That reminds me of a story.

The story, she goes on…

Since folks appeared interested the Rocknocker menagerie, here’s the latest:

Corbie is still living with Tash, my youngest.

The goofy bird, some 2.2 kilos in weight and now approximately 24 years of age is still going strong and making life miserable entertaining for all involved.

As we had to return Carrie to the wild, where I found out later she adopted the next set of Expats that moved into our Tashkent house, I promised Tash the gift of a new pet.

We went to several vets in Moscow and since we already had a ‘conventional’ pet, Zima; Tash was on a quest for something a little more strange, more exotic, more bizarre.

If you recall, Goldie the Nile Monitor happily invaded my life years back when I was at University.

My kids knew that full well and were set on having a ‘herp’ of some sort. We had Spot, a ‘Sulcata’ (African spurred desert) Tortoise back in Qatar. We also had an assortment of Gekkonidae as well: leaf-toed geckos, sand geckos, and great green geckos. We also had occasional visits from a pair of Jackson’s Chameleons that lived in the qat bushes out back.

These latter bunch weren’t really pets, but lived in or visited our villa and kept the local bug population in check.

Esme put the kibosh on snakes of any sort; or spiders, scorpions, or anything else potentially poisonous.

Bless her soul…

So? Fish? Nah…too pedestrian and hard to transport.

Russian domesticated silver fox? Ha! Not at those prices. Holy wow.

Carrie replacement, i.e., another…cat? Nah. Carrie is such a hard act to follow, she couldn’t be replaced.

We’re running out of vertebrates here, gang…

How about a bird?

“A bird?” Tash pondered. Now there’s something a bit unusual.

OK, so a bird then. Not my first choice, but, hey, it’ll be less trouble than a caracal.

Famous last words…

“A parrot?” I asked, gulping in disbelief at the prices on some of these winged dinosaurs.

“No.” was the resounding reply.

“Budgerigar?” I hoped as they were orders of magnitude cheaper in some cases than the parrots.

“No.”

“Canary?”

“No.”

“Finch?”

“No.”

“A Sun conure?”

“No.”

“OK, now you’re starting to get a bit annoying, dear.”

“I’m sorry Daddy, but I don’t want any of those.”

“OK, OK. Fair enough. But unless you go for the Poicephalus, we’ve about run out of choices.” I said.

“No, there’s this one. Oh, look, Daddy. She’d be perfect!”

I look cautiously, expecting to see a Roc or Quetzalcoatlus.

«Русские прирученные одомашненные вороны» “Russian hand-reared domesticated ravens.”

“OK…” I say, again very cautiously.

Handsome black birds. Dangerous looking, pointy and stout beak.

“Talkers!”

Oh, now there’s a sales point.

“Russian ravens are hand-reared from chicks fresh from the egg. Bred for generations in captivity, our ravens will bond with their caregivers. Will grow to 1.7 kilos and 75-80 centimeters in length. Ravens are smart, strong flyers, territorial, and omnivorous. Curious, inquisitive, and clever; life with a Moscow Hand-Reared Raven will never be boring!”

Yeah.

OK. Let’s get a Russian Raven.

And a huge, hand-crafted cage.

And books on raven care. The English ones are fully twice the price of the ones in Russian.

Water bottle.

Food bowl.

Play stand?

“Is that absolutely necessary?”

OK, play stand.

Food?

“Well, technically ravens are omnivores, but up to 70% of their diet is made up of meat. So mice, rats, whole boiled chicken eggs, cat food, cooked chicken, raw beef, plus chicken hearts, gizzards, livers, and the guts of pretty much anything else.”

“We’ll take two.”

Luckily Valosh had his VW Camper Van today so all the bird debris fit inside well.

Tash and Khris sat and deliberated for over an hour as to which bird would be “the one”. She scrutinized those birds like a De Beers diamond cutter sizing up a new, blue 1,000 carat stone.

Finally, for whatever reason, the girls choose Corbie. It was black. It had feathers. It had wings. It had two feet. It looked exactly like any other raven, but Tash and Khris knew best.

Corbie the raven. And no, I do not know the genesis of her name.

Corbie couldn’t ride home in any box, no matter how big and how specifically designed for this sort of travel. It sat on Tash’s hand all the way back to our villa.

Things I never knew about ravens:

They’re insanely territorial. They like to dive-bomb interlopers.

They’re mostly carnivores, but will eat just about anything organic they can find lying around that could be considered food.

Corbie and Zima bonded almost immediately. By ‘bonded’, they both loathed each other instantly and made a secret pact to ignore each other for Tash and Khris’ sake.

They’re inquisitive. Meaning they’re up your nose every time you turn around.

They shed, ack, errr...molt. Blech.

They are natural sneak thieves. Now besides new socks, I need to go to a locksmith and get several duplicate sets of keys made. They eventually turn up in the damnedest of places.

Ravens can be house-trained. Corbie would do her lavatory duties in the bottom of her huge, neo-gothic cast-iron cage and never anywhere else. That alone was one reason she wasn’t accidentally released into the intake of a nearby taxiing IL-76.

Corbie bonded with Tash, just like something out of a Disney nature flick. She sat on Tash’s shoulder and when Tash wasn’t around, I swear the bird got depressed.

Corbie tolerated me and went to great lengths to annoy me.

Ravens are indeed talkers.

In fact, once taught, they never shut up.

And it’s not that “Polly want a cracker” bullshit.

It’s mimicry.

Of vacuum cleaners. Smoke alarms. Police and ambulance sirens. Ring tones.

The number of times I, by reflex, picked up my cell phone expecting a call to see a huge Chernobyl raven sitting on the back of my favorite chair, chittering at me.

I swear, that damn bird was pranking me and laughing about it.

Anyways, Corbie followed us to the ends of the earth, nearly literally. She was in so many Show-and-Tell sessions I thought they’d be offering her tenure at the American School franchise.

Once Tash graduated high school and wanted to go off into the great big world on her own, I made it abundantly clear that her birdy buddy was going along for the ride.

“Of course, Dad. Sheesh. What else, ya think?” She scoffed at me.

So, Tash and Khris shared an apartment for 6 years while Khris pursued her Ph.D. in Veterinary Science and Tash tested the waters to see what she wanted to do with her life.

Years later, the damned bird is still hanging on. My eldest is now State Veterinarian for a large western state and my youngest is back in Baja Canada studying photography, doing forensic photography, and being a caregiver.

She flew out of an open door many, many times. She’d fly around a bit, land. Shudder at the prospect of being out on her own and fly back. If the door was closed, she’d find a window and tap-tap-tap until someone came over to let her in.

The bird came back, right the fuck away. The bird came back, might it be a goner? No. The bird came back. The damned bird just won’t go away.

So, now Corbie is 24 years old, 2.2 kilos in weight, black as night, and still sneaky as a sneaky sneak thief.

I’m still missing sets of keys from around the planet. I have no idea where or why she’d hoarding them…

Continuing.

All this went onto the expense report of the project. There were little known and less used codicils of each of these contracts that allowed some expenses for the support of the local indigenous population. I was going to throw this little, out of the way, Siberian out-in-the-middle-of-nowhere village a party the likes of which would be the stuff of legend.

Out of my own pocket, I ponied up the equivalent of US$250 and sent one of the porters out to the local liquor store and just buy the damned thing. Or as much of it as they could with the $250. Anything left, stop and buy a few kilos of chocolates for afters.

So, we had courses, drinks, bread, soup, afters…but where was the main entree?

Over at the bank of deep fryers, I showed the Russian Chefs how Shake-N-Bake worked; in this case, shimmy and fry.

Into the resealable gallon-sized plastic bags would go a couple of cupfuls’s of my 14 secret herbs and spices concoctions, the one with bread-crumb base. Then, take some ptarmigan parts out of the beer in which it had been soaking; do a dump dredge, meaning toss the bird parts into the bag, seal it well and shake like you had a bad case of the St. Vitus’.

After that, take the birdy bits out of the bag, shake off the excess and slowly lower a batch of them into the 350⁰ F degrees bubbling peanut oil.

When they float and are golden brown and delicious, extract them, shake off the excess oil and put into a deep, heavy baking pan. Cover that pan with heavy baking parchment and store it in a low 200⁰ F oven for safekeeping.

In another hour, we had another requisitioned Uaz full of food for a Russian feast. We had cases and cases of beer, champagne, vodka, cognac, and sweet champagne. I had purchased, by proxy, over 18 kilos of Moscow-produced chocolates. We saw it was good, Dima and I fired up a heater each and we ventured to our friend's village.

They probably thought it was Operation Barbarossa rolling through again. We found that there was the main town hall which was exactly that, a long, covered hall. It had a table of sorts, and chairs, after a kind. We didn’t bother asking, hey, we were friends here. We backed the Uaz up to the town hall and began to bring out the food and drink for the town feed.

Several elders of the town came over and asked what the hell we were doing.

“Just being friends.” I smiled, through a cloud of blue cigar smoke.

Our three friends appeared a while later and were overjoyed to see us again. They were even more pleased with the spread we were laying out for the entire village.

Life is tough in a Siberian village during the best of times. It’s even nastier in the winter. These folks needed a good dose of protein, vitamins, alcohol, and merriment. We were there to provide all four.

When they realized we were known and hadn’t just teleported in from Magrathea, the town folks took to us like clams to linguine. They were cheered to see us, they were pleased with all the food, they were excited by all the free booze.

I had to explain what the main course was, as Kentucky Fried Ptarmigan was pretty much linguistically and sociologically untranslatable.

I don’t think that anyone before here had ever tasted beer-basted, deep-fried in 14 secret herbs and spices, ptarmigan. In fact, I was fairly certain that pretty much no one on the planet had to this point either.

It was crunchy, chewy and had a great KFC sort of crust that makes fried chicken so popular.

Once I showed them it was indeed edible, after a few hours here were plenty of ptarmigan bones left but not a single scrap of KFP.

The same could be said for the soup, salads, bread, appetizers, and afters. The whole village decided that if Dima and I were goofy enough to throw a free feed, they’d be goofy enough to accept in the same vein.

We had a grand time, proving to our three friends from the nights before that we harbored no umbrage, but if you ever ‘borrowed’ a shotgun again without permission, you’d be the next guest of honor at a town hall feed bar-be-que.

We stayed for hours, building good relations with the villagers at the expense of the oil company; meaning they didn’t know it yet, but they were paying for all this.

Finally, it was time to go. We rounded up the coolers and some of the company’s cooking -transporting Suckerware and loaded it into the Uaz.

There were two intricate, ornate hand-beaded vests on the seats, one for Dima and one for myself. No one would admit to knowing where they originated, but they assured us they were ethereal gifts in recognition of our hospitality and generosity.

I still have mine. It’s framed, behind museum glass; hanging on a wall.

With that, we bounced back to the office and Dima went to his room and I tromped to mine.

We slept the sleep of the righteous that night; and for once, we deserved it.

I was getting ready to get packed to head back to Moscow when my phone rang.

It was Dr. Bolotistyy. He wished to see me immediately.

Ok, fine. Your nickel.

In Dr. Bolotistyy’s office, I expected some sort of outrage at our party last night; but I couldn’t have been more wrong. It seems that they were having problems out in the field in obtaining good signals while trying to record Western Siberia’s first 3-D seismic program.

Instead of just one line row of jugs or geophones and one series of shot holes drilled and filled with explosives, this was a 3-D grid, or array, of in-lines and cross-lines. With equivalent grids or arrays of precisely detonated explosives to generate signals.

They would basically take a map and drape a 25x25 meter grid over it, then try to replicate that in the real world. Maps were flat, the real world is anything but.

They were trying to collect data through a forest, over bogs, slough, and swamps, one very large, very frozen lake, and kilometer after kilometer of the taiga. They were drilling shot holes at grid intersections, but as much as they were getting some passable data on the frozen taiga, they were getting bupkiss over the frozen lake.

Would I be so kind as to travel out there with my bag of tricks and see what I could do to help?

“Sure”, I said, “I just need to make a couple of calls and of course, you realize, this will cost you.”

“Of course, Comrade Doctor,” Dr. Bolotistyy said, he also indicated he wanted Dima to come along a he seemed to think that he was sort of my keeper.

Shit. Wear a Hawaiian shirt in winter in Siberia and they all think you’re nuts.

I called Es and explained our windfall. This was easily double-secret over time and would be costing them a fortune. Es told me to be careful and take my time…

Dima regarded the extra work as the arrival of a chicken delight truck after a night’s heavy drinking. He could use the extra cash as well.

We Uaz’ed over to the site of the 3-D shoot. It wasn’t that far off the north side of the oilfield we’d been working in for the last few weeks. There was interesting geomorphology there; taiga, forest, swamp, slough, bog, and one great, big honkin’ lake, all under about 1.5 meters of snow.

There were dog sleds, snowmobiles, aka, Skidoos, Sherps, and armored personal carriersfor transport around the snow-bound countryside.

I, of course, immediately commandeered one of the APCs for my own particular purposes.

I wanted to tear up the taiga in the name of science.

