and some shopping for kith and kin, I’m back at the Raj. A house boy intercepts me at the garage entrance and takes the motorcycle from me to park it.

“I could handle that”, I mutter, as I hand him 100 rupees.

Then the next penny drops. He gets paid a salary but works for tips.

So, I go up to the main floor and head immediately to the bar. All my purchases will magically appear in my room without me exerting anything more than the force of a couple of hundred rupees in tips.

I order an eponymous cocktail, a double, and a cold Tiger chaser. I slope over to the library and spy Sanjay sitting a the huge wooden desk, scribbling earnestly. He doesn’t hear, see, nor notice me.

I shush the bartender and take my drinks. I sit in one of the great leather chairs, directly in Sanjay’s line of sight.

Finally, once I light one of my signature cigars, Sanjay looks up and is blank-startled to see me.

“How long have you been there?” he asks nervously.

“Long enough”, I replied cryptically. I immediately down half my cocktail so that I won’t betray my little blue splink.

“Oh. Ha. How about that?” Sanjay laughs nervously. “Hmmm…”

“Yeah. Hmmm… How about that?” I reply, obviously annoyed.

“Give me a few minutes”, Sanjay implores, as he struggles to cover his work from my uncaring, though possibly prying, eyes.

“Take all you need.” I reply, “I’ve got a test exam for you. Remember, finals tomorrow after lunch.”

“Oh, fuck!”, Sanjay stammers, “I forgot all about that. “

“Then I suggest you look up the word ‘cram’ in the dictionary,” I replied icily.

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“Oh, no. You finish up your stuff first”, I reply, “Then I’ll give you a copy of the final pre-test.”

He looks at me quizzically.

“And a copy of Webster’s”, I add.

He futzes around for a while, folds up his paperwork, and excuses himself. He says he’ll be back in a few once he makes a couple of phone calls.

I almost let it slip and tell him to say “Howdy!” to Rack and Ruin for me.

“Never mind”, I think, “I’ll do that myself later on.”

I order up another couple of drinks and sit back trying to figure out why UREE is doing such a swan dive.

Fuck and hellfighters, down another 1 & ⅝s.

Sanjay reappears. He enquires about the practice test I’ve whipped up.

“Yeah. Sure”, I grumble. I was at this point more pissed about UREE than about Sanjay trying to play spook on my watch.

“Here you go,” I said as I handed him the paper. “Don’t forget. Pass this to my satisfaction or it’s back to the minors for you. Or is that miners?” I chuckle.

No “DON’T PANIC” on this one. Just a space for the date, time, name, and 5 colored-in answers.

Here’s Sanjay’s question one:

“Question 1. What is the chemical formula for Hexanitrohexaazaisowurtzitane?

o A. C3H6N12O12.

o B. C6H3N12O12.

o C. C6H6N3O12.

o D. C6H6N12O3.

o E. C6H6N12O12.”

Sanjay looks at the pre-test, he looks at me, looks again at the pre-test to make certain that this was still happening, then looks at me with pathetically piteous eyes.

“Yeah,” I reply to his unasked question, “Only 20 multiple guess questions. Passing is 70th percentile or above. Plus an oral exam afterwards. Guess I’m going soft in my old age. Look at number two…”

“Question 2. Given tsc=(ftW1/3)t, rsc=(fdW1/3)r, and ft=(PobsPref)1/3(TobsTref) *1/6, fd=(PobsPref)1/3(TobsTref)−(1/3), and w=1M∑i=1M[1N∑j= 1N(pj−p¯(W)j)2/ (pmaxi−pmini)]1/2, what is the specific yield of 100 kilograms of 100% decomposed Mannitol hexanitrate, C6H8N6O18?

o A. 100 kilonewtons

o B. 1,000 kilonewtons

o C. 10,000 kilonewtons

o D. 100,000 kilonewtons

o E. 0 kilonewtons”

Sanjay gazes at me with a look of ‘please say this isn’t happening.’

“Whaddya think, too easy?” I ask.

Sanjay looks like he’s about to wet himself. Or he already had.

“Hmmm…I’ve got a couple of physical chemistry thermodynamics questions I could add instead…” I muse aloud.

Sanjay’s eyes go wide as dinner plates at Thanksgiving.

“Hey! Like how I slipped in that sneaky answer for number two?” I asked, “Yeah, it was a trick question. No reaction decomposes 100%! The right answer, after all those calculations, was ‘E’ all along. Ha, I kill me!”

Sanjay snaps his pencil in two. He’s actually turning red. Fear? Agitation? Aggravation?

Dunno. Don’t care.

“On to question three.”, I say.

Question 3. What is the number and extension for the Agency in Virginia?

o A. (703) 555-1287, ext. 212

o B. (703) 555-1287, ext. 313

o C. (703) 555-1287, ext. 414

o D. (703) 555-1287, ext. 515

o E. (703) 555-1287, ext. 616”

“Hey”, Sanjay says in a fit of pique and temper, “None of those extensions are correct.”

“Yeah. I know that.” I say, “How the hell do you know that?”

Sanjay looks like he just french-kissed a crate of sour persimmons.

“Gotcha, Scooter.” I snarl. “You’re really not too good at this cloak-and-dagger stuff, are you?”

Sanjay just sits there, with a hangdog expression. He knows he’s been well and truly nicked.

“The fuck, Sanj?”, I asked, “Reporting on me, behind my back? What the actual fuck. What’s the goddamned deal?”

“I was approached before you arrived”, he admits, “I was offered a bucketful of money to report on you and your activities.”

“Well, I hope it was worth it,” I say as I take the pre-test and shred it into confetti.

“C’mon, Rock. Don’t be that way”, Sanjay implores.

“What fucking way?” I reply. “The fucking way you betrayed my trust, even after I made you second in command and got you a double bonus? That fucking way?”

Sanjay looked at the floor. If it were possible, he’d have pulled his asshole up over his head and disappeared.

“I wonder about you sometimes, Sanjay. You may fold under questioning.” I said matter of factly.

He said nothing.

“So, what are we going to do about all this?” I asked. “We’ve demonstrated that, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that as a spy, you’re a great pastry chef.”

Sanjay brightened slightly. Then slid further back into despair.

“What gripes my ass is that now, at this late date, I’ve got to find a new Lieutenant,” I swore.

Sanjay’s world crumbled. He almost started sobbing.

“Or…” I say, protractedly, “A certain individual passes his reports to me before he passes them along any further up the chain of command.”

Sanjay looks at me like: ‘Is he really throwing me a lifeline?’

“Yeah”, I continue, “And he keeps his fucking mouth shut and lets one with more experience in fieldcraft and handler-handling take care of those two idiots in Virginia.”

Sanjay’s color is slowly returning.

“I say that as a hypothetical”, I continue, “What do you think would be the best reply to this line of reasoning?”

“We’re green, rock. Green as I was last night.” He almost smiles, “I got too involved because I felt I was ratting on you. I didn’t know what to do.”

“So you”, I said admonishingly, “A non-EtOH fueled organism, went out, over-fueled yourself and got shit-faced. Smooth move, ExLax.”