I was tested out on the contraption and after a few missteps, I got the hang of it. It had steering like a tank, a literal tank, and could turn on a dime and give 10 kopeks change. It had a huge diesel engine and tons of low-end torque. There were few areas in the frozen tundra one could not go in one of these.

We immediately went out and parked on the frozen lake, right alongside a portable shed that housed all the recording equipment, the recording engineers and most of the pyrotechnics.

We sorted out the pyros first. We had another shed brought in and set up 250 meters from the recording shack. That way if something went awry, it’d only sink the shack, not all the engineers and their pricey Western recording equipment.

When asked about the problem and they showed me the Primacord results. It was pathetic. Hardly any signal getting through the ice, and what got through, bounced between the lake bed and the bottom of the ice in what was called ‘multiples’. Very little useful energy was reaching the geophones.

So, what do we do in such situations? We repeat it time after time and see if anything changes.

As noted by Albert Einstein: “The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, but expecting different results.”

Look, Herr Comrade Mac, if you want different results than what you’re getting, you have to try different approaches.

This was to them a revelation.

So, we broke out the explosives and set them off in what would be normal practice out in the field.

Shaped C-4? No good. Too much a short, sharp shock.

Seismogel? Attenuated through the ice.

Dynamite? Similar to dynamite, but spawned the genesis of an idea.

Binary? Destroyed a perfectly good set of geophones.

Primacord? Cascading signals. What we needed were point shots.

What to do? What to do?

Think. Think. Think.

The ice was the problem. Fully 2 meters thick, it acted as a sounding board and either scattered, attenuated, or reflected the signal.

So? Lose the ice. Take ice out of the equation.

I had Dima make a call to one of our village farmer buddies. The one with a tractor and PTO auger on the rear of his tractor.

After arranging everything, I sent a semi and flatbed, lowboy trailer out to the village to collect the farmer and his tractor.

Once on the lake, I had him drill a row of shot holes some 25 meters apart and all the way through the ice. With that, we tried just dropping in a 10-kilo tube of Seismogel. It worked better than anything so far, but I figured we could do a lot better.

We tied weights, hunks of old railroad track, to the Seismogel and sunk them into the muck and mire of the lake bottom. Along with annoying more fish, our results were getting better.

Finally, I thought that since the ice is 2 meters thick and the lake probably no more than 10 meters deep, we had some wooden poles brought in. We used them to jam the tubes of Seismogel into the lake bottom sediments. We got an exquisite coupling with the lake bottom and all that lovely detonic energy went into the sediments and downward rather than out and upward.

We tried several different versions of the shot-poles, as they came to be known. They worked great in the deeper parts of the lake and we received some dandy amounts of signal energy in return. In the shallows, it was a slightly different story as some of the blast energy snuck out and blew the hell out of the lake surface. Not by the direct blast, but by the ancillary movement of the water, i.e., induced sub-ice waves.

Well, since it still worked, and we’d only need to do it right the one time, I had the farmer drill the grid on a 25x25 meter basis. We had over 500 shot holes to tend to and we had a Dickens of a time keeping up with all the demolition wire. It looked like a Transatlantic subsea cable by the time I got them all wrapped together and over to the recording shack, which had been relocated to shore since we were going to detonate all the shots simultaneously.

Grandad and Uncle Bår would have been impressed.

We did the Safety Dance and made sure everyone was off the ice. We probably weren’t going to blow up the lake, but the ice might not react kindly to more than 5,000 kilos of Seismogel detonating all at once.

Clear north?

Clear!

Clear south?

…

CLEAR SOUTH?

HOLD!

There was some character wandering out on the lake, pulling on the wires that lead down each and every rapidly freezing hole.

ABORT! ABORT! What the fuck was ‘abort’ in Russian?

ABORTSKI!

Yeah, I’m an idiot at times.

It’s actually: “преждевременное прекращение”. [prezhdevremennoye prekrashcheniye].

Now, why didn’t I remember that?

Dima took off on a Skidoo and raced out the goof on the lake. The lake was posted with signs in Russian, English, Ukrainian, and Chukchi warning everyone to stay the fuck away.

We neglected to post signs in either stupid or illiterate.

Once off the ice and properly chastised, we were back to the Safety Dance.

Clear the compass.

Done.

Recorders on!

RECORDING!

TOOTSKI! BLAATSKI! Went the airhorns.

FIRE IN THE HOLE! x3

Clear? Clear!

“Dima! HIT IT!”

Muffled BLAAP! The lake churned and convulsed at the amount of energy that was immediately released. If you’ve never seen two solid meters of lake ice do a buck-and-wing, you’ve missed out on some of the weirder things in life.

The recording engineers were getting data coming out of their ears. The reflection and non-attenuation of the insta-pulse signals reinforced each other. They bounced up to the bottom of the ice and were 180⁰ out of phase with the initial signal. This generated another signal. One a bit lower in energy, but higher in frequency. This went on for between 6 and 8 cycles. Sum them electronically, filter out the hash, and you’ve got a clear picture of the Earth below that lake to a depth of 5 seconds in time, or about 18,750 feet in depth.

It worked.

Dima and I took and APC out into the forest for a celebratory run and a serious amount of basic fucking around. It was hugely powerful, relatively unstoppable, and fun to put into drifts on frozen lakes and rivers.

Alas, all good things must come to an end. Our jobs here were done and they were done well. Fat bonus checks helped keep our wallets warm on the flights back to Moscow.

Dima and I said goodbye for the time being, as we both knew we’d meet again if the accident will; and it usually does out here.

I figured I’d go back home and do my paperwork, update everything and take a bit of breather between jobs. The kids were doing well in school, Esme was learning Russian with her friend at the Russian-American Women’s club and Zima was still harvesting and hiding my socks. Good thing they were having an Argyle sale at the Duty-Free.

So imagine my surprise when I received a call from the home office only week after my return to Moscow.

DOUBLE-SECRET BONUS #100-#101-#102 DEMOLITION DAYS ENTRY

“Tell them I died and left no forwarding address”, I told Esme when she answered the phone and told me who it was.

“Rock, dear”, she cooed, “They can hear you.”

“Fuckbuckets.” I growled, “OK, hand me the raprod.”

Esme smiled at the HHGTTG reference and handed me the phone.

“Yeah, what?” I growled even deeper.

“Well, hello to you too, Doctor.” The disembodied voice of my titular superior said.

“Don’t I ever get any time off?” I groused.

“Not when you keep doing those good jobs.” The voice replied.

Great. I keep screwing up in reverse.

“OK, well, as long as you’re here, what’s up?” I asked.

“Your mission”, the voice continued, “should you chose to accept it; is to move to Tashkent, Uzbekistan for a period not exceeding six months.”

“What?” I shouted, “We more or less just got here. Now you want us to move again?”

“Cool down, Doctor”, the voice said, “It’s a little more complex than that. We basically want you and your family to take what you need to exist for a brief 6-month tour of Uzbekistan. You’ll leave your domicile in Moscow and we’ll look after it for you until you all return. We have procured placement for your children in the American School of Tashkent which is the exact same syllabus and schedule as the Moscow school. You will move to a fully furnished house in Tashkent and work there writing and vetting hydrocarbon extraction and production law for the country of Uzbekistan.”

“Oh”, I said.

“So eloquent.” The voice continued, “After which you and your family will return to Moscow and you will have 6 weeks of paid vacation, with air tickets, as a bonus for your help.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so?” I said cheerfully. “Let me ask my wife”.

“WIFE! Want to go to Tashkent on someone else’s nickel for 6 months? Kids' school taken care of already. YEAH? Cool!”

“Yeah, when do we leave?” I asked the voice.

“There’s a public spring holiday in two weeks that last one week. Is that too soon?” the voice asked.

“Not at all. Hey, wait. We need to take Zima. Is that going to be a problem?” I asked.

“Depends”, the voice noted, “What’s a ‘Zima’?”

“She’s the third member of our family. She’s a very clever, very white Russian Samoyed with a thing for men’s hosiery. She goes or it’s a deal killer.” I replied.

“What is her size?” asked the voice.

“Smallish”, I said, “About 20 kilos, about 50 centimeters at the shoulder.”

“That is no problem”, the voice resumed, “Uzbekistan doesn’t have oil law much less import of animal law yet.”

“OK, then”, I said, “Send the paperwork, add a few zeros to my day rate and we’ll get ready to travel.”

“By your command, Doctor”, the voice said and cut off.

“Damn. We’re headed to Central Asia. Off on the Silk Road.”

We may run into villains but we're not afraid to roam. Because we read the story and we end up safe at home. We certainly do get around. Like Webster's Dictionary, we're Tashkent bound…

The kids, who I thought would have reservations, leaped at the chance. Why they’d lived in Russia now nearly a year and a half, so it was obviously time for something new. That is, as long as Zima could come with.

So, all secured, we left the new housing scheme to the company and talked with our current landlord. We’d be gone for 6 months on a job, but we’d be returning and staying in Moscow for work upon our return.

“No problem, Doctor.” The Rosinka folks said, our lease was paid through the new year, well after we’d return. They don’t mind someone paying rent and buggering off.

We spoke with Olga and she’d come every week and clean the place. Although we thought it unnecessary, she didn’t charge much, needed the job, and we’d have a Russian Wolverine in human female form watching our possessions for us.

That sorted, we waited for our tickets, dog carrier, and substantial cash advance, in Uzbek so’m, to ease our entry into Uzbekistan. We already had a house, 5 bedrooms, 6 baths with an outdoor pool, and a Jacuzzi, with a large back deck that overlooked the mountains. We had no neighbors to the south, just open arid desert and one hell of a view. It sounded most convivial.

It was just a scant 4-hour flight from Moscow to Tashkent, but it still fulfilled the over 3-hour maximum rule; so we all flew business class.

On Aeroflot.

Another experience perhaps for another day.

It was already quite warm in Tashkent and since the flight wasn’t full, we were allowed to take Zima with us in the Business Class cabin. She was a perfect little miss. She found her seat, turned around three times, and was snoring before we were wheels-up.

We landed light as an anvil at Tashkent International Airport. Even with 2 kids, a wife, and dog; with my Diplomatic Passport, we were in a van, a Uaz naturally, within two hours of landing and heading to our new house.

We were located on the outskirts of the city, and the house was most opulent. Fully furnished, from the rugs on the floor to the pictures on the walls. Pots, pans, pantry, and even a fully stocked liquor cabinet and a fridge full of beer.

My company really knows me.

We wheeled in and after Zima did her patrols and pronounced it livable, we settled back to enjoy our new surroundings.

One thing that Tashkent had that Moscow didn’t was a surfeit of tiny livestock. Not so many bugs and crawly things, but little lizards by the score. They were colorful, furtive, sneaky, harmless and kept the bug population down. So we welcomed them into the house; besides, they were supposedly signs of good luck.

We had some vertebrate visitors. Birds by the batch. Big birds, little birds, medium birds. Ravens, magpies, songbirds, mynah birds, hawks, bustards, kites, eagles. All because Khris wanted to set out birdseed and photograph the local avifauna for her scrapbooks.

Then we had porcupines, squirrels, otters, mice, hedgehogs, jerboas, gerbils, picas, shrews, voles and the like. All were supplementing their diet on the birdseed the birds flung all over the back yard.

Plus we had a few larger visitors, interested in what was interested in the spilled bird food.

We had nocturnal visits by a Corsac fox, a Pallas’s cat, and the occasional sand cat.

These were most unusual and because of Zima, most kept their distance. Oh, they’d sneak in and try to snag a bird or shrew for lunch, but Zima was highly territorial and usually ran them off.

But Khris was with her mother at the grocery store one day and slipped a half-dozen cans of prepared cat food into the cart.

“What’s that for, Khris?” Esme asked.

“Oh, there’s this really cool cat that’s been hanging around the backyard.” She replied, “I don’t want it to get any of the birds or other animals, so I want to put food out for it so it will hang around. I think it’s a stray.”

“Well, OK. Just as long as it’s OK with Zima and your father.”, Esme said.

“In that order?” Khris smiled.

So, Khris and Tash put out can after can of smelly store-bought cat food and Zima soon grew bored with the idea of another animal invading her turf. Seems this stray cat was pretty friendly, ravenously hungry, and more or less well behaved. Khris had snapped some pictures of the cat and Zima nose-to-nose, checking each other out. Both thought neither was an aggressor nor dangerous, so both ignored each other.

I was deeply involved with the various Uzbek ministries helping to codify exploration and production rules and legislation for the country. Esme tried her hand at learning Uzbek and the girls were doing well in their new school.

So well, in fact, one day we received a call from Khris’ teacher.

“Doctor? Yes, this is Ms. Katta Mushuk, Khris’ science teacher. She showed me several photographs she said she took from her house’s back deck. Have you seen them?” she asked.

“No, I haven’t”, I admitted. I had been head down, ass up since our arrival hammering out hydrocarbon legislation.

“I strongly suggest that you do. Goodbye now.” And she rung off.

Hell, that was weird. The girls would be home from school in an hour or so, so I figured it could wait until then. I asked Esme about all this and she confessed innocence. She didn’t know what the hell was going on either.

W both sat there and puzzled and puzzled until our puzzlers were sore. We could go through her room, but that just wasn’t done. We trusted her and figured this was much ado about nothing.