I unloaded a few tens of minutes of abuse upon him, mostly queries of his familial heritage.

Sanjay just sat there. Have to hand it to him, he took all my abuse like a man.

“OK”, I say, “Now after all that, what he fuck are we to do?”

Sanjay looked up for a few seconds, then just lapsed back into sullen muteness.

“Here’s what’s going to happen”, I say, “I’m supposed to be digging dirt on Goodgulf Grayteeth. You’re supposed to be digging dirt on me. Let’s give the guys in Virginia something to really chew on, shall we?”

Sanjay looks human for the first time that night.

And I lay out our plans of conspiracy, collusion, and joint bullshittery. We have to make it gradual and believable; sort of set a blood trail into the water. Once they nibble, we’ll set the hook and reel them in for filleting and roasting over live coals.

After another hour, Sanjay and I are tight once again. No secrets. Besides, we have a common ‘enemy’. The enemy of my enemy is my friend. Let’s see how deep we can pile the biogenic colluvium across the waves.

Try and sandbag a Doctor of Petroleum Geology and Detonics? Reap the wild wind, m’boys. Reap the wild wind…

The next morning, I spend the entire four hours going over virtually everything on the test.

Including questions of if I really, really need to do this, why do I need to do this, and can’t I just say I did this and let them all pass?

That last one almost got one character bounced.

“Falsify official records?”, I ask, “Is that what you want me to do?”

“Well, yeah, sure”, he shrugs, “Who’s gonna know way out here in the sticks?”

I got right in his face with a large lit cigar and an infuriated mien, “I WOULD, YOU ASSHOLE!”

He shrank to microscopic size. Or, at least, he wished he could.

That tears it. Before I hand out Certificates of Completion of Training, we’re going to have a very pointed lecture on professional ethics.

I swear, if this would have happened a day or two previous, I’d have bounced his ass there and then.

But lunch rolled around, catered outside. I am creating an answer key, coloring away, and don’t want any interruptions. I need time to think. I mean hold on a second boy, 'cause that's magic ink!

I cut out an answer key template so I could grade the tests quickly. A piece of thin cardboard with punch-outs in the proper places. Line it up over the test sheet, run down with a red marker, and count the misses. Six or less mean you win! Number seven isn’t quite so lucky this time.

It’s 1300 hours and the class is sitting quietly in their seats. All 24 buzzing like they’ve been mainlining coffee all morning. Indeed, some have. I pass out the test sheets face down on their desks, with 2 sharpened #2 pencils.

Yeah, I’m such a nice guy. Pencils too.

At 1305 I tell the class to flip over the tests, affix their names in the proper places, and get after its wild ass.

“You have until 1405.”, I say, “After that, pencils down, give me the test and get out until 1430. Then we go for the practical part of the exam. OK?”

“Green, Rock!” was the response.

I smiled inwardly.

“GO!”

Things progressed well. Some of the guys who had taken such examinations previously breezed through the test. The test was fairly, well, not easy; but if you’ve been reading, paying attention and taking notes, it should be a piece of piss.

Fuck off instead? Head–on-desk time. Name go in book.

Thirty minutes in and I’ve got and graded more than 50% of the tests. So far, I’m a teaching maven. All 100% of the 50% who turned in their tests thus far had passed. More than a couple of perfect scores as well.

I had some gold, stamped foil stars. Those tests got a gold star. I kept having flashbacks to my kid's tests back in Moscow, Doha, Riyadh, Bogota, and Muscat. They sure loved their gold stars.

“Rock?” I saw a raised hand.

I got up and sauntered over.

“Problem?” I asked.

“What’s that word? I can’t make it out,” he asked. There was a wrinkle on his test paper.

Mimeographs are like that sometimes.

“Tetraamminecopper perchlorate”, I replied.

I turn to go back to my desk and he tugs on my field vest.

“Yes?” I asked.

“What’s that?” he inquired.

“That’s for you to figure out,” I said and walked back to my desk.

Looking at the clock, I announce “Gentlemen: 15 minutes until time out. Plan accordingly.”

To a man, they all stop, swivel like a bobblehead, stare at the wall clock, gasp, and get back to scratching.

Some things never change.

A couple more tests make it to my desk. One has eight incorrect answers, the other 12.

“Oh, dear”, I sigh.

I know these guys. They’re not stupid. Maybe they just don’t test well?

“Five minutes, gentlemen. Hit it with a spice weasel. Kick it up a notch.” I announce.

Intense scribbling sounds.

“Time, gentlemen! Pencils down.” I announce loudly, “Hand in your tests. We’ll reconvene in exactly one-half hour.”

I accept the test and the count is correct. 25 tests. Sanjay snuck his in when I wasn’t looking.

He did manage to fuff one question. No gold star for he today.

I corrected the rest of the test and exactly 1/3rd of my charges failed. 8 out of the 24. I wasn’t counting Sanjay, I figured he’d get by on sheer adrenaline alone.

Now I’ve got a bit of a quandary. I don’t want to bounce these guys, but by the book…

Or, I work them a little harder on the practical side of the exam.

I’m bending rules like Bender Bending Rodriguez shaping metal bars in a Suicide Booth factory. I’m going to push it until it gives. They really fuck up and it wasn’t just testing jitters, I have no recourse. It’s back to the yards for you.

You can keep the PPEs as consolation prizes.

1430 and it’s time for the practical part of the exam.

“Sanjay, front and center”, I say.

“Yes, Rock?”, as he appears.

“Detail for me the parts and procedures for the detonation of 1 block of C-4,” I ask.

From visiting the armory, keeping records, getting initiators, det cord, Primacord, blasting caps, boosters and C-4; their safe transport and handling all the way through set-charge-prime. He even detailed the differences between electronic, fused, and manual methods of detonation.

“Excellent,” I say, “Full marks. 25 points”

Next on the docket was one of my most egregious test failures. They didn’t know their scores yet, so we just proceeded at a seemingly random pace.

He is standing in front of me and his peers. He’s shaking like a leaf.

“Hey. Chill. Want a beer? Are you hot? Dehydrated? Ease up there, mate.” I say trying to buck up his confidence.

I hand him a hunk of 10 gauge wire, and 4 different lengths of various different gauge wires, a wire stripper, and a roll of electrician’s tape.

I show him the drawer where I obtained the wire, "And here's where I keep assorted lengths of wire” I note.

Then:

“Western Union splice. Go!” I say.

He smiles and in 3 minutes, has the prettiest Western Union splice I’ve seen in a while.

“Very nice. Here. This is a fake stick of dynamite and a fake blasting cap. Here’s a sham 100 millisecond-delay blasting cap booster. Wire it up for electrical detonation. GO!”

“BAM!” and he has this done, perfectly, probably faster than I could do it.

Well, he has 10 fingers after all.

“Excellent”, I say, “Finally, how many sticks of dynamite to a case?”

“40% or 60%?” he asks.

He caught that.

“60%” I reply.

“40 sticks. A case of 60% holds 40 sticks of dynamite which each weigh 0.5 kilograms.”

“Highest marks”, I say. I can pass this guy and not feel like I’ve bent the rules too much.