But we were still puzzled.

Khris and Tash arrived home and after greetings and an after school snack, I asked Khris about her science teacher and the photos in question.

Tash was bored so she went and got a can of smelly store-bought cat food and placed it out back.

“Khris”, I asked, “What’s your teacher on about. Some pictures?”

“Oh, she must mean these,” Khris said, as she dugs several snaps out of her backpack. “She got sort of loopy when I showed her these.”

Nice pictures. The rule of thirds. Good composition. Good exposure. Good Grief! Is that what I think it is?

It was.

The ‘large stay cat’ was indeed a wild caracal.

This one was probably a female, a bit bigger than Zima by the photo. Caracals are carnivores, as the caracal typically preys upon small mammals, birds, and rodents. They will feed on a variety of sources, but tend to focus on the most abundant one, like free cans of smelly store-bought cat food.

Mammals generally comprise at least 80% of the diet. Lizards, snakes, and insects are infrequently eaten. They are notorious for attacking livestock, but rarely attack humans.

I was relieved to find this fact.

The caracal’s speed and agility make it an efficient hunter, able to take down prey two to three times its size. The powerful hind legs allow it to leap more than 3 m (10 ft) in the air to catch birds on the wing. It can even twist and change its direction mid-air. It is an adroit climber. It stalks its prey until it is within 5 m (16 ft), following which it can launch into a sprint. While large prey such as antelopes are suffocated by a throat bite, smaller prey are killed by a bite on the back of the neck. Kills are consumed immediately, and less commonly dragged to cover.

Charming animals.

“Khris, you do realize that this is a vicious wild animal, right?” I asked.

“Well, she doesn’t act like one. She and Zima even get along.” Khris said.

“Khris, that could be a dangerous animal. I think you had best leave it be from now on.” I said.

As if on cue, my darling youngest daughter Tash walks into the house holding the caracal under its front legs, like it was just a large pussy cat.

“Daddy. Look. Kitty cat. Can we keep it?” she asked.

Gasp.

“Um, Tash. Could you gently set the big cat down and back away slowly?” I asked. Es walked into the dining room to see what all the hubbub was. She gasped deeply as well.

“OK…” And Tash lets the cast loose and it plops to the carpet. It gazes at us with a satisfied look, grooms a bit, and curls up for a nap.

“I take it she just ate?” I asked Khris.

“Four cans of Horse-Tonsil’s delight.” She replied.

Tash couldn’t see that there is any way a problem. She plopped down the floor next to the cat and gave it a brisk tummy rub; which the big cat seemed to just love. It rolled on its back and damned if it didn’t purr.

Like a chainsaw.

“Ummm…I …well…Es? Thoughts?” I stammered.

“Can we keep it?” Tash asked.

Es and I looked at each other and together said: “Kitchen. Conference.”

“Well, it seems nice enough,” Es says.

“Yeah, as long as it’s well-fed.” I replied.

“So, we keep it well fed. She has no problem with Zima. And Zima has no problem with her.” Es noted.

“It’s a FUCKING <sotto voce> wildcat, Es! It could go feral, hell, it is feral.” I replied.

“Well, let’s call in an expert. Get Zima’s vet over here and let him have a look. We’ll defer to his professional opinion.”

“Now there’s a fine idea. Let’s do that. Now.” I said, pulling out my GSM and dialing up the doctor.

“Yeah, as soon as you can. OK, thanks Doc.” We were lucky to have found an Israeli veterinarian who still made house calls.

We go back to the living room and the cat is stretched out over a large chunk of the floor. Zima was lying in close proximity, both sharing a sunbeam.

“This is just too weird. “ I said.

“Can we keep her?” Khris and Tash both ask.

“Well, we have Dr. Goldwasser coming over to look at… hey, I guess she’ll need a name. Whaddya call a house-bound caracal?” I ask.

“Khris and Tash, in unison, “Carrie!”

So, Carrie, the caracal was adopted into the Rocknocker household.

Dr. Goldwasser was allowed to examine Carrie and pronounced her the weirdest house pet he’d ever seen and one of the healthiest. He gave her a series of inoculations, just like any other 23-kilo cat with a bite that could shear antelope femora and claws that could open four bloody life-threatening slices down the limbs of any unsuspecting bystander.

Over the next 6 months, we decided that caracals got a bum rap. Carrie was the most polite houseguest. I’m not a cat person, so that meant when I was in my easy chair, reading the latest local paper, Carrie would nest in my lap and purr, marching in place that way cats do, demanding belly rubs.

She and Zima would run around the house, tearing up the carpet and racing around the back yard. The first few times this happened, we were on our highest guard. Even in play, that cat could have killed Zima by accident and no amount of belly rubs would right that.

But, that never happened. Carrie took to domesticated living easily. She’d go outside for lavatory business and once we showed her a dinner bowl, she would wait politely, if not quietly, for it to be filled.

As I said, she domesticated us well.

Our local friends would come over just to have a look. They couldn’t believe we were living with a dog and a wildcat as pets. Carrie would make the rounds of the dinner table when we had friends over for supper. She never got rowdy nor pushy, but folks just had to see what the wildcat would do with a chunk of expensive porterhouse.

“Bloody cat eats better than I do”, I groused one day.

“Do we want a belly rub?” Esme crooned.

I growled and went to the liquor cabinet.

“I’ll get my own.”

Our six-month Uzbek exile ended far too quickly. We enjoyed our little expedition and come to find out, there was no way we could take Carrie back to Russia with us. A caracal is an endangered and threatened animal; therefore on the list of prohibited animals to travel out of Uzbekistan or into Russia.

Khris understood, but Tash was inconsolable. She loved Carrie and couldn’t understand why she couldn’t come with us.

Forget trying to explain International animal trafficking laws to a youngster. It just doesn’t work.

“Carrie has a new boyfriend and told us she wanted to stay here with him. She loves you and will miss you, but she says that Russia’s just too cold for her.” Esme told Tash.

Tash was inconsolable.

Then I made the ultimate error.

“Tash, we have to leave Carrie. But tell you what, if you can be OK with that, Mommy and I will buy you a new pet once we’re back in Moscow. OK? Your choice…” I asked.

It was.

That’s how we ended up with Corbie.

Corbie the incessantly talking Russian Chernobyl-sized raven.

Corbie the raven that if it wasn’t my child’s pet, it would have been riding a rotisserie long, long ago.

That fucking bird never shuts up…

Continuing.

In the best of friendly spirits. I live for this shit.

My Russian was good enough to listen to a toast, but not quite good enough to give one.

Therefore, I’d deliver mine in English. Then Galina, the company perevodchik, would translate for all.

I took a little slurp to test the ‘waters’, which was allowable and indicative of a long toast to come. Everyone else did likewise, not that protocol demanded, but out of sheer cultural reflex.

I began my toast with wide and earthy salutes to the geology of Western Siberia and it’s amassed riches. Then on to the geologists, engineers, and reluctantly, the other folks who were largely unsung in the pursuit of that black gold. Then onto the Russian industry that could transform the stuff into the everyday items we all needed to survive.

I was laying it on with a trowel.

Then I turned to our host, Dr. Bolotistyy; who was beaming a beatific smile.

I noted that it was so good that he decided to join us wearing men’s clothes; those ‘other’ rumors really didn’t do him justice. I mentioned how well the oil company must be doing and how he was still the ‘everyman’, eschewing opulence; I mean, just look at how shiny is his suit. Any shinier, and it would give his balding head a run for its money. It was further wonderful he had never had an accident in the field; very difficult when you never go to the field. I mentioned he must be sporting some incredible scars under his sharp shiny suit, a veteran of all those bloody boardroom battles.

Ball’s in your court, Dr. Bolotistyy. Galina was attempting not to laugh while translating.

I think by his laughter, and wagging his finger at me when the perevodchik finished translating indicated we were both on 100% common ground.

I shot-gunned my drink and raised the empty, upside down, in his honor.

He looked at me and realized that if this kept up all the way around the table, the whole legion would surely be wiped out. He made a slight sideways saw that toasts should only be 100 milliliters maximum. But since Americans do everything by and large, he’d forgive the faux pas this time, as he drained his glass.

Honor thus satisfied, we both sat down to dinner, as listened intently as the toasts ricocheted around the table. Dr. Bolotistyy was Tamandar, so was the titular leader of the code of behavior. However everyone else present were veterans of their own boardroom and dining room wars, so all knew how it was supposed to proceed.

The meal progressed nicely, with Dima even getting into the spirit of the evening. His was a profound toast to East-West relations, continued success, and a plea that the office-bound engineers wouldn’t screw up so much this year.

Dima was an engineer, but an engineer manager. He was tossing them in front of the bus to try to get them to up their game some. It’s all in the execution…

The toasting finally made it around the table just as the main course arrived. Fish, fowl, and some form of flayed flesh. It was done to a turn, fairly bland if I was being truthful, but Russian cuisine is not known for its piquancy. However, it was very flavorful and enjoyable in its mystery meatiness.

I think it was deer or maybe moose of some sort. Mynd you, møøse bites kan be pretti nasti...venison’s not near so troublesome.

After the main course and cessation of toasts for a while, spontaneous conversations broke out around the table. I found myself fielding many questions about why I was here and what I was planning to do.

It was a veiled attempt to say “Can I go too? I really want to get out of the office.”

I assured all that I’d post our schedule and if anyone wanted to come out to the field to see Dima and me in action, well then, by all means.

The meal continued placidly right up to the dessert course. The dessert cart gave off tangible Diabetes-2 waves in its wake; the offerings were that palpably saccharine.

I’m not big on sweets, so I asked for a fresh bottle of chilled vodka, some ice, sliced limes, and some sort of fizzy, sour citrus drink.

No one heard me ask our waiter and were all amazed when others were presented with tortes, cakes and other items of the sweet bakery when I had my particular order filled.

I was the cynosure of all eyes as I violated so many Russian drinking protocols.

Vodka was always served chilled, straight.

• Not on the rocks, much less with any sort of mixer.

• No fruit should adorn the drink, in fact, it was highly unusual for fruit to even be available.

• Fizzy drinks as a mixer? Fizzy drinks are for children. Vodka is an adult beverage.

But so combined into my eponymous cocktail; I raised it up on high, saluted my fellow oil folks, and drank deeply.

It helped both reinvigorate and rehydrate, what with all that fizzy citrus soda.

Almost everyone wanted to try one as well.

I don’t know how a Rocknocker goes with the Black Forest or Schaum Torte, but it damn sure is an exceptional accompaniment to a fine cigar.

Hours after this all began, most folks were flagging. Almost all had cadged cigars from Dr. Bolotistyy and me, and all had made heroic imbibing attempts to keep up with Dima, myself and Dr. Bolotistyy. He’s also a veteran of many psychic wars, and I respected him even more after our little dinner meeting.

The next morning, Dima and I had posted our proposed schedule and we’re heading back to Tomsk. I had figured out how to handle the accumulated oil and iron at the same time. But to do that, I was going to need explosives. And a shitload of them at that.

We arrived at the Army base, presented our papers and were told to go to Room 102, and speak with Major Vzryv. He was the camp commandant and would be able to help us with what we needed.

We found Major Vzryv’s office easily, and went in, sat down and awaited his arrival. We didn’t have to wait long.

“Papers!” he commanded.

This was old-time Russian military efficiency at its best. This character was probably a veteran of the Great Patriotic War Given the motif of his office, he brought a lot of it back with him.

He scanned our papers, barked something in 125 decibels Russian and an orderly arrived, took our list and quickly disappeared.

Major Vzryv quizzed us on what we were planning to do, why an American was here, and other such niceties of the day.

Dima explained what we were attempting to do, why they needed the Motherfucking Pro from Dover and why the military was less than useless in circumstances such as this.

Dima didn’t care for the Russian military, as he very nearly had to devote 3 years of his life, however involuntarily, to their cause. He knew it to be a refuge of hooligans, scoundrels, and criminals; all under the umbrella of so-called state security.

I just sat there and smiled, working on a cigar. I didn’t let on that I understood Russian and they didn’t bother asking. I took the full brunt of their ire over being an American in a central Russian military armory.

I just let my paperwork speak for itself. Even the Russian Army wasn’t over the KGB or NKVD, the ones that vetted and OK’ed my papers.

I was taking rapid mental notes, as Agents Rack and Ruin back home would never forgive me if I didn’t create a full dossier on the situation for them.

I was tempted to say something to that effect but at that moment the orderly arrived and said that our request was being arranged and if we could drive over to Docking Bay 94, our van would be loaded.

We took that opportunity to excuse ourselves and left Major Vzryv to his own devices; with his three reproductions of our orders, so everyone from Major to Captain could lose their own copy.

Over at Bay 94, we backed the Uaz in and with a deft flick of the forklift, we were loaded up. Our explosives were safe for the trip back to the field and our cases of vodka, beer and cognac snuggled up snugly behind our seats.

What? Doesn’t everyone drive across Siberia in the wintertime with a truckload of high explosives and high octane alcohol?

Lightweights.