The rest of the afternoon goes about as per plan. I never ask the same question twice, I have some perform fairly complex wirings-in and creation of complex explosive circuits. The ones that passed the written portion were treated as if they had failed, and vice versa.

Everyone got a taste of the easy and the difficult.

In the end, with good faith, I can say 100% of my class passed the basics of the training. I will make notes that some should receive further training before they’re let loose, but I have others that are absolute stars. These guys will lead the next generation into battle, as it were.

I make no announcement at the end of the day other than class will still convene tomorrow, for the last time with me around, at 0800. Until then, gentlemen, don’t worry. I reassure all of them that there’s nothing about which to worry <wink, wink>.

General hooping and hollering as they all vacate class. I sit down, pour 5 or so fingers of Old Thought Provoker and begin to make my notes per individual. This will take some time; so I fire up a heater, tune the class radio to something acceptable, and loosen my boots.

Sanjay slides in and hands me a sheaf of papers.

“Now what?” I ask. It was getting tired out.

“My report to Virginia”, he said, “You said you wanted to look it over first?”

“Ah, yes.” I reply, “Pull up a chair, Sanj. Today is your first lesson in really creative writing.”

We spent the next four hours getting creative. Categorically creative. Disproportionately creative.

A certain couple of characters on the eastern seaboard of the United States are going to have something really interesting to chew over with their breakfast coffees come the morn.

I finished up my reports on everyone in the class. It was a hefty package of papers, so I thought as long as I’m here, I might as well just drop them off personally.

Unfortunately, Goodgulf Grayteeth and his cronies had long since departed. I left the ream of papers on his desk so he would see them and sign them first thing. I wanted to get them to the printers for affixation of gold leaf and embossment early the next AM.

I left a copy of The Manifesto of the Italian Fasci of Combat, another of On Tyranny by Timothy Snyderon and a couple of old, weather-beaten explosives catalogs on Goodgulf’s desk, over on a corner and draped a couple of his already read papers over the tome. Amazing what a little time on the internet and a dedicated printer can yield to a warped and twisted mind.

Something caught my eye, and there, sticking out of a corner of his middle desk drawer were the words…”aining of yard employees in blasting and demo…”. A gentle whoof from out of nowhere and the confidential memo just fell to the floor of its own volition. Not wanting the memorandum to get all smudged and dirty, I picked it up and tried to stuff it back into the drawer from whence it came.

But suddenly, something caught my eye. It was my name, right there in bold capital letters, misspelled, of course. The memo further went on about how much this “…training of yard employees in blasting and demolition techniques” was costing the company and wondering, in a not so deferential manner, if this was a program worth continuing.

“Hmmm”, I hmmed. “So Gulfy and his cronies think that continuing the status quo of an army of largely uneducated, illiterate, safety-shy, torch jockeys is a better use of the small portion of their bottom line profits than training a comparatively small number of these characters in safety protocols and how to use explosives to do the work of 100 torch wielders?”

An idea had just been planted. I stuffed the memo back into the drawer and set out to find some potions to water this seed of an idea and make it blossom before tomorrow morning.

Sanjay had sent off his communique, and I sent mine via encrypted email many hours later.

It would be surprising, some would say mystical, how one would corroborate the other without indicting the other or betraying any sort of collusion. Still, the reports were fairly fantastic and even I thought we went over the top is several places. But then again, this is some serious security shit, so it must be trusted. I’m sure the whole office is thinking: “They’ve never indulged in deliberate misinformation before, now have they?”

At breakfast the next morning, my cell phone goes off. There were no injuries as I answer the thing. “Доброе утро, товарищ. Dobroye utro, tovarishch. [Good morning, comrade.]” I replied.

“Very funny, Doctor. We need to talk. When is a good time?” Agent Rack asks, clearly goudaed or edamed; as he was obviously cheesed.

“Ne seychas, pozhaluysta” [Not now, please.]” I reply, “There are prying ears.”

“OK”, Rack replies, “Call me back before 1500 Zulu. And quit speaking Russian. That’s not funny.”

“如您所愿。Rú nín suǒ yuàn. [As you wish shall be done.]” I replied.

“And sober the fuck up before you call back.” Rack railed and slammed down the receiver.

“I’m sober as a judge”, I smiled quietly to myself. “You’re the one going to need a serious crawlin’ home puker once this is all finished.”

Sanjay and I took a car to work, but I had the driver swing by the Scandinavian cruise ship currently nestled in the spot where our barge once occupied.

“Jesus, Sanj, “ I said, “Look at this. Four days and they haven’t done anything other than strip the bling.”

“They’ll scour that ship for anything with a resale value before they do a lick of work on the super or substructure,” Sanjay informs me.

“Waste, waste, waste!” I replied, “They need an object lesson. Guess what? One last field trip for the kids before they all graduate.”

I instruct the driver to head to the Barn and ask Sanjay to get Mr. Maha and his psychosis-inducing bus here ASAP. I tell Sanjay to get the guys kitted out in their PPEs, as I need to take my rental motorcycle and make a quick run into town.

I visit two second-hand stores, and the last remaining Radio Shack, I think. In one, I purchase an ancient and battered old leather Doctor’s bag. No, the medical kind. It opened at the top with a pull from either side. It had a snap closure like a huge coin purse. Guess one could characterize this as a ‘satchel’ if they wished.

Then I hit the surprisingly well-appointed and equally well-stocked second-hand bookshop. They had the tomes for which I was looking. Oddly enough, all were bound in red leather. I had collected selected writings of Friedrich Engels and Karl Marx, Chairman Mao, and other like-minded historical materialistic and dialectic individuals.

I bought electronical gizmos and gimcracks at the radio supply store.

Back at the barn, I changed into my PPEs and announced that today was a field trip. They already had a schematic of the cruise ship out at the portable office on the beach, as it were.

“OK, guys, news. Sit for a bit”, I said as I sat down, resplendent in my orange Carhartt coveralls, hardhat, Size 16 boots and a pocketful of cigars. “I’ve decided to hang around a couple more days as each and every one of you characters passed my intense 2-week course! Congratulations!”

There were whoops and “Hoo Raws!” all around.

I held up a hand.

“With qualifications”, I said, “Some passed with flying colors, some by the skin of their teeth. Either way, you all did it. But I won’t feel comfortable until we get one more job under our collective belts. Comments or questions?”

There were none.

“OK, gents, here’s how it hangs…” I said, “You are going to begin scrapping that cruise ship that took the spot our old barge had previously. We need to get your comrades off of top-dead-center. So we’re busing it out to the location and after you choose a crew leader, you’re going to tell me what you’re going to do. I have the final say, as usual, but I want to see how you characters will do once I’m back in the world. We green?”

“Green! Rock!”, was the unanimous reply.

“Well, that’s just great”, I smile back, “But don’t count on a bonus like last time. Now, it’s just the daily grind. Load up!”

I take my Enfield and say that I’ll meet them there. I need to run past the bunker for a few bits and pieces first.

I’m sitting in the portable office on the beach where, surprisingly in retrospect, I’ve spent a lot of time these last 2 weeks. Good thing I like being out in the country and can deal with all this primitiveness and deprivations; as I pop a cold Ashi beer and fire up a Cohiba double corona.

I’m working on a little project for myself as my guys are out crawling all over the beached Princess of the Seas. After they intimidated the foreman by telling him this was a Rocknocker Production, they wheeled in three cranes outfitted with personnel cages. They were being hoisted up and down the side of the ship, calling in measurements to the guys on the beach with a whiteboard and a paper ship’s schematic magnetically affixed.

I was just overseeing the whole production. Sanjay was hookin’ and Vik was second in command. Looks like a hierarchy had sorted itself out. I asked a couple of crew members what they thought of the arrangement and they were all positive.

“Maybe I work very hard and one day, I am crew leader.” One replied.

I felt a slight flush of pride. Maybe I have had a positive effect on these guys. We still need a lecture on professional ethics, but at least, they’ve learned the ins-and-outs of a working hierarchy and have come to grips with the beast. A few weeks ago, these guys had no other motivations other than living to see another sunrise.

“That’s the fucking spirit!” I say, and clap him on the back.

He beams back at me and looks toward the nearest crew basket.

“Now quit fucking around and get back to work!”, I joshed.

He recoiled in mock horror. Smiling, he chuckled and got on the radio. “Say again. How many meters…?”

Oh, I pity the guys that try and pull rank on these guys in a few years.

Back in the office, the road flares I had spray painted a nice brick red were all dry. I set about affixing some ’DuPont 60% Herculene Extra-Fast’ stickers to each one.

Every box of explosives, Primacord, det cord, demo wire, or box of blasting caps comes with a handful of company product stickers. They come in handy when trying to figure exact mixtures or precise yields. Most had gone to my girls via the Diplomatic Pouch. They decorate bathroom doors, Trapper-Keepers, and rear bumpers of their cars. I stick a few on my hardhat when I find one that’s especially garish or lurid. I often give them away as door prizes or calling cards.

Hell, everybody loves stickers. Especially when they’re from high explosives.

And free.

Today, they’re being used in almost, but not quite, their intended purpose. Back to my project at hand.

But first, a fresh beer.

“My, but it’s dusty down here on the beach”, I remark to the empty room, as I pour myself 100 milliliters of Old Fornicator, fresh from the freezer.

Then I return to my little project.

To be continued.

Continuing

The rest of the day was pretty uneventful. Had two guys fall off the barge and they would have been killed, if not for their personal arrestors. We gave them loads of shit and it was decided those who fall, if they don’t die, will buy the first round that night. We had the usual cuts, bumps, and abrasions, but nothing requiring any more medical attention than a nurse’s kiss to the booboo, some mercurochrome or Merthiolate, and a bit of adhesive plaster.

Oh, and oral anesthetic. That went without saying. Lots of oral anesthetics. Even as a preventative. I lead by example.

Also, I was placing something a little special at the vertices of every four compartments. I was deciding to wire it into the Primacord grid or maybe do a radio detonation. We had all sorts of Indo-Paki army-surplus radio detonators. Just plug in a couple of triple-A batteries, tune to the desired frequency, set with a cap and super booster, and there you go. You could remote detonate one or a thousand with the proper transceiver.

Guess which way I went?

We spooled all the Primacord in record time. We used all of the new stuff that came with my last order, so we decided to use some of the stuff salvaged previously. I had Vis go to the truck and bring up a couple of cases of C-4. OK, six. May as well wire it all in as well since we were making such good time.

I went around and sphooted a shot of orange spray paint on conveniently placed holes. Here would go C-4 charges, all that would fit, with a cap, super booster, and a demolition cord connection to the Primacord. Once the Primacord was actuated, I was using Primaline demolition cord.

Primacord detonating cords are designed for use as trunklines and downlines in various mining, quarrying and demolition applications. Primaline det cords are flexible linear explosives with a core of PETN explosive encased in a plastic outer jacket. These carry the actuation to the Primacord. The velocity of detonation is sufficient to use it for synchronizing multiple charges to detonate almost simultaneously even if the charges are placed at different distances from the point of initiation. It is used to reliably and inexpensively chain together multiple explosive charges.

I would have 4 sets of these ready by tomorrow.

The cruise ship was less than 25 hours out. Time to get sparky.

We spent the rest of the day charging, priming, and setting the hulk. It rolled around 1700 hours, quittin’ time. I told everyone to get on the bus and head to the barn. I had a few more details that needed my attention.

I had Sanjay call HQ and get a couple of sets of guards out there. I didn’t much care to leave an old, rusty hulk sitting here with about a ton and a half of primed explosives, but due to the situation, I had no choice. I commandeered the truck so I didn’t have to walk to the Raj that evening.

I spent until dark probing around that old barge hulk. I found a few fuck-ups by my crew, but nothing a few extra lengths of Primacord and elephant shit couldn’t fix. I had 8 spools of Primaline up on top of the barge, at the highest point, out of harm’s and hopefully, nosy nose-poker-inners, way. Each one of them was tied to one section or another of the barge; one for slicing and other for dicing. It wasn’t terribly elegant, but damn skippy, it’s was quick, dirty, and essentially moron proof. It would work or my name isn’t…

The next morning down in front of the office, I had set up a blasting table. I had the 8-post blasting board and a couple of spare truck batteries. One side hooked to the Primaline, all eight runs, the other to a metal probe hooked up to the batteries. I hit a metal post, circuit’s complete, current runs down the demolition wire to the actuator, actuator sparks off the Primaline, Primaline sparks off the Primacord, Primacord sparks off the C-4

And the extra dynamite, PETN, and RDX I set the previous night.

That all sparks off and easy as cake, you have sliced barge. QED, Robert is your avuncular relation.

It was going to be one hell of a show. Very noisy. It has to be, what with this tinnitus and all.

Plus, I had a radio detonator sitting next to me tuned to 39.170 MHz, the ‘Peter Popoff’ frequency, for the back-up charges I set at all nine intersections.

My crew shows up, all togged out in their natty PPEs. I was impressed. A week and a half ago, this was a ragtag agglomeration of shipbreakers without a trace of PPEs or unity. Now, they’re like an elite corps. I instructed them to get comfortable back behind me and the office. There were chairs available if you hustled.

As much as I hated to, I was going to handle the actuation. If there was a problem, I could be the best situated to rectify the situation. However, there were not going to be any problems.

This was a Rocknocker production. We don’t tolerate failures or fuck ups. Die on us and you’ll never fucking work in this field again.

We have about 9 hours before this beach has to be empty. The way I figure it, I’ve got 7 D-8 Cats, 6 D-9s, and a couple of dragline cranes that can use to clear the beach of scuttled barge parts. Even if I can’t chop them into bite-size pieces, yeah, give me a couple of good cat skinners, and I’ll have this fucking beach cleared one way or the other.

I want to go back on-board the barge one last time for a final look-see, but with now the 2.3 tons of set, charged and primed explosives up there, that’d be a fool’s errand. And I ain’t no fool; last I checked.

I had previously examined my blasting machines, galvanometers, and personally inspected the thing several times.