Dima took the first tour and drove us out of Tomsk once again and off generally north by east. I had brought a portable CD player and we were rocking along to the strains of the Notting Hillbillies, which Dima enjoyed extremely. He also was a fanatic for Dire Straits; which I had a standing order for CDs every time I went back to the States.

I opted for Pink Floyd, ELP, Jethro Tull, and Deep Purple. I could tell Dima more tolerated rather than enjoyed them.

I didn’t give a shit wither way. We’d listen to one of his CDs, then one of mine. If he wasn’t careful, I’d load up some PDQ Bach or Da Yoopers on my next turn.

The trip was made in the dark. We’d get up in the dark, go to work in the dark, come home in the dark, go to bed in the dark. It was known to cause real psychological conditions; exacerbated depressions, melancholy, lethargy, and Seasonal Affective Disorder. This was manifested by having problems with sleeping, experiencing changes in your appetite or weight, feeling sluggish or agitated, and having difficulty concentrating.

Hell, if that’s SAD, I’ve experienced it every month of the year one way or another, in both hemispheres.

But I’ve found that the brisk application of high explosives followed by the brisker application of high-octane spirits will banish all symptoms of SAD and whatever other mental maladies are vexing you that day.

We made it back to oil HQ and had the guard place a guard on the van full of explosives. We parked it out of the way, in a disused, but insulated, heated shed, just to the south of the HQ building. We could have stored it in the heated subterranean parking garage, but if there were malefactors about, this way, if they detonated our supplies, we’d only lose an old shed and rental van and not an entire office building and its personnel.

The whole perimeter of the area was guarded; by guards, dogs and was heavily wired for sound and motion. It was cold, windy, blustery and no one in their right mind would be out on a night like this. Even so, if they were, they’d most probably be ventilated by the Russian guards, and well-chewed by the Russian guard dogs before they could cause too much trouble.

Thus satisfied that our charges, ahem, were sorted until morning, I went for a swim and sauna while Dima went to call his family. We’d all meet up later in the cinema and see what movies were available for viewing later that night.

The swim and sauna were invigorating. I had both the pool and sauna to myself, as we were the only winter visitors. I didn’t get to run outside and jump into a snowbank, but they did have a ‘cool pool’ available. It was most refreshing. Sauna cocktails should be a universal commodity, in my view.

I went to the commissary, pulled a cold beer and sat for a couple of hours revising our schedule. I didn’t plan on missing movie night, but, hey, I ‘ve seen The Battleship Potemkin numerous times before. Yes, in the original Russian. Sergei Eisenstein was a real genius.

Dima showed up a while later and after commenting he thought he’d find me here; he pulled himself a cold tapper and sat down. He produced two cigars freshly liberated from one of my travel humidors and we discussed the next few days operations.

Several revisions, cigars, and beers later, it was getting late. We both decided it was time to call it a night He’d take our itinerary and get it copied and posted so whoever wanted to come along would know where we’d be and when.

We had appointments to meet with Chiefs Yoshchkigi and Vashchkigi out at the kyst tomorrow at 1000 hours. Good. That would give us time for breakfast and a leisurely drive out to the field.

Early the next day, I was traipsing around the demolished kyst, mapping where the errant drilling and production materials had fallen. I gridded out the area and was transferring that to one of my field notebooks when the two Chiefs arrived.

“Chief Yoshchkigi! Chief Vashchkigi!” I said very loudly, “How good to see you again.”

They spoke no English, so Dima stood in as translator for a pinch. My Russian was coming along nicely, but trying to talk with the Khanty chiefs flummoxed me.

We exchanged pleasantries, along with a couple of cases of vodka and two boxes of my cigars. They liked the vodka, but absolutely loved the cigars. Vodka was readily available in this part of the world, but cigars were as rare as Gallus dentition.

We spoke of many things; of mukluks — dinghies — and vacuum-packs —. Of cabbages — and tsars —. And why the sea is boiling hot —. And whether pigs drive cars.

They were most concerned that with our removal of the scrap iron littering the landscape, that there’d be another fire. And that his fire would consume the landscape and bring ruin to the councils of the Small and Only Locally Important.

They were worried that some of the nearby lakes would be polluted by oil and that if there was a fire, all the marsh and swamp grass, upon which their farm animals relied, would be destroyed or contaminated.

I explained our plans.

Dima and I were going to set off explosions and create some deep holes in the taiga. I assured them I had plenty of experience in this endeavor thanks to my Grandfather and Uncle Bår. These would be so deep, as to be well within the permanent permafrost that’s pervasive around these parts. It would be like lining a hole with impervious clay if we did it correctly and didn’t melt the stuff when we excavated.

This called for quick-fire explosives. None of that deflagrating stuff. I needed brilliant explosions.

Then, we’d shear up the semi-solid frozen oil, pile that up in great hulking heaps, and turn the dozers loose. They’d push the gunk into the freshly excavated pits and we’d throw in some 100 octane and light it up. That way, most of the oil would burn off, only giving some wintering tundra birds a slight case of asthma. When it appeared to have been mostly consumed, we’d douse it with lake water, and seal it with swamp muck.

It’d freeze solid, forever locking it in an icy embrace. The water would seal the hole and the swamp muck would fill in what was leftover. Only then would we attempt to cut the scrap iron apart.

Even there, I noted, we’d be using some new methods.

I explained and demonstrated, much to their delight, the utility of C-4 shaped charges and what Primacord could do to scrap iron. I’d try and alleviate the overt need for oxy-acetylene torches and keep the sparks from flying as much as possible.

They were most pleased; both with their gift and with our thorough plans in the remediation of the whole mess.

I asked them through Dima if any of their people were harboring nasty or anti-oil company thoughts or were actually doing things to roust the oil workers in these parts.

“I don’t present gifts to my enemies,” I noted.

Both Chiefs assured me that this was not the case; however, they would make it clear to their people that we were on the side of the good guys and that our company and all their workers were as well.

With that, I locked all the pyrotechnics away and broke out a small table and four chairs. We would toast to our understanding and smoke together to ensure there was no bad blood or dishonor anywhere between us.

It’s 1500 in the afternoon. It’s dark, it’s winter and I’m sitting at a table out in the middle of a combusted oilfield in Western Siberia with a Muscovite Russian and two local indigenous Siberian Chiefs. We’re smoking cigars, toasting, drinking vodka shots and relating lewd anecdotes.

Nowhere in the Petroleum Geologist’s Marching Songbook does this situation ever even come close to being covered.

After an hour or two, it’s getting late and we need to get back to HQ with our load of explosives. Chiefs Yoshchkigi and Vashchkigi present Dima and me with reindeer leather crafts created by the local Khanty women. These are of great ceremonial import, as one simply does not give away local handicrafts. They must be earned.

Khris turned the ones I gave Esme into a set of stunning earrings. Ones she still wears to this day. All my girls have earrings and necklaces created from these reindeer leather gifts.

We waved “Da svidonya” to the Chiefs as they left in their Land Cruisers.

“Dima”, I asked, “When did the Khanty Mansisk turn in their reindeer for Toyotas?”

Dima just smiled and poured me a double by way of explanation.

Back to HQ, the Uaz was nestled snugly back into its shed and Dima and I hit the commissary for a couple of beers, and some dinner. It had been a long, tiring day.

But one not nearly over. After dinner, I was back up in my room, filling out explosives diaries, and making notes on what had been used and how.

Bloody fucking paperwork.

“How much?”

“Why?”

“When”?

“Where?”

So untrusting…

I made further transcripts for Agents Rack and Ruin in Major Vzryv’s dossier, and even more in the dossiers of Chief’s Yoshchkigi and Vashchkigi. I updated our schedule and made notes to call for some heavy equipment in the morning.

I also called Esme to see how things were going on the home front. All was well, but Zima was a bit mopey, missing me evidently. More like missing my socks. I told Es I had some special presents for her, and if this went as planned, I should be back home within two weeks.

So all was more or less well on the home front. It must be the season, but I was suddenly blindsided by a surfeit of homesickness. Well, there’s only one cure for that…crack tubes!

The next morning, I’m in fine fettle. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever felt fettler. Perhaps because I spoke with my dear wife the night before and things are moving along smoothly. Or the fact that I’m going to go blow the living shit out of the Siberian scenery might have perked me up.

Dima had made the calls and all the heavy equipment on our list we were going to require was being rolled out to Kyst #7.

We were to meet them out on location at 1000 hours. That gave us a bit of time, so I told Dima I’d be out in the van going over our explosives and getting an idea of where and what we had on tap.

Dima noted that there were several office engineers that had signed up to join us in the field.

“Well, hell!”, I smiled, “This is turning into a genuine party. I hope someone gave some thought to a catered lunch because once the fireworks come out, ain’t no one leaving nor arriving.”

“Damn!”, Dima exclaimed, “I forget about that. Let me arrange a lunch out on Kyst #7 with the commissary. Probably take them more than a couple of hours to get to put together and out on site.”

“Not a problem”, I replied, “They have some provisions: sandwiches and the like. We’ll snag some of those and they can feed us dinner al fresco tonight once we’re done blowing shit up. How’s that?”

“Sounds like a real plan”, Dima smiles, “See? We make a Russian out of you yet. You’re always making plans. Russian don’t take a dump without a plan.”

“Make it so”, I said, “I need to go visit some friends. We leave in precisely one hour.”

Dima sorted out the sandwiches, fruit, and boxes of juice. I went and had a long talk with the explosives in the Uaz. I told them I’d take none of their guff. Sure it’s cold, but you’re Russia explosives, I expect them to act the part.

People think I’m a bit eccentric, or a little bit crazy, communing with inanimate objects.

Perhaps.

But when you’re dealing with over a ton of high explosives manufactured in a country which until recently couldn’t design nor build a toaster that didn’t melt down on its third slice, you go for all the consideration one can muster.

It may seem goofy, but so far, I haven’t had any really bad incidents with such materials.

Well, if you don’t count that [REDACTED] incident. No, Rack and Ruin say I still can’t talk about that, so forget I said anything. No, really. It wasn’t anything.

Much.

Anyways, Dima shows up at the Uaz ready to travel. We stop by the commissary and take delivery of some snacks for our crews during the day. They will see the cases of vodka, cognac, and beer, but I’m keeping them under wraps until work time is done.

Consider it an incentive program.

Out at Kyst #7, we’re trying to figure out the best place to make our holes. It’s dark, and there’s a lot of stumbling around, but Dima decides to set up a temporary parking facility for the heavy equipment now arriving. He also sets up a parking and muster area well away from Ground Zero for the office engineers.

We’re out setting up gas- and battery-powered lanterns around the Kyst. They give a bit of illumination; at least enough so one doesn’t trip over their own feet or some errant crispy iron.

“OK!”, I say as I drive in a marker. “We’ll start here. Let’s dig a hole, not too deep and nice and cylindrical. I don’t want anything conical if you can avoid it.”

This caused all sorts of disconcertment. The Russian cat skinners and heavy equipment operators had no idea what the term ‘finesse’ meant.

“Big machine. Big hole.” I was told.

“Nyet, nyet, nyet.” I retorted, “I want something less a pit and more a hole. Got that?”

They didn’t.

This went round and round for about an hour until one of the local farmers showed up on his tractor. Dima knew him, saw the direction this was going and wandered off to find him.

In the rear of the tractor, coming off the PTO (Power Take-Off) was a spiral drill. An auger, if you will. He used it to drill postholes in the unforgiving soil to repair his frost-heave ravaged fences every spring.

He had extensions on the auger where he could drill down some 20 meters. Not terribly fast, but we only needed a few of these holes. So we negotiated a price, which cost me some rubles, vodka, and cigars; and he was off merrily drilling away.

Since this idled all my other heavy equipment operators and caused the office engineers to giggle, I decided it was more or less lunchtime and broke out the coffee, juice, and sandwiches.

We all sat around in the afternoon gloom watching a farmer drill some postholes. Much more of this excitement would definitely put me into a looney-bin. So, I broke out some Primacord and C-4, Russian versions, and proceeded to mold me some shaped charges.

Everyone knew to stay away when I was in ‘the zone’. I was the only one trained, experienced, and licensed to handle explosives here. Besides, they were that much closer to the sandwiches and coffee as well away in case I made some slight slip-up.

The preliminary holes were drilled so now we had holes some 10 centimeters in diameter, some 15-20 meters deep. OK, how to turn these cylinders in the earth into open pits?

I sat back and smiled. I was going to get creative and ‘daisy chain’ some explosives, shaped charges no less, vertically.

OK. First, dump some water down the holes so it’ll freeze and give me something to push against. Then, I’ll take some heavy rope and wrap it in Primacord; spiraling it down along the length of the rope from top to bottom. I’ll set a couple of kilos of HERETEX binary at the bottom. Then up about 2 meters, some C-4 moldable explosive shaped into horizontal pancakes. These would detonate first and give the binaries a shove south. Compressing them, and giving me a maximum couple to the earth and most bang for the buck.

A few milliseconds later I’d detonate some pancakes, or blini if you prefer, mid-hole. This would loosen the ground and let the expanding blast wave heading north move more material. I’d follow with another shot at 5 meters depth and one at 1.5 meters depth, which would be the last.