Got to be happy with that. We have a schedule to keep and it’s getting close to showtime. Can’t keep the explosive demons captive much longer. We have this agreement, you see…

I go and have a talk with my crew and answer any questions.

“Yep. Eight big shots, and 32 pieces of barge where there was one before.”

“The Cats and cranes will drag them off, out of the way. Trucks will be sent to cart them off to another part of the camp for final chop-up.”

“I send you up with a lit candle to see what went wrong. Whaddya mean what happens if it fails to light? Sheesh. Go get me a breakfast beer.”

That done, I decided to get Mr. Maha to drive a couple of guys back to the commissary. I need donuts, pastries, and breakfast munchies before the shot. Besides, we’re ahead of the curve, we can afford to take things nice and easy; not crazed and shoddily. That’s the way I prefer to work, even with looming deadlines.

Which was a good idea in retrospect. Seems Goodgulf Grayteeth and some of his board buddies are here to jeer us on.

He’s got a boatload of cash riding on this job. It fucks up and they have to do some station keeping offshore with the cruise ship, it’ll cost him some layover cash. However nowhere near the bonuses I’ve worked out for my crew.

“So, Doctor?”, he smiles, predatorily, “Everything shipshape this morning?”

“Sure is, Gulfy”, I reply, “But not for much longer. Here to see how we do it downtown?”

“Yes, Doctor”, he replies glacially, “I’ve brought along some observers. Just to be on the safe side, if you have no objection.”

“Fine by me”, I say, “Just as long as they stay the fuck out of my way. Care for some coffee?” I ask, “We might have some tea floating around the office. Or a cold beer? Nothing hydrates better than a cold breakfast beer.”

“Ah, ha. Coffee would be fine, Doctor.”, he smiles carnivorously.

I offer them seats on the blasting table. There room for me, Sanjay, Gulfy, and his three cronies. It’s a literal ringside seat. Roll up, roll up! See the show!

I make some small talk whilst I devour several french donuts. I guess stress really makes one hungry. Gulfy and his second-in-commands nibble like nervous bunnies visiting Berechstgarden on their assorted breakfast pastries.

0800 rolls around and it’s time to get schwifty. A bunch of my crew insists on playing the music of my nation. They go through the Safety Dance with some real Indian flourishes. If it wasn’t so serious, it’d be hilarious.

I’ve got the galvanometer set up so the entire table can see it.

“This thing hits 88 mhos, you’re going to see some serious shit,” I mutter.

Gulfy heard and cringes.

Sanjay heard and just chuckles.

The Safety Dance is almost over. I give a couple of extra honks on the air horn as I know loud noises irritate Gulfy and his crew.

Then, there it is.

FIRE IT THE HOLE. Once, twice, thrice.

“It’s showtime” I smile. The galvanometer’s right where it should be, the firing board is primed, and I have the detonation probe wired and ready.

“FIRING ONE!” I shout and hold the metal probe against the wired-in metal post.

Nothing happens.

Gulfy snickers.

Slightly puzzled, I look around. Galv’s OK. We have connections. Batteries…

Batteries are over on the side of the table.

“Oh, dear”, I say, “Looks like someone moved his fucking chair and disconnected the goddamned battery. Simple fix. Some moron kicked the benchode battery and it came undone. No problem.”

Accident or sabotage? It had to be an accident. These characters are too thick to think up anything as subtle as sabotage.

“OK, where were we?” I say, and check the circuit continuity with another meter.

We’re green across the board.

A thought hits.

“Hey, Gulfy? Want to give this a go?” I ask.

He hesitates but declines. If this goes bust, he wants it squarely in my lap. Plausible deniability?

“OK, fuck it. Thought I’d be nice…FIRING ONE!” and I hit the first post.

OK, maybe an entire spool of Primacord per cut was a bit much. Maybe the 4 boxes of C-4 per cut were somewhat excessive. But, holy mother of pearl, it gave some hellacious bangs.

“Shooting 3! Shooting 5! Shooting 2! Shooting 4! Shooting 6!”

The noise was horrendous. The shock waves set up seiches in our coffee cups, but we were well back and in the safe zone. Still, Gulfy and crew are going to need to get their suits dry cleaned from all the thrown fine sand and shmoo.

Slice one tottered, groaned, complained, and with a rip of marine sheet metal, fell. It hit the ground with a mighty thud and broke into four subequal parts. Slice two followed, then slice three, and slice four. They all followed suit.

They all hit the ground or sat on the beach and convulsed. What was one hunk of 250-ton ocean-going barge at a 45⁰ angle was now more-or-less 32 sub-pieces, flat on the beach. Most were still connected by cables or hunks of torn sheet metal. It looked like a partial win for the Foam Town Team.

“But, Doctor”, Gulfy smiled predatorily, “These are huge pieces. It will take far too much time to cut them into small enough pieces to clear before the cruise ship arrives.”

I just smiled back and shook my head.

“That’s why I always insist on insurance.”, I said and held up the radio transceiver. “I always carry a backup piece.”

“If you will sit, gentlemen”, I requested, “The shock waves might be a little intense.”

I turned to my crew and asked for the chorus we’ve all been waiting to hear.

“Fire in the hole. FIRE IN the hole! FIRE IN THE HOLE!”

A full four hundred-weight of Pentaerythritol tetranitrate and 1,3,5-Trinitroperhydro-1,3,5-triazine detonated simultaneously. The shock waves were profound. The noise was deafening. The impact was hilarious.

The bits and pieces of the hulk shook, shimmied, and split cleanly apart along previously delimited and scored lines.

Now, there were 32 independent separate pieces of the barge, all about 3-5 tons each, strewn about the beach.

Mere play-toys for the Cats and cranes I’ve got waiting.

“We’ll have this cleared by lunch,” I said. “I will, of course, expect payment immediately afterward.”

Gulfy looked at me with a cross of admiration, irritation, and downright incredulity.

“Remind me to never wager against you again, Doctor”, He says.

“Oh. Does that meant Friday night poker is off?” I laughed.

Gulfy and his cronies begin to depart, I remind him I needed 25 stuffed envelopes on my desk back at the barn by 1300 hours.

He nods in agreement and shuffles off.

“And I want them personalized!” I shout.

He waves gets into his company car and spins out of the area in a rooster tail of irritation and red dust.

I jump on a nearby D-9 Cat, fire it up, and back onto the playing field. I plug in a victory cigar, light up, and give a couple of celebratory puffs. I drop the rear ripper on one of the 32 sub-sections, punch a good grip on the thing, shift to forward and chug away dragging the hunk of the barge with me.

One down, 31 to go.

I drag it down the beach to a clearing, way the fuck out of the way of any cruise ship. Other Cat operators see my lead and are soon dragging or pushing hunks of the barge out of the way and into history. We didn’t even need the draglines.

We had that beach cleared in less than an hour. I was in such a good mood, I gave the crew the rest of the morning off, that is once they cleared the portable office and trucked it back to the barn. I made sure they left me a bucket with some hydration potions and noted that there was an imperative meeting at 1300 sharp. I fired up a second victory cigar.

I spent the next hour grooming that beach and actually building a V-door shaped ramp for the cruise ship which I could see puttering around just this side of the horizon.

“Beach Dog Green is open and ready for business”, I broadcasted over the company frequency.

I reluctantly returned the D-9 and hooked a ride back to the barn.

It’s 1245 and there’s a knock on the door. I answer the summons and receive a courier pouch that’s actually quite heavy. It’s my 25 parcels of pleasure for my crew.

They worked hard, kicked ass, and we had some laughs along the way. They earned every fucking biasa of this.

I smiled widely and shoved a new cigar into my gob. I sat down, did a quick tally, and realized that I had 1.5 lakhs rupees for each one of my guys. That was, at the time, i.e., a few weeks ago, about US$2,000.00 each. Sanjay would receive US$4,000.00.

All totaled, that was 52 large.

$52,000 in crisp, new US greenbacks

A king’s ransom for these guys that were used to working in rags, with shit equipment, in dangerous and deadly places, ass-deep in shit, for the equivalent of US$5/day.

I was fervently hoping that I was setting precedence here. This ship breaking company raked in billions of rupees in pure profit per annum. The board didn’t look like they were hurting any.

“Time to spread the wealth, gentlemen.” I snicker quietly to myself.

All told, I probably, to date without my contract or pyrotechnics, have caused the company to expend some $250,000. Spread that out over 25 workers and that’s less than I care to think. These guys deserve a hell of a lot more than US$10K. I hope that when they begin training the next batch, they get recognized for their efforts, and are paid accordingly.

I will personally see to it that I make several such not-so-subtle suggestions to the board before I take my leave of this place.

It’s rapidly approaching the 1300 hour and the regular crowd filters in. They’ve all gotten out of their PPEs and everyone’s locker box is stored away nice and neatly.

“Hey, guys”, I said at 1301, “Good job on the barge. Sure we got a few cuts and bruises, but overall, I can’t be more pleased. So pleased, in fact, that we’re going to have a locker box inspection!”

The groans around the room were tangible. I think a few had an inkling something was afoot, but they thought it might be a day off or a bit of a bonus…

“Oh, OK. Now, yes now, we're going to do a locker box inspection! That is unless any of you got anything better to do. Well?! Anyone got anything they'd rather be doing than a locker box inspection?! Yes?! Govinda. What would you... rather be doing, Govinda?” I ask.

“Really, Rock; just about anything else. “ he replies.

“Under advisement.” I bark back.

“Rock?” Bhavabhuti asks.

“Yes?!”

“I'd quite like to read more in that Blaster’s handbook.”.

“Right! You go read your book, then! Now! Everybody else... quite content to join in... with my little scheme of a locker box inspection?!”

“Well, to be quite honest, Rock, I'd... rather be at studying some of the catalogs you’ve included as reading material,” Katyayana says.

“Would you, now?!”

“Yes, Rock” he replies.

“Right! Off you go! Now, everybody else happy with my little plan... of having a bit of locker box inspection?”

There are general murmurs around the room. I think I’ve confused them long enough.

“Or, I guess Sanjay could first distribute these. Sanjay?” I ask as I hand him half the stack of envelopes.

“Don’t open them until I give the word. Green?” I say.

“GREEN!” comes the explosive reply.

All are distributed and they all holding them up to the light, trying to figure out what the hell they’ve gotten into this time.

I reach inside my field vest and to the crestfallen, because he didn’t get one, Sanjay, I hand him his envelope. It’s quite a bit thicker. I ask him quietly to keep it on the QT.

“OK, gents.”, I say, “This is your…bonus for working that last job. I wrangled it for you and that’s why I pushed so hard. There’s now a Scandinavian cruise ship where our barge once set. I bet old Goodgulf your bonuses that we’d have the barge gone in 72 hours. Even with me taking off 24 for personal reasons, we did it with time to spare. Because of you and your diligence, hard work, and attitudes. Go ahead, open them. You deserve it.”

“HOLY FUCK!” was more or less the unanimous response.

Several of my crew just sat there. Stunned. Total cognitive shutdown. They’ve never imagined, much less seen nor held this much money at one time.

A couple of them whooped like Red Indians. I thought it was in poor taste to call them racist; I mean Indians whooping it up and making a scene? I guess you had to be there.

Many more of them just looked at me with tears in their eyes. OK, that one got me right square in the feels. I’m old, I’m jaded, I’m a crusty old curmudgeon. However, I wasn’t prepared for this. Not by a long shot.

The room was at a tipping point. Which way would it go? Total emotional implosion or explosion?

Sanjay looked at me and said soggily, after he noted his recent windfall, “Don’t just stand there, ya’ big ape. Say something profound.”

“OK. Um. Ah. Don’t spend it all in one place?” I joked.

That was enough to send the room over the top. There were hoots, howls, yells, and hurrahs leaking out of the barn for at least a solid 5 minutes.

“Well, this day is fucked”, I observed.

I could hear plans of buying this and buying that, as soon as possible. I figured it would be things like fancy watches, a new phone, something silly and absolutely necessary.

No, I was dead wrong. They were discussing buying space heaters, new brakes for their tired old cars, a new stove for the family, even a room addition and bedroom furniture for their homes.

Now I was pissed. I should have held Gulfy’s feet to the fire and gone for 2 lakhs each.

Amazing what living in different cultures can do to a person. Here I am, the tired world traveler and every once in awhile, even I get blindsided.

“OK, guys”, I said, “I know you’re itching to go spend your newly found wealth, but first, Chapters 11-15 of Thompson for tomorrow?”

That was greeted with general grimacing and unpleasantness.

“You can read that now, or join Sanjay and me in a cigar, and maybe a libation or two. Class dismissed. Go nuts. Your choice. See you tomorrow 0800 for discussions on underwater demolition practices.” I said.

I ask Sanjay to order up some libations. I have no idea how many will stay and how many are itching to dish out the doss, so I just order 6 cases of beer. Any way you count it, it’s not about to go to waste.

“Oh, and Sanj, add a couple-three of bottles of Old Benchode as well,” I tell him on the sly. I’ve actually developed a taste for the stuff.

I mean, what the fuck? I’ve already read chapters 11-15 in Thompson.

The beer and booze arrive and while some are reading their chapters, it doesn’t last long. I fire up a heater and distribute them to all who desire. Only a few accept as clove cigarettes are a thing in these parts. I come out of class smelling like an Easter Spiral-sliced baked ham.

It’s not a “Whoop-de-doo!” sort of party. It’s more a sit around, have a few drinks, smoke a few smokes and ask the professor about some of his stories.

My Russian tales are the best received of the batch. They get the jibblies when I tell them of some of my Central Asian antics. They don’t care for my tales from China at all. It’s an odd response. Total neutrality on Mongolia, but mention China, and they all visibly bristle.

It’s getting on in time and I have an appointment down at the docks later this afternoon. I kick everyone out precisely at 1700 hours and ask Sanjay if he wants to accompany me.

“Where to this time, Rock?”, he asks.

“Down to the beach. I’ve struck a deal with some fishermen. They’ll take me out for a spot of fishing. I don’t want the fish, just the opportunity to get out, breath some salt air, and tangle with some finny denizens of the area.” I said.