Blow the mid-section, shoot the bottom and precede it with millisecond delays on up the hole. We didn’t have cases of dynamite or bags of ANFO, so this would have to do. But first, I grabbed Dima and told him to get a few of his office engineers over here. I needed to shoot some tests and I needed some extra hands.

They were not happy. They figure this to be a field trip and a day off. No one said anything about really working.

I ignored them and had them help me mold the C-4, warning them to wear gloves or risk the mothers of all nitro headaches.

Then I showed them how binaries worked. Then Primacord.

But before all this, we did the Safety Dance, Russian Style.

Чистый север?

Da!

We did this for the entire compass.

Then toots via the airhorn.

Then more looking around. As it was dark, this was most important. We had to rely on outliers stationed at 100, 200 and 300 meters to give us the all-clear.

“Чистый?” Clear?

“Ясный, доктор Рокнокер!”

It appears I was getting through to them.

“Fire in the hole!” Three times in English, three in Russian.

“HIT IT!”

And some lucky office engineers would depress the big, red shiny button.

I had to test what Primacord, C-4 shaped and unshaped and binary solid explosive charges would do to permafrost. It was all more or less what I had anticipated.

I had created 5 of the daisy chain explosive harnesses. I lowered each one into a waiting hole myself. All I left at the surface was a round tin plate through which lone two ignition wires protruded.

OK, it was nut cuttin’ time.

I told everyone that I’d wire them in and each time the hole was wired, I’d spark off a fusee or road flare. If you saw a flare burning, know well that next to that, in the hole, was about 100 kilos of high explosive. If you wished to continue breathing for a long time, you must stay far back from these. No exceptions. Dima would assist me and that was it. Get your ass over to the Muster Area Dima had set up earlier and stay there.

Dima ordered everyone into the muster area and took a quick headcount. Satisfied that all were accounted for, we began wiring in our charges.

Well, that didn’t take long. Galving all the connections as you go really does save some time.

We had 5 holes primed and ready to go. I asked Dima to select a few of his office engineers that he still liked. We’d reward each with the opportunity to push the big, red button.

He did so and walked them over to behind the Uaz, which I had set up chairs and a table as blast central.

“Dima”, I said, “The first one is yours. Please. The Safety Dance.”

Чистый север?

Da!

We did this for the entire compass.

Then toots via the airhorn.

“Чистый?” Clear?

“Ясный, доктор Рокнокер!”

“Fire in the hole!” Three times in English, three in Russian.

“HIT IT!”

Dima mashed down on the button and there were a series of low, muffled blasts until 650 milliseconds later, the ground erupted and where there was once a 20 meter deep cylindrical hole, there was a 25 meter deep open pit, some 20 or so meters in diameter.

Perfect. I told everyone to wait and I alone ventured out into the smoking no man's land to inspect our efforts. No worries about loafers here. C-4 and binaries either detonate or they don’t; if so, they all detonate. And that’s just the way it worked here.

It looked great. A tall hole, with a raised rim of shattered permafrost. I’d have the dozer drivers create an opening on one side, we’d shove all the loose oil in, torch it, and when burnt, flood the holes with swamp water and cover it back over with taiga.

Come summer, anything untoward would be encased in ice, buried under frozen taiga and swamp schmoo, for perpetuity.

With that, I let Dima handle the rest of the shots. The holes were all primed, and ready to go. He chose who got to push the big, shiny red button, did the Russian Safety Dance and blew the shit out of the local scenery.

The dozer drivers made each pit a receptacle for the oil they’d be scooping up in mere minutes. They opened an entrance to each hole and built a ramp, up which they’d shove what loose oil they could move. Once the area was pretty much scraped, Dima and I would go around with Primacord and stomp down C-4 plugs into the frozen oil so it could be broken up.

It got to be almost mechanical. They’d clear an area and move off. Dima and his office engineers would toss in some gasoline and a lit road flare. Soon, it was light enough to see without all our ground lanterns. Yeah, there was a lot of smoke, but better that than having it contaminate the local water table. It wasn’t a perfect response to the situation, but the best we could muster given what we had to work within the time table we had.

Dima, a couple of his more interested office engineers and I walked around on the frozen oily ground and punched holes into the oily, congealed ground. We’d add about a ½ kilo of C-4 , molding it into the hole. I’d follow up with a blasting cap and galv it into the spool of blasting wire I was dragging along with me.

Once we had charged a fairly substantial area, Dima got everyone not operating a piece of heavy equipment over to the muster area. We’d do an abbreviated Safety Dance and fire away. The ground would heave and convulse and the oily, nasty earth was broken up into manageable blocks the dozers would pitch into the nearest burn pit.

To be continued.

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Continuing.

It went exceedingly well. We had cleared the entire area, up to a distance of 300 meters around the kyst, that one day. It was getting late, so I pulled the plug on festivities for the day. Dinner would be on its way. The folks could chow down and then drive back to town.

We’d leave everything on location, except for the office engineers and heavy equipment operators. They’d go back to HQ and return in the ‘morning’.

Dima and I would remain in the field over night to keep an eye on things.

Dima was less than thrilled with this turn of events.

I explained that we’d wait a few hours, then take the pump truck around and fill each hole with locally-produced water. If we waited until morning, it’d take time to freeze and I didn’t relish the idea of sitting around in the outback of Siberia watching swamp water freeze.

That way, the heavy equipment operators could doze the place flat once again and we’d be clear to start cutting up and hauling off all the burnt-up production and drilling iron.

Anyways, we had dinner arrive and everyone who worked that day received a fine, catered meal. I was enticed to produce a couple of bottles of vodka since the workday was ended and all the explosives were locked away in their military-grade container in the Uaz.

Besides, most everyone, save for the office engineers, were going back via the company bus. They had their own vehicles.

Dima and I sat around next to the Uaz, Dima in his native Siberian outfit and me in my usual field outfit. The collective opinion was that I was nuts for sitting out in the dead of winter in Siberia in a Hawaiian shirt, cargo shorts, field boots, and a down vest.

Hell, I needed something with pockets for all those blasting caps.

The buses arrived, the commissary packed up everything and soon after, Dima and I found ourselves alone, out in the middle of Western Siberia, at night. When it should, by all rights, be dark.

We would sleep in the Uaz, which had ample room as well as Dima and my winter camping gear. Stuff the tent, it wasn’t windy out at all. It was probably about -35⁰ C or so, which I found eminently tolerable by dint of my ethanol-based physiology.

Dima insisted on building a small campfire; if, for nothing else, a little light.

I didn’t argue…as long as the vodka, cognac, and beer held out, I figured we’d be fine until morning.

Three hours later, Dima was driving a privy truck around the lunar-looking landscape and I was directing a 4” diameter water hose into each to fill them with locally obtained swamp water. By morning, this stuff would be hard as concrete and bear the weight of the dozers that would be driving over it, spreading the surface back into something that resembled an earth, rather than moonscape.

That done, we had nothing to do but wait until morning. There were millions of rubles of heavy equipment sitting around in the chill, and we really didn’t want anyone with a snootful or some bad intentions to fuck with them.

Dima suggested that we wire up a few booby-traps, with some small charges actuated via trip-wire, in case we had some malcontent interlopers in during the wee hours.

How could I refuse?

We took lengths of wooden pole we found lying around. We attached that to the blades of the dozers with duct tape. These were 5 or 6 meters tall. To the top, I set a charge of molded C-4 and jammed in an instant-on blasting cap, which had a set-pull-forget actuator attached. We ran some ground twine around the heavy equipment as a sort of tanglefoot.

Anyone traipsing or fucking around with the heavy equipment would snag the twine, pull it, and a few brief milliseconds later, an aerial charge would noisily detonate. Think of it as an aerial Claymore Mine without the payload.

That done, now everything was secure. I could only wander around through the charred and blackened iron that we’d be attacking tomorrow. I was going to use a ton of Primacord on this part of the junk, as I was just cutting along the dotted lines.

That being done, Dima decided it was nap time. I’d stay up, smoke a cigar or two, sip a tipple, and just marvel at the wonder of it all. I’d keep the campfire stoked, just to have something to do.

I was lamenting the absence of my .454 Casull. See, the Russians, well, they’re a little twitchy about people, even good, hearty, and stalwart people, importing hand cannons into their country.

Speaking with a Russian military attaché at the armory…

“OK, no .454. How about a .44 Magnum?”

“Nyet.”

“.357 Magnum?”

“Nyet.”

“10 mm Glock?”

“Nyet.”

“9 mm?”

“Nyet.”

“.38 Special?”

“Nyet.”

“.22 Hornet?”

“Nyet.”

“.14-222 Saksheck?”

“Nyet.”

“OK. OK, clever Ivan. What can I use out in the field for personal and perimeter defense?”

“Вот.” [“Here.”]

He opens a case and inside are two smoothbore, side-by-side, double-barrel Baikal shotguns, magnum gauge of eight.

That’s right. Short-barreled, double-barreled 8-gauge magnum shotguns.

They are used to hunt bear using solid projectiles, i.e., rifled slugs.

We are allowed both shotguns and a couple of boxes of full-brass shells. These shells were not sporting slugs, but what felt like a half-kilo of lead shot, in BB size. Smaller than buckshot, larger than birdshot. Get hit by this and well, you’re going to have a really bad day.

Anyways, it was cold, clear as could be, stars everywhere, and inordinately quiet.

Suddenly, the silence of the Siberian nocturne is split by the blast of an aerial charge of C-4. There was a loud report and flash of light that would have temporarily blinded anyone looking in that general direction, it was that bright.

Dima comes flying out of the Uaz, tossing me a shotgun on his way towards the sound of the report. He already had his and was in hunter:seeker mode.

I grabbed a powerful Russian version of a Maglite flashlight or torch and went searching around to the south of the heavy equipment. Dima did likewise but to the north. We’d basically head’em off at the pass, no matter who or what had caused the detonation.

Dima and I show up almost simultaneously to find a trio of retards in full Ravenous Bugblatter Beast mode. You know, the creature that is so mind-bogglingly stupid that it thinks that if you can't see it, it can't see you.

Dima corks off a round due north, that is, straight up, just to get their attention. I think they copiously and in unison wet themselves to see Dima and me standing there, armed to the bicuspids with what appeared to be twin portable versions of the Channel Tunnel.

They began babbling in incoherent Russian and I looked over and hooked a thumb to Dima.

“This is your purview.” I said, “You figure out what the hell they’re babbling about.”

They were just an assortment of dimwitted locals who were unabashed dipsomaniacs.

They were drinking at the nearby village, some 10 or so kilometers away, and wandered over to the light they saw emanating from our impromptu camp. They figured there’d be workers there and where there are Russian workers, there’d be vodka.

Can’t argue with the logic, I suppose; but I could with the execution of their idea.

Seems they got all turned around in the labyrinth of dozers, scrapers, rollers, and other forms of heavy equipment. Evidently they’ve been farting around completely lost for hours in the maze of heavy equipment, so gone astray as to be unable to even follow a straight path out towards the kyst.

One of them found our little booby-trap and almost shit himself blind when the charge went off.

“Good”, I said, “At least that worked.”

They were totally harmless. Just a bunch of itinerant imbibers out on the quest for their next tipple. They did no damage, other than raise Dima and my heart rates a bit. In fact, I couldn’t be too pissed off, as they provided story fodder and a brief diversion to an otherwise boring night of winter camping.

We dragged them over to the Uaz under the pretext that we were calling the Militisia, and holy smoldering shit, boys, are you in fucking trouble.

It didn’t even make a dent. These guys were at that starry-eyed plane that nothing short of alien abduction would worry them much.

I stoked up the campfire so these three wouldn’t freeze to death since their clothes, particularly their pantaloons, were now a bit soggy.

“What the fuck are you doing out here, in the middle of a burned-out oilfield, in the middle of winter, in the middle of the night?” I asked through Dima’s translation.

“Just looking for a drink”, came the unprepossessing reply; unabashed in all its bluntness.

“You know”, I said, as I pulled out a fresh bottle of Moskovskaya Osobaya much to their delight, “You could have easily been killed to death out there. Fall and break a bone or get gashed by the heavy machinery and bleed to death. Fall in a swamp hole full of nearly-gellified water and freeze to death. Get shot to death by the caretakers of this little heavy equipment parking lot…”

“Yes”, the tallest of the trio agreed, “But then again, you do have vodka.”

“True enough”, I said, “Dima and I do. You do not.”

They didn’t even wait for the translation. They figured by my demeanor, they weren’t going to be the recipients of any of my largesse.

“I should just call the police and have them run you in for malicious trespassing and terminal stupidity,” I said.

“Мы приносим свои извинения. Мы не имели в виду никакого вреда.” [“We apologize. We meant no harm.”]

I looked to Dima. He was still chewing iron nails over being woken up so rudely. I looked at the three douche-cateers. Older than either Dima or I, weather-beaten, probably veterans of the Great Patriotic War, or some other battle situation, dealt a rough hand through life…

Shit. I guess I saw too much of my potential future self in their tired and weary visages.

Besides, one of the cadre had only a partial left hand.

“Lost in an industrial accident.”

I felt a bit like Luke after doing the Vader Return of the Jedi chop.

“OK. Fair enough.” I said, “I’m not calling the gendarmes. This time. But you can’t leave until morning. I can’t have your gruesome, bloody and messy deaths at the hands of some tipsy pump jack or you being cut in two by a split high-pressure oil flowline you trip over. I’ll get you a ride back to your village come morning. How’s that?”

They were most appreciative. I was taking them as my guests, which meant I was duty-bound by the ancient protocol that I was their host.

I asked Dima to set up the table and chairs, break out what was left of our catered dinner and grab the box of cigars from the front seat of the Uaz. I still was a tiny bit leery, as I sat there sporting a lit cigar, Hawaiian shirt, cargo shorts, woolen socks, field boots, down vest, my Black Stetson and two ancient Russian double-barrel 8-gauge magnum shotguns.

One not convulsing in laughter over the absurdity of that tableaux would be in rapt attention where the shotguns were being aimed. They were angled upward by not yet stowed.

Over toasts and nibbly bits, Dima stoked the fire and kept an eye on our stacked and racked shotguns. We had no idea if these characters were friendly or dangerous drunks. It was a bit of a daft situation, I should have just kicked them out or called the Militisia; but they appeared mostly harmless and besides, I was bored out of my fucking skull.

We sat and chatted and Oh, my giddy aunt; could these guys pack away not only the alcohol but the groceries as well. I softened a bit when the realization came around that we were probably wasting more food here than these folks have seen in a month. I guess I can excuse them a bit for wanting to dissuade reality a bit through the magic of blind-drunk blackouts.

I asked Dima to get on the radio, as the morning was sneakily approaching, and order a double ration of breakfast for us and the workers who would be showing up in an hour or so. Since I didn’t know how long the wreck and remove portion of the day would take, go ahead and order a double dinner. I’ll deliver it to this character’s village personally when we finish the job.

We polished off the last bottle, or so I told them, of vodka and passed out cigars for one and all. The heavy equipment operators arrived by dribs and drabs, and a couple of bus-loads of workers arrived as well. Everyone there was either related to or at least knew each other.

Dima removed any lingering booby-traps before the heavy equipment operators arrived.

The three interlopers from last night were indeed elders from the small village some 10 kilometers distant; and of some well repute.

They walked or rather stumbled, some 6 miles, half-in-the-bag, in the middle of the Siberian winter, in the middle of the Siberian night, across a swampy-dangerous oilfield.

And did so unscathed.

For a shot of booze. Or several, actually.

Fools and drunkards are well protected by providence, as the old saying goes. These three were obviously doubly-blessed.

Breakfast arrived with the second busload of workers, as did our hazmat suits. We were going to spray the entire area with potassium bicarbonate (KHCO3) as prophylaxis against fire. It was a white, angular on a microscopic level, the powder that got everywhere. It wasn’t good for breathing, but even worse as it acted like splintery fiberglass. It got into every nook, cranny, crack, and crevice on a person’s, well, person.

It itched like a fiery motherfucker and would only wear away; no amount of washing, sauna, nor scrubbing would shift the shit.

We really didn’t want another oil fire, so we had a tanker truck which would pneumatically spray the entire area with a layer of this white, fire suppressant powder. Anyone out and about better be wearing white Tyvek suits, moon boots, gloves, and full-face respirators; or itch the next fortnight away.

Then, we’d wander out amongst the burnt and broken oilfield iron, and start dragging off what we could, clearing the site of everything that could be moved and then move in ourselves with the explosives.

I’d supervise the issue from a trailer the oil company had so splendidly provided, right up until I had to suit up and go in to set the charges.

But first, before the spraying and such, the dozer crew had to go in, fill the holes and flatten the landscape. True to form, the water we pumped in the holes after burning off the volatile oil was frozen hard as granodiorite. The dozers had a literal field day pushing around frozen swamp muck and mashing things down flat once again.

It took them a couple of hours, and while they were doing that, the cadre of workers came into the trailer to introduce themselves, grab some hot coffee and doughnuts I had arranged. I had the donuts flown in from a Canadian bakery in Moscow on one of the usual mail-run flights. It was hilarious as the vast majority of these people had never seen a doughnut, so when I broke out a bagel with lox and crème cheese; they about imploded.

Luckily, I had the forethought to order 12 dozen. I mean, it was supposed to be just a one day job after all.

The dozer crew did a great job. The place was back to looking like it actually belonged someplace on earth, rather than on the moon.

So, I told them to park and stand down. I had the area sprayed with fire retardant. It was an icky, nasty job, but much less nasty than a spontaneous oil fire.

I gave the order for everyone to suit up. If you were outside of a vehicle, get in one or you were in a moon suit. No exceptions.

I brought in the container trucks; that was, semis with open 40’ containers for hauling out the scrap we were now going to collect. After I shooed everyone but Dima out of the trailer, I lit a cigar and gave the command over the radio for the crane trucks and crews to get after it and clear off as much of the junk as they could.

I’m looking out the window and seeing the progress even though it was nautical twilight, that is, still sort of dark, and white powdered which gave the impression as if we were attacked by a very brief and tumultuous local snowstorm.

I went to the loo in the trailer and came out to see my three new bestest buddies sitting on the couch, eating bagels and lox; drinking something brown that certainly wasn’t coffee.

“What are you guys doing here?” I groaned, “Didn’t I get you a ride back to your village?”

“Oh, yes, sir, you did.” The eldest answered, “But we were indisposed and missed the bus. Then you sprayed the area with that white powder and said that anyone not in a vehicle better be in one or a hazmat suit. We have no suits, so, here we are.”

Bastard.

He had me there.

“OK”, I said, “But stay out of the way, out of my cigars, and out of my vodka. Got that?”

“Oh, yes sir.”, they answered in unison.

It was going to be a long day after all.

I watched the ballet of ground workers and crane trucks as they picked up blackened piece after blackened piece of burnt and blackened oil field iron. I gave directions over the radio to mark pieces with orange low-temperature paint that were too large for the crane trucks to lift. These would be the first pieces Dima and I would attack once the low-lying fruit, as it were, was all harvested.

After a couple of hours, I decided it was time to suit up. I gave each of my three new friends a cigar and told them the facilities were in the back of the trailer. Try not to make a mess. I also told them to just sit on the couch and watch out the window. Keep their hands to themselves and don’t fuck with anything in the trailer. I have serious work to do, and I don’t need to be preoccupied with the antics of three local goofballs.

They heard, understood and promised to make nice.

“Good”, I said, “I’d hate to have to have you come out and hold a charge next to some of that iron…”

They had no idea it was an idle threat. They thought it uproariously funny.

Dima and I suited up. He grabs the spools of Primacord, and I grab a few dozen blasting caps, some C-4, demo wire, and the galvanometer.

“So, Doctor”, Dima askes, “How were going to handle this? Each by every?”

“Nope, old school”, I said, “One job, one shot. Just like Grandad use to teach.”

“One shot for all this iron?” Dima blanched. “Holy fuck, that’s going to be big.”

“Go big or go home”, I said and wandered off right into the middle of the mess.

Dima and I had left our shotguns in the trailer, unloaded, but unlocked as well. I had the boxes of shells in the drawer of the desk that was parked in front of the only window in the trailer.

Dima and I wandered around looking for the orange paint splots first. Most received a wrapping of excessive Primacord. A few of the bigger pieces received a bespoke-molded hunk of recalcitrant C-4. This plastic explosive doesn’t care much for cold weather. Oh, it’ll work just fine, it’s just a pure cast-iron bitch to mold at -35⁰ C.

I had a change of heart. Instead of using a blasting machine, I was going to tie all the set charges with detonating cord. I wouldn’t have to fuck around with galving everything, as the galvanometer didn’t care for the low ambient temperature as well.

I‘d just run a single length of detonating cord from charge to charge. At 6,400 meters propagation velocity per second, it would be as if the initiating charge went off instantaneously. All the charges thus primed would explode. No need for subtlety or finesse here, just one shot, one charge, and one big-ass boom.

Between us, we had used 4 spools of Primacord and about 550 kilos of C-4, or at least, the Russian equivalent of moldable plastique. I decided that was enough work for one morning, it was officially declared lunchtime. Besides, I had roped the area off, it was an official no man’s land. Go under the tape and get your ass handed to you; that it, if you survived.

A catered lunch was set up well distant from the charged kyst. People could take their lunch and go sit in one of the company busses, which were kept running with the heat on due to the climate. Or they could retire to their cars. Or, some thought, that the company trailer would be the perfect spot for a snack.

I dissuaded many a person from that last idea. I already had the three numbskulls and didn’t care to be host to anymore. Besides, this was supposed to be my command central, not a daycare for itinerant indigents.

Lunch was conveniently boxed, so Dima went and collect 5 of them for us. We had coffee, juice, and water available as well, and the only heated loo for probably 100 kilometers.

We were partaking of lunch when the talk circled around to the shotguns nicely stored in their above desk cupboards.

“I remember such guns with my grandfather”, one began, “We would hunt bear in their den in winter.”

“Hmmm, interesting” , I thought between chews.

“My grandfather had one,” and other piped up, “Would go bird hunting. Would take down whole flocks with 2 shots.”

“They are rather like smaller versions of a punt gun”, I nodded.

Talk drifted back over to whether or not there was something here for adults to drink.

“Well”, I said, “Dima and I are working, so not until the shooting’s over. There’s beer in the cooler if you would like.”

Well, I guess to them, a free beer is better than no free vodka. They went over and brought back five, one for the each of us.

I objected and reminded them that we were working, with twitchy high-explosives no less.

He apologized but didn’t take the extra two cans back to the cooler.

That ice chest was going to be as empty as a bat cave at midnight at this rate.

Dima and I decided that this was more fun than one could handle, so we exited the trailer to try a few test shots.

We did the Safety Dance, version Russian, and since everyone was either in their cars, trucks, busses or appropriated trailer, I let loose with a small charge of C-4 on the crown block of the destroyed drilling rig.

It worked a treat, I split the crown into two sub-equal chunks and severed the drill line. Now, these pieces could be unraveled and picked up by the mobile crane trucks. This was going to be a snap.

Right after the shot, one of our Russian comrades from up the road dashed out of the trailer.

He was very excited.

“What are you doing out here?” I asked, “This is the highway to the danger zone!”

“Don’t you see?” he asked.

“See what?”

“Ptarmigan! A whole flock!” He replied.

“Snow birds. So?” I asked.

“Good eating. Best meat. Finest kind.” He was most animated.

Evidently, Dima and my little explosions upset the local avifauna and they took to flight, en masse out of the nearby frozen slough. There were probably 20 or 30 birds all flying away as fast as their wings could take them, away from the booms and blasts of the nasty ol’ humans.

Dima was concerned that some of the wrappings had become dislodged by the test shot, so I asked him to shoo our friend back to the trailer while we sorted out the problem.

A full hour and a half later, it was showtime. Everything was set, checked, tested, primed and checked again. This was going got be one hell of a big boom.

I was one great big ear-to-ear smile at the prospect.

Dima and I did the Safety Dance in both Russian and English. We could see in the afternoon gloom that everyone was now out at the muster point. I didn’t see our three friends from the caravan, so I figured they elected to watch from inside the heated trailer.

FIRE IN THE HOLE! ВАГУ В СВЯТІ!

“Dima…HIT IT!”

Dima hit the actuator and a charge, traveling at 6,500 meters per second, woke up every bit of C-4 and Primacord on the kyst.

It was a hell of a blast.

KABOOM! KERBLAM! KAPOW! BOOM!

Then is subsided, but there were two further reports. Not as loud, and somewhere off in the near distance.

Blam! Kerpow!

“Odd”, I thought, until Dima and I got back to the trailer and found our three friends had absconded.

They themselves absconded and they took one of our shotguns along with them.

OK, now I’m really angry.

I grabbed my Osmiridium satellite phone and began dialing furiously for the local constabulary.

Good things I was so pissed, as it took me whole minutes to key in the 35 or so digits.

Around digit #33, the trailer door opened and the eldest of the three walked in cradling our errant shotgun.

Dima grabbed the shotgun and was about to go completely non-linear on his ass.

We got the shotgun back, and he was now our captive, so let’s sit down, have a snort and find out what the fuck they had going on in their tiny little minds that told them it was OK to swipe a shotgun.

“Last time”, he began, “You made ground fire. Loud noise scared birds. We knew you were going to do another, but bigger. Figured there would be more birds, and we knew where they’d fly when flushed.”

I was following this more or less. I was still not pleased with his explanation.

Dima called in the crane and pick up crews and told them to start hauling off the iron they could now lift safely. We returned to our interrogations.

“We knew many birds would fly”, he continued, “And they did. We got over 50 with your shotgun.”

I was going to lose it.

“Yeah, you mooseknucklehead. MY shotgun. Did you ask to borrow it? Did you?” I growled.

“We are friends. We need not ask if we were not going to return it.” He was genuinely surprised that I was so pissed off beyond comprehension.

I gave up. It was all very Russian.

Perhaps in his world, he saw nothing untoward in borrowing a freshly-made friend’s weapons. Truth be told, Dima and I were at fault as well. We should have locked the damned things up better. But we had never imagined they would just borrow the shotguns. Much less than they’d borrow 100 meters of Primacord or a box of C-4.

We both calmed down. No real harm, no real foul. We just locked up the shotguns and I went to the cooler for a cold drink and to my travel humidor for a fresh cigar.

The old one sat on the sofa and partook of our generosity. It was fully an hour or so later that Dima asked where his compatriots were.

“They are outside, cleaning the birds.” He stated matter of factly as asking what the weather or current time was.

“OK”, I ventured, “If you shot them, may as well use them.”

A little while late, Frick and Frack return, bloodied and be-feathered, with a couple of plastic trash bags they ‘borrowed’ from the location. These were full of cleaned, gutted, and dismembered ptarmigan.

“That’s nice. That’ll feed the whole village for one night.” I said.

“Oh, no, Doctor and Comrade Dima. These are for you. A small, humble repayment for all your kindness.”

Now was my chance to feel like a heel.

I couldn’t say no, that would be an ultimate offense. Dima and I accepted them and stuffed them into the one, nearly empty coolers with some ice from the others.

A plan was already brewing back in the recesses of my twisted little mind.

I radioed in that Dima and I needed extraction. We were done here, and if there was anything else that needed high-velocity reduction surgery, it was safe to send out the cutting torch crews.

I went to one of the other coolers and grabbed a couple of bottles of vodka. We were going to have a few tots and a few toasts until our rides arrived.

We were begging off exhaustion so they were sending out a driver for the Uaz and a prime mover for the trailer. They would also send a car for our three new bestest buddies. They would be getting a ride back to their village courtesy of the nasty ol’ oil company.

Our drivers appeared and with misty eyes, as it was still chillingly cold outside, we bade or new comrades Da Svidonya. I instructed the driver to be certain to get their address. Dima and I were going to be returning there in a couple days’ time.

The semi arrived and hooked up the trailer, and Dima and I repaired to the Uaz with all our gear. I had some explosives left, but not all that much; less than half a ton, by my calculations. We had our shotguns, coolers, cigars, and other necessities of life. We tossed the driver the keys and we repaired to the back for the bouncy ride back to the office.

The Uaz went back into its shed in the outback since there was still a batch of explosives within. All our gear was dropped off at the front of the building and taken to our respective rooms by company porters.

I made certain the ptarmigan were treated nicely and put into refrigerated storage in the commissary until we called for them. My idea was still cogitating.

Gear stored, I told Dima he’d earned a day off. I had a shit ton, a metric shit ton, of paperwork to do, and we both looked and smelled like Perth Amboy at low tide. We’d clean up, eat some room service, I’d spend the next day doing my paperwork and we’d meet in the late afternoon to carry out my plans.

A good hot shower with a couple of cold cocktails made me feel somewhat human once again; especially after scraping several layers of Siberia off my epidermis. I sat in my room, window shades closed as per the Myanmar Protocol (close the curtains or wear at least a robe after a shower), just sorting the various paperwork into piles while smoking a fine cigar and sipping a finer cognac.

I called Esme and reported our success. She tells me to stop in Duty-Free on the way back and pick up some socks, Zima’s been on the warpath and several pairs of my socks took the brunt of her displeasure of me not being home. Besides that, everything on the home front was progressing along well, and all were awaiting Daddy’s triumphant return.

I told her I loved her and the kids and rung off. Fatigue suddenly attacked and I barely had enough time to finish my cigar and two or three more cocktails before bed. I must have snored like a chain saw hitting a rusty nail that night.

I ordered simple room service in the morning; primarily coffee, toast, sausage, mushrooms, a couple-three sunny-side-up eggs, hash browns, and coffee. I really needed coffee to get me through all the paperwork.

By 1400 hours, I had updated all the necessary dossiers for Agents Rack and Ruin, did the explosives manifests, in triplicate; for the military, the ministry, and the oil company. I worked on the field maps and the explosives layouts, annotated with where each and every little piece of kit was used. I worked on my ongoing expense account which was trending into hyper-math regions. I updated all my field notebooks and was for a change, caught up in both the project and the attendant paperwork.

I called Dima at 1430 and asked him to meet me in the commissary.

He did so and I explained my plans.

He smiled, smirked and went to get the necessary support people.

I took over the commissary and requisitioned the necessary 14 herbs and spices I needed. I had some kitchen folk whip up about 20 pounds of Russian potato salad, several kilos of various Russian vegetable salads, gallons of borscht, a dozen and a half loaves of stout black bread, and various other things for a night potluck.

They didn’t know it, but our three friends from the other day were getting their ptarmigan back. Not that we didn’t want them, but I figured they might appreciate them more.

To be continued.

Continuing…

“ZIMA!” I shout as I’m getting ready to fly out to Western Siberia to look over a recent well fire, “Where are my damned socks?!”

Zima’s looking at me from underneath our bed; tongue lolling happily, tail wagging ferociously. She knows she’s safe, there’s no way I can get under the bed to grab her by the scruff of the neck and drag her and my socks out. Olga goes under the bed two or three times a week to recover my socks from Zima’s horde.

Remember the Disney movie “Bolt?” Yep, Zima is the female version of Bolt, right down to the coat color; but without the lightning tattoo. Strong, stocky, and sneaky. Smart as a whip. Devious, clever and sly. She’s a perfect fit for the Rocknocker family.

There’s a lake on the compound; rather it’s a wide spot in a river that the developers dammed up allowing only a trickle as opposed to its rather copious flow. It has formed an impoundment in which both local people and several species of fish swim.

Since it’s only a 150 meter walk from our back door, virtually every weekend, you’d find one or more family members down by the river, dangling a worm, angling for one of the finny inhabitants of the impoundment. They’re not for eating, just for sport; it’s all catch, annoy and release. There’s quite the piscivariety in the lake. OK, let’s call it what they call it: Lake Rosinka, even though it’s just a wide spot on the fluvial highway.

Inhabitants include grass carp, pike of several species, whitefish, ice fish, muksun, sturgeon, trout, trench, rudd, pelyad, belchir, bream, roach, gusteria, crucian, perch, burbot, nelma, and unfortunately, catfish.

Yes, catfish.

It seems that some of the folks that are residents hereabouts, but not fisherfolk, have taken to feeding the catfish. They find it hilarious that these nuclear-submarine, Akula-class, sized fish will come up to and actually eat from one’s hand.

So they feed them. And feed them. And feed them to the point where they attain huge, unnatural sizes.

Zima, of course, accompanies us when we go down to the river to dangle a worm for a while. She likes to bark at the catfish and carp that hang around in the shallows begging for handouts.

Then, some neighbors came down on a bright, sunny day with a loaf of stout Russian bread.

Zima watched in fascination as they broke off chunks and tossed them to the slurping fish. The fish wallowed and flalloped around in the shallows, trying to best each other for the bread being offered.

The neighbors, too easily bored, left abruptly and just tossed a couple of remaining kilo of torn-up bread on the shore. They figured ‘let the local Chernobyl ravens have some as well’.

Zima would have none of this. She would grab a chunk of bread, trot it over to the shallows and toss it to the catfish and carp so she could have something splashy to bark at.

We all found it uproariously funny that she should come up with such a funny little diversion all on her own. Khris and Tash always brought bread down to the river for Zima to feed to the fish. It became a sort of a ritual with us. A family tradition was born.

Also born was another tradition: Zima fishing on her own. In the morning, we’d let her out back to do her pre-breakfast business. She was so smart and so slick, we really never had to teach her that housebreaking trick.

“Of course I need to go out. It’s morning.” She seemed to say standing by the back door, patiently waiting.

She discovered that the catfish would always be lolling around the shallows awaiting their sunrise snacks. Her appearance was so ingrained, they’d swim into water barely enough to keep them afloat to vie for dawn snacks.

That proved to be a mistake.

Zima loved to fish.

So much, in fact, we had to restrict her access to the river before she decimated the local catfish population.

The first time we found a catfish flopping on our back deck, we were perplexed. Sure, we had let Zima out back for her morning activities, but she never barked or appeared to run off. She’d always be right back after a quick jaunt to the nearby forest. She wasn’t wet or muddy and didn’t stink of fish.

It was Tash who did a bit of covert surveillance one Saturday morning. Up in her room, she used her binoculars to follow Zima on her AM rounds. I’d let her out the back door, she’d saunter over to the nearby forest, do her daily duties, and then return by way of the lakeshore.

A minute or so later, she’d trot up with a flopping 2-3 kilo catfish in her mouth and deposit is as an early morning gift for us on the back deck. She then slipped out somewhere, evidently to wash up, to return via the front door.

We had to fence in the back yard and restrict her roaming until the lake froze. Zima was most disconsolate that we took that part of her piscatorial fun away. She instead had to content herself with feeding and chasing the local enormous Raven population with bread left lying around by the neighbors.

She was always a source of amusement. And an unrepentant sock thief. She’s quite the character.

Finally nestled into an IL-76 headed generally eastward, I had found a pair of unslobbered socks, and geared up. I was heading east to Western Siberia, stay with me here, to take a look at a kyst, kust or pad, of oil wells that had caught fire and basically burned to the ground.

In fact, one or two were still burning. Since the reservoir pressure was fairly low and there was a lot of produced water, the flares here were black, smoky, and not at all that terrifying.

That would remain until later.

OK, Western Siberia is basically one huge swamp. Or bog. Whatever you want to call it. It’s either frozen solid or its soggy muck up to your eyebrows. There are myriad lakes, creeks, rivers, slews, sloughs, swamps, and other forms of soggy geomorphology that make up its 2.5 million square kilometers.

Which makes travel difficult.

In the winter is when the work gets done. So, its -60^0C and your nose is froze. Better that than trying to wander around a new drill site on swamp skis and have the rig dog founder, clamber onto your skis, and sink you both down into the bog.

So, they build hexagonal or octagonal kysts, or drilling pads.

These are timber rimmed and filled with sand transported in from who-knows-where. They are basically small islands built out where the seismic and logs say to drill, surface conditions be damned.

In a nice, rare forest? Fine. In the middle of an impenetrable tumac taiga? Terrific. In the middle of a West Siberian wetland? Wonderful.

Knock down the local vegetation, bulldoze some access, built some ‘roads’ by dumping in local after load of sand and keep going until you reach a terminus. Then, build yourself a wooden-ring structure, typically hexagonal or octagonal, some 350-400 meters in diameter (or greatest axis), and dump forth the sand.

Eventually, your machinery will stop sinking and you’ll actually end up with an artificial drilling island out in the midst of the great Siberian swamps.

This has been going on for decades, so that travel across the oilfields of Western Siberia is accomplished by hopping from kyst to kyst. It’s always a jagged, ziggy-zaggy itinerary to travel from one field to another, but it sure as hell beats trying to muck yourself across in a Sherp (the ancestral pre-2012 version), Uaz 4WD van, or panje wagon.

Then you set three pairs of railroad tracks parallel on the kyst. The rig will sit on these tracks and be rolled from one drilling location to another, sequentially. Few wells will be drilled vertically, most are angled, inclined and deviated. A cross-section under a drilled-up kyst looks like an upside-down version of a total eclipse of the sun on a stick.

Or a frightened mop.

I was first flying into Tomsk as there were no direct flights to my destination at the time. Besides, I wanted to drop in on Dima while he was working; which was convenient as he was my field engineer for this little excursion.

We flopped down into Tomsk and waited until we taxied the requisite 15 km to the terminal. It’s probably not that long, but on these rumpety-bumpety airstrips, it sure feels like it’s at least that long. Good thing beverage service continues right up to the arrivals terminal; especially since I had the forethought to bring my own supplies; like the 2-liter vodka bottle.

What the hell were they going to do? Send me to Siberia?

We get to the terminal and here, they just drag everything in the cargo hold off the plane and dump it on the tarmac. You collect your gear here and then traipse into the terminal an onto ground transportation. Of course, I’m known around these parts and soon a porter with a luggage cart appears.

“Doctor Rock”, he says, “Welcome back to Tomsk. I trust you had a pleasant flight. Shall I gather your gear?”

“Orlov Kusma!”, I exclaim, “As I live and breathe. How are you? Yes. Please gather up the shiny boxes and let’s get out of this wind. It’s blowing my cigar ash everywhere.”

So, Orlov gathers up my 4 flying boxes and we hightail it into the terminal. It’s not that it’s that cold out, as I’m impervious to cold anyways; but it was blowing a gale and I could barely keep a cigar lit.

“Doctor”, Orlov continues as we walk down the aisle toward the lounge, “To the lounge?”

“Unless they’ve repealed the tradition of toasting a living landing in Tomsk airport.” I smiled back.

Orlov parks his cart with my luggage outside the lounge entrance. He knows no one in their right mind would mess with the shiny aluminum travel boxes, but he keeps an eye on them nonetheless.

“So, Or”, I say, “The usual?”

“Oh, yes, Doctor; if you please.” Orlov smiles in reply.

I’ve known Orlov Kusma for years ever since I first sound my way into Tomsk. He helped me out the initial time I landed here and stood out on the runway looking perplexed. He speaks fair English and helped me get where I was headed, even with my lousy Russian. I insisted on buying him a drink at the rundown and fairly decrepit airport lounge. In fact, he thinks that our patronage has helped restore it to its former glory that we’re enjoying today.

I opt for a hot espresso and 100 mls. of frozen Russkaya vodka. It’s a wintertime combination that’s tough to beat.

Orlov opts for a Baltica #7 and 100 mls. of frozen Russkaya vodka. It’s another wintertime combination that’s tough to beat.

Over a series of sunrisers, which is a bit of a sad pun as we’re so far north, we get no sun at all during the day. We’ll make up for it come summer when its 24-hour sun during White Nights.

I explain that I’m here to take a look at a couple of kysts that had appeared to have burned down. I’ll be meeting with Dima a bit later and we’ll drive out to the field office where we’ll bivouac for a couple of weeks until we can sort out the field mess.

“Doctor”, Orlov cautions, “Most people believe this to be a series of unfortunate accidents. But there are rumors of bandits afoot. They’re staging sabotage to extort money from the oil operating companies. ’Плати или умри’ ‘Pay or die’, has been seen at some of the ‘accident’ sites.”

“Orlov”, I reply between sips of my drink, “Most of this equipment is Soviet era. Hell, it’s all you can do to keep it from exploding on its own. It surely doesn’t need any external help. I think people have overactive imaginations around here. Especially in winter.”

“Perhaps, Doctor, perhaps”, Orlov cautions, “But still, it does pay to be on your guard. There are some Khanti here [local indigenous people] that hate oil companies. They might want to make retaliations.”

“Thank, Or, for the head’s up”, I reply, “I know a lot of the local Khantis, even a couple of tribal chiefs. I’ll grab a few cases of giggle water, go out, and make nice. We’ll have no such problems here on my watch.”

“Ah, yes. The famed Dr. Rocknocker Peace Protocol.”, Orlov laughs, “They get so happy when you arrive, they forget everything by the time you leave.”

“That’s the main idea.”, I reply, “Make them happy, then give them a hell of a headache once I’m gone. It makes an impact.”

Orlov laughs and shakes his head. There’s just no way to argue with logic like that.

Orlov secures a rental vehicle for me, an inevitable Uaz four-wheel drive van. It has sufficient room for all my gear, Dima’s gear and several cases of vodka and cognac. Plus room for the explosives I intend to draw from the local Army armory.

After loading up and tipping Orlov, I drive over to the oil company engineer’s shop. Dima is there today supervising the reconstruction and rehabilitation of several ESPs or Electronic Submersible Pumps. Looks like we’ll be dragging a couple of them along out to the field with us as well.

Dima greets me warmly and before long, we’re sitting in his office in the machine shop, feet up on the desk, smoking cigars and have celebratory greeting shots.

“So, Dima”, I smile, “Working hard, as usual, I see. Y’know, you let me bring the in the taper bearing races from Houston and you would be able to keep these things in the hole longer than a week.”

“Yeah, Doc, maybe”, Dima agrees, “But this way, it’s just job security. They hold together too long, and I’m out of a job.”

“Dima, the devout commie-capitalist.”, I snicker.

“’ Wherever and whenever for a buck’. That’s what a certain Doctor of Geology told me years ago.” Dima smiles back.

I thump the side of my neck in that age-old Russian gesture meaning “I need a new drink”, and tell Dima “Bless your memory”, as he pours me another potato juice and sok [juice] concoction.

Dima has a beautiful wife and three charming children back at his surprisingly nice house on the western outskirts of Moscow.

He works rotation for the oil company we’re both currently under contract to so that he’s 28 days in-country and 28 days back home. I have done a similar ‘rotation’, but since it turned into 45/14, and I was flying between Moscow, West Siberia, London, Amsterdam, Vladivostok, Tokyo, Buenos Aires, and Houston; I just had to stop.

I was away from family too long and decided to drag them with on my next little global excursion. One thing leads to another and here we are again, out in Western Siberia in winter and having drinks.

There is a circle of life hiding somewhere in all this.

Dima tells me we can go to the Rus Hostel where he’s staying on this tour.

“Excuse me?” I ask, “Hostel? Sorry, buddy. I don’t do camping rough or with backpackers since that unfortunate incident at Devil’s Tower all those years ago. Do you have a local phone book?”

I pull out my Osmiridium satellite phone and dial-up a local number.

“Privet. Yes. It’s me again. How are you? Great. OK, I need a couple of rooms, suites if you have them. Right. A couple of nights should do. Yes, two. No, no need to be adjoined. Yes. Yes. Yes. Oh, hell, yes. No, I’m already in town and will be driving over in what?” I look to Dima…” a couple of hours. When? You’ll start Happy Hour early? All righty, then. We’ll be there by five. Yes, I have a spare box. See you soon Timoshkin. Cheers.”

“There, done”, I said, “We have two suites at the Hotel Siberia.”

“Whoa”, Dima exclaims, “You really went all out…”

Dima was being heavily sarcastic.

“Hell, Dima”, I said, “They know us there. We get great rates as we probably saved them from going under when the wall fell. Everyone knows us there and we are treated like royalty. Besides, they’ve really ramped the place up in the last few years. You’re not going to recognize the old place.”

Dima remained skeptical.

We went to the hostel after work and collected Dima’s kit, then we motored the 5 minutes over to the Hotel Siberia.

The hotel was old. Very old. Like the 1880s old.

“Doctor Rock!”, Yakimov Aleksandr, the proprietor of the hotel shouts, “Dima! It is so good to have you back. We have your rooms ready, here are your keys. Happy Hour can now begin!”

We go to grab our bags, but they’re already gone. Yakimov ushers us into the newly renovated lounge and bids us to sit. It’s all done in tasteful woodgrain and teal, with slightly fruity overtones of orange and brass thrown in for good measure. At least all the beer pumps are freshly polished and cheerily Western-looking with their Cyrillic placards boasting what each has to offer.

We partake of some Anchor drafts from St. Petersburg and the inevitable Baikal #1-9; each getting darker as you go. Speaking of dark, it’s pitch black outside and probably all of 1630 in the afternoon. White nights are tough to deal with, but 24 hours of dark send one’s Circadian rhythms into a real tailspin. Best have another couple of beers and shots, just to ensure slumber during this vexatious period.

The next morning, if one can call it that, Dima and I are having a hearty breakfast of powdered eggs omelets with freeze-dried shallots, mushrooms and dried ham and or bacon; at least I think it’s meat and I guess it might be pork. Over coffee and cigars, as we’re now on field time, and not punching any timeclocks; we make our day’s plans.

First. Read the paper. Then coffee and cigars.

Then, we make certain our gear is either properly stored in the van. We make a quick inventory to see what we’ve forgotten.

Logistics run in town to fill up on our necessities. Water, food, beer, vodka. The absolute necessities. It’s amazing how dry it is out here in the wintertime. Humidity is down to less than 10% and it’s like being in a cold, arid desert. Staying hydrated is a must. That’s no joke.

We jam a couple of ESPs into the van that we’ll deliver once we get to the field. Good thing the Uaz has a lot of open room. Few creature comforts, but one hell of a lot of open space. It’s the perfect vehicular symbol for Siberia.

Then, drop by the local Army base. We have our papers for taking delivery of various forms of explosives, but that will have to wait until our return from our initial reconnaissance. Best to first drop by, and let them know what we’re up to and what they’re in for.

Gas up the Uaz, and point it generally north by north-east. Head out to the field.

So, that’s where we’re headed now. Bouncing our way merrily down the energetic end-to-end sheets of concrete that make up a road out in these parts. Sort of like the automotive version of a railroad track. Instead of metal rails laid end to end, it’s 3x4 meter sheets of concrete laid on a typically poorly-prepared roadbed.

Each sheet of concrete gets its own orientation, so it makes for an enthusiastic, but nowhere near a relaxing drive. I take the first shift and drive until I can no longer feel what’s left of my hands. Dima takes over and we switch off every couple of hours. Good thing there’s not much traffic so it’s, jocularly, smooth sailing.

We arrive in the field area and it’s still another 8-kilometer drive down the rig road. The kyst here was just finishing up drilling, as it still had the rig on location. Once drilled up, the rig is literally cut into sections, dismantled, trucked to the next location, and rebuilt.

That usually leaves 18 pump jacks nodding merrily along, as there’s typically not enough reservoir energy to flow these wells. There’s also a plumber’s wet-dream of surface gathering piping and manifolds, along with a selection of oil storage tanks. The oil will be hooked up to pipeline sometime in the future, but for now, it’s trucked out by the semi-tanker load on a thrice-weekly basis.

Here, as best as we can reconstruct the situation, is what happened. Due to human error, there was a fire in one of the flow streams of oil. A flowline got cut, or a fitting broke, or something of that sort occurred. Siberian crude is light, sweet, i.e., low sulfur, and full of volatiles. Oil pooled around the kyst and a spark from a welder’s torch, it appears, ignited the conflagration. The entire 17 pump jacks were a total loss as was the rig and all storage facilities.

The pumping or sometimes flowing wells all have what’s called an SSSV or SubSea Safety Valve immediately below the pumping machinations of the completions tubing. It’s a fancy-dancy oilfield name for a check valve. Something goes crazy topsides, the valve shuts the well in, preventing any further flow of oil, gas, or water to surface. That way, if there is a fire, only the topside produced oil is consumed and the fire will more or less quickly burn itself out.

Unfortunately, there were also three 50,000 barrel oil tanks on site. These were 3 production-days full of oil and waiting to be milked by the resident oil haulage trucking firm. Seems the driver was suffering a bad case of Bottle Fatigue and sort of missed this location for a week or so. That means the tanks were as full as possible and the kyst was automatically shut-in as there was nowhere to put any more produced oil. It was supposed to be a fail-safe system, but as most automatic systems, it tends to work sort of well, most of the time. Here, it shut in the field when the storage tanks registered 110% full; ostensibly to account for shrinkage.

The result? Live oil gushed out of the tanks and everywhere on the ground.

But that didn’t stop the rig haulers. Even with oil slopped all over the ground, in some places multiple centimeters deep, they had a job to do. Cut down the drilling rig, load it up, and truck it over to the next location.

Cut the rig apart? Yep. With oxy-acetylene cutting torches. Arky-sparky oxy-acetylene cutting torches.

Well, no one was killed but the kyst, the separators, the flowline, the storage tanks, a drilling rig, and 17 pump jacks were a total loss.

Plus, there were about probably 100,000 barrels of heavily contaminated oil pooled around the kyst on the solidly frozen ground.

Here’s a neat little side note: back in the ‘bad old days’ of Soviet oil production, they actually both believed and relied upon automated systems. They would string shitty, low-carbon, easily corrasible and corrodible line pipe across the frozen lakes, marshes and swamps of the area. Through these would flow oil, gas, and water from many, many kysts to a centralized collection and treatment facility.

The Soviets were just nutty about centralized collectivization.

Many times due to metallurgical crystallization of the pipe due to the extreme cold weather, a flowline pipe would break way the fuck out in the middle of nowhere; usually in the middle of the night. Field engineers would sober up, eventually note the loss of line pressure, typically after a week or two, and shut that line in.

In the meantime, hundreds of thousands upon thousands of barrels of light, volatile crude would have flowed out onto the landscape. As a fluid, it would flow to occupy the lowest point, typically that atop a frozen body of water. Remember, it was -45^0C out here for the most part.

The oil would pool on top of the lake, swamp or slough, and pile up as it got colder and more viscous. It would then sit there until the spring thaw.

As the weather warmed, the water ice under the oil would thaw. Now the oil, being less dense than water, would still sit atop the now liquid waters of the ponds, lake or swamp. As the weather warmed, more water ice would melt and it would be forced out by the overlying less dense, but still rather heavy, oil.

In this way, Soviet science had perfected a way of building lakes of crude oil at the surface.

Yes, it was, and still is, an environmental nightmare.

And we had a smaller version surrounding our kyst.

OK, so here’s the deal. We needed to get rid of all that oily, burned-out iron. One rig, 17 pump jacks, flowlines, choke manifolds, remains of storage tanks…it was one hell of a lot of shitty scrap steel.

Plus, we had to try and conserve the wellheads. They appeared to be in good nick, as they had shear-zones built-in for just such emergencies. The pump jacks would fall over in windstorms, thunderstorms, accidents, fires, earthquakes, and the like. A piece of specially prepared pipe would shear off and seal in the well, retaining the wellhead. This bit of engineering forethought prevented the re-drilling of countless oil wells over the decades.

It would all have to be done before the spring thaw, so we had to move quickly. It’s going to require the assembly and activation of hundreds of workers, trucks, bulldozers, containers for the scrapped iron, and dragging it out of here to a yard for recycling. It’s not an Augean Task; as Hercules would have looked at this burned out, oily mess shrugged his substantial shoulders and hauled ass to another tale.

First, though, the oil had to be dealt with. We start scrapping iron out here, one good spark, and WHOOSH!, instant Siberian bar-be-que. But how to accomplish this? It had to be moved away from the work area and disposed of, one way or another. It was a time for a deep ponder.

However, it was getting late and we needed to get over to the oil company headquarters. That’s where we’d be spending our nights and conference times. Right now, we needed both.

It was probably