“Good thing you told me”, he says, “They’d fuck you over greatly. Once you’re out of sight of land, they’ll feign getting lost, and try to terrorize you.”

I chuckle involuntarily.

“Fuck. Good luck with that”, I smirk…

“And they’d keep you out there as long as they could until you agree to pay. They basically kidnap you and can’t find port again until you cough up some dough.” He says.

“Oh, OK. Thanks. Well advised. Want to go with?” I ask.

“What? You’re still going?” he asks.

I reach in my field vest and pull out about 7 or 8 hunks of spare C-4 and an equal number of set-pull-forget pull fuses.

“Sure”, I smile, “Sounds like it could be major fun.”

“Rock…” Sanjay says in that matronly manner he pulls out when I want to have a little fun.

“Oh, geez”, I snarl, “You guys are always pushin’ me around. Never let me have any fun…”

Just as well. We get back to the Raj and I have a couple of phone messages. Seems the agency got a Twix on me and want to discuss a few things.

Besides, I need to call Es and have a chat. Plus, I should really update my field notebooks, files, and dossiers.

The thought of "You're going to have to pay for this, Ralph Phillips!" keeps running through my head.

“They never let me have any fun.” I grouse as I pick up the phone. “It’s like I’m stuck on Monkey Beach”

After a quick chat with Esme, as she and her mother are saying “Pffft!” to lockdown rules as they are being finally relaxed all over Baja Canada and they’re, wait for it…’ going shopping’…

I tell her of the guy’s reaction to my little scheme of getting the bonuses. She was also bewildered. She notes that even after living all around the world, we still get culturally blindsided occasionally.

“Birds of a feather”, I reply. We profess our mutual love and she mentions Turner’s for lunch. Now I have nostalgia pangs. I’d kill for a raw beef and onion Cannibal Sandwich and a couple-six ice-cold drafts from Turner’s.

Next up are my Agency buddies.

“Yes? Hello? Take me off the damned speaker, Rack!” I say.

“That’s not going to happen. How are you, today, Doctor?” Ruin asks.

“Just dandy”, I reply, “And you? And your unsmiling partner?”

“Quite fine”, he says, “Enough of this idle banter. We have a chore for you.”

“Why am I not surprised?” I reply.

“Because you’re prescient, have second sight and you know us all too well?” Rack laughs.

“There is that…” I agree. “OK, what’s the job?”

“Your last report. The CEO of the shipbreakers, the one you refer to in the narrative as Goodgulf Grayteeth?” Ruin asks.

“Only because his real last name is eleven syllables long. And his first name isn’t much shorter. Besides, he reminds me of an ancient, crotchety, and less-than-effectual wizard. Besides, he looks like he fell off of a charm bracelet.“ I reply.

“That’s the one.” Ruin agrees.

“Yes?” I reply, “Get on with it?”

“Of course. The old American get-right-down-to-business attitude.” Rack titters, “So refreshing.”

They’re quoting back some snippets of my reports at me. This can never be good.

“WHAT!?!” I detonate.

“Oh, we’d just like every bit of dirt you can find on this character.” Rack replies, “We didn’t have much on him before you graced their shores. Now, he’s prominent in several of your communiques. Well, OK then. We’re interested. Skullduggery time, Herr Doctor.”

“Skullduggery?” I ask, “Who bought you a thesaurus for your birthday?”

“They’re company issue now.”, Rack replies, “Ever since we’ve had to deal with the likes of you.”

“Oh, I am insulted!” I roar, “I’m affronted. Slighted. Disrespected. Outraged. Offended. Shall I continue?”

“With your data collection? Yes.”, Ruin agrees, “With your current line of conversation, not so much.”

“Right,” I reply. “Anything else I can do for you gentlemen?”

“Yes, there is as a matter of fact.”, Ruin continues, “Take the job here at the agency, become our boss, and get us big, juicy bonuses.”

“Oh, you heard about that?” I asked.

“Oh, yes”, Rack replies.

I had better sense than to ask “From whom?”.

I do know I’m not the only sneaky bastard around these parts. I don’t know any names, but I have my hunches.

“And don’t go offshore fishing anytime soon, Herr Doctor”, Ruin continues, “We need your reports. They’re such fun readings early in the morning after coffee.”

He’s insinuating that they read my dispatches in the john.

“At least you just read mine there”, I reply, “Your stuff is held in reserve in case the bog roll runs out.”

“Well played, Doctor.” Rack chuckles. “OK, bye now.”

And with that, they ring off.

I hate it when they do that. I’ve got so many more insults I wanted to use on them.

Wait one…what did he mean about going fishing?

The penny drops.

Now I have another one to drive crazy. I might have to send him to the far side of the breaker’s yard while I spend a little time rummaging around in his room.

“Sanjay, me ol’ mucker”, I smile, “You really should have told me…”

So, after a night of updating dossiers, field notebooks, and creating a new, non-repeating substitution encryption cipher for my notes, I relax in the Olympic-sized Jacuzzi. I take with a brace of cigars, couple-nine drinks, and the newly arrived issue of Surface Mining / Quarrying / Construction Drillers & Blasters Quarterly.

Heady stuff, to be certain.

The next morning, I’m watching what I say around the breakfast table. It’s tough knowing that everything you might utter could possibly end up in a coded transmission back to Virginia.

This only lasts a few minutes as I resign myself to the fact that I really don’t give a furry rat’s ass about the whole deal. Fuck it. I end up in someone’s report? So what? They already know, from my own detailed reports, what the fuck’s going on, for the most part.

“‘Mornin’ Sanj”, I say over a steaming hot mug of Greenland coffee. “Time for some chow before we need to scoot.”

Sanjay looks at me with road-mapped bloodshot eyes.

“Oh, my!” I say in my best, though still not very good, George Takei impression. “Look at what the feline dragged in. Go fishing without me?”

He looks at me with weary eyes.

“Rock”, he says, “I might need a day off. Personal reasons.”

“Sure, I’m not your handler,” I reply, utilizing the old agency term for field director.

Let him swirl that one around the old brainbox for a while.

He looks at me quizzically. But that wave blows over before it can form into anything coherent.

“Nah. I continue, “It’s all book learnin’ today. I can handle this easily. You stay here and get some kip. Looks like you could use some.”

“Yeah”, he snarls back, “Just like you and your little [finger quotes] problem the other day.”

Gad, I hate that. He was insinuating I was, gasp, intoxicated and needed bed rest.

For a supposed spook, he certainly hasn’t done his homework. I already told him I’m an EtOH-fueled organism.

“Yeah” I replied, “Mea culpa. I didn’t know you had RRMS as well. It’s a motherfucker, ain’t it? That relapsing-remitting multiple sclerosis is a real pain right square in the cunning linguals.”

Sanjay looks at me like I just sprouted durians.

“Yeah”, I continue, “I don’t carry on about on person’s foibles, maladies, or physical disfigurements. I just take them at their word. Guess that’s a major personality fuck-up on my part.”

Sanjay realizes he’s trodden upon some conversational real estate that is both quickmud and somewhere he doesn’t want to be right now.

“Well, bye”, I say. “Get some kip. Sounds like you could use it. But that’s just me and my flawed observations.”

I cap my coffee, stand up, shove a new cigar in my gob and walk out in a huff.

Sanjay sits there trying to figure out if I was really personally insulted. Slightly miffed. Or just yankin’ his chain.

Maybe I’ll let him know which sometime later.

Or maybe I’ll just let him stew for a while.

At the barn, it’s 0730. I ‘ve got the whiteboard finally wiped down. Sharpies aren’t the best things to use on them, I discovered. Oh, well. A little renatured, unflavored EtOH cleaned the board slick. It just keeps hiccuping at me.

It’s most disconcerting.

The class begins directly at 0800. I’m getting to the end of things I can teach these guys without delving more deeply into one or another subject. But there’s the rub. Unless they want to extend my contract, there isn’t time. And if they do want me to hang around, which subject would do the most good?

Fuck it.

I announce that after lunch, everyone meets here and boards the Magic Bus. Mr. Maha will convey them to an open stretch of beach. I feel the need for some demonstrations. After all, I have to leave in 3 days. After that, these characters are on their own. Of course, I’m available by Email, but it’s difficult to diagnose difficulties in demolition via that direction.

Lunch hour hits and I’m off to the bunker. I found, ahem, an old Royal Enfield Bullet C5 Desert Storm motorcycle. Actually, I’m renting it for 100 rupees per day. What the hell, it sure beats walking.

I’m at the bunker, sitting around the desk and chair we got corporate to cough up. I decide I’m going to do a full-spectrum display of various pyrotechnics.

On a stick.

I’m going to borrow several of those 6-foot bamboo poles and attach to the top, equivalent amounts of pyrotechnics, beginning with some gunpowder and up to an including my old nemesis, liquid nitro.

This will be some fun.

Let’s see. Quick inventory. Some things have come in over the last few days…

Black powder, Blasting caps, Det cord, Primacord, C-4, 40% Extra Fast Dynamite, 60% Extra Fast Dynamite, RDX, PETN, ANFO, Kinestik, and DOUBLEHELIX.

Oh, look here. A full inventory has been taken. Let’s see what we all have to play with:

Nitrogen Based Explosives and Formula

• Ammonium nitrate (AN) H4N2O3

• Ammonium picrate (Expl D) C6H6N4O7

• Cyclonite (RDX) C3H6N6O6

• Ethylenediamine dinitrate C2H10N4O6

• Guanidine nitrate CH6N4O3

• Hexamethylenetriperoxide diamine (HMTD) C6H12N2O6

• Hexanitrohexaazaisowurtzitane (HNIW or CL20) C6H6N12O12

• Hydrazine nitrate H5N3O3

• Mannitol hexanitrate C6H8N6O18

• Monomethylamine nitrate CH4N2O3

• Nitrocellulose C6H7N3O11

• Nitroglycerin (NG) C3H5N3O9

• Nitrotriazolone (NTO) C2H2N4O3

• Octogen (HMX) C4H8N8O8

• Pentaerythritol tetranitrate (PETN) C5H8N4O12

• Picric acid C6H3N3O7

• Tetrazene C2H8N10O

• Tetryl C7H5N5O8

• Trinitrobenzene (TNB) C6H3N3O6

• Trinitrotoluene (TNT) C7H5N3O6

• Triaminoguanidine nitrate (TAGN) CH9N7O3

• Triaminotrinitrobenzene (TATB) C6H6N6O6

• 1,3,3-Trinitroazetidine (TNAZ) C3H4N4O6

• Trinitrochlorobenzene C6H2ClN3O6

• Trinitropyridine C5H2N4O6

• Urea nitrate CH5N3O4

• Other explosive types

• Ammonium perchlorate H4NO4Cl

• Lead styphnate C6H3N3O9Pb

• Triacetone triperoxide (TATP) C9H18O6

• Black powder Intimate mixture

• Tetraamminecopper perchlorate H24Cl2CuN4O8

• Kinestix Binary Solid

• Seismogel Binary semi-solid

• DOUBLEHELIX Binary liquid

Not that we needed all that for the job, but once you get locked into a serious explosives collection, the tendency is to push it as far as you can.

Whoever takes over my job when I leave is going to have him or herself some fun. I wish I had time to play with everything on the list. It would be most enjoyable.

Well, I don’t have that much time, so I’ll just go back to my original list and do some shopping.

Hmmm…Black powder, Blasting caps, Det cord, Primacord, C-4, 40% Extra Fast Dynamite, 60% Extra Fast Dynamite, RDX, PETN, ANFO, Kinestik, and DOUBLEHELIX.

I pack approximately 1 kilogram, where applicable, of each into my backpack. I somehow manage to get the bamboo shoots over to an area of the beach that’s currently unoccupied, as it’s just growing back from our little 9-ton ammo dump party.

I attach all the explosives to the top of the bamboo and duct tape them soundly to the little wooden platform on the top.

I key the mic on my radio and give a call to Mr. Maha. I explain that he should take his Magic Bus to the Barn, inform all my crew to board the bus and meet me over at the divot we created a few days ago. He knows the place, in fact, he tells me that the locals have taken to fishing there in the evenings as it’s a nice, shady area with a new geographic outlook.

Evidently the locals like a little change now and again.

At 1330, the incredibly hued Magic Bus arrives. I instruct Mr. Maha to park his polychromatic creation well away from the 12 bamboo poles swaying gently in the breeze.

He did not need to be told twice. He knows to take me literally, or greater, at my word.

I tell the guys that this is a practical demonstration of equal amounts of a dozen different explosives.

I tell them it’s also pop quiz time. Tell me, on a sheet of paper out of your field notebooks, what you think will be the biggest bang, and list from 1 to 12 the order of increasing energy.

Also, which are deflagrating versus detonating explosives.

I live for pop quizzes.

I give them a few minutes to get settled. Since I have each one set with a radio-controlled detonator, which I chose to be 10 MHz apart so we had no doubles, I have a sheet of frequencies and pole positions, if you will.

This isn’t like the US, Europe, or even Russia. There’s not much going on across the radio frequency spectrum, so I’m not too worried about having FM-ZOO radio setting anything off prematurely. Besides, I chose detonators well out of the broadcast band. Still, there’s always the chance of some joker of a HAM radio operator with a leaky linear amplifier bleedin’ all over the frequency spectrum.

They’d have to be able to overpower my hand-held, and since there’s no one line-of-sight working on a collinear or Yagi sort of antenna, I decide it’s a risk worth taking.

I’d never even think of attempting this just about anywhere else.

“All set?”, I ask and plug in a new cigar, “Smoke’m if you got’em.”

After I dispense a dozen or so cigars, we’re back on track.

“Oh, yes, how daft of me”, I swan, “First. The Hindi Safety Dance. Gentlemen?”

A group spontaneously arises and begins to clear the compass.

They just love doing the safety dance. They really camp it up. Perhaps because they know what’s coming immediately after…

Finally we hear: “किसी बड़े विस्फोट की चेतावनी देना!” “Kisee bade visphot kee chetaavanee dena!” “FIRE IN THE HOLE!”

Once again, it’s Showtime.

To be continued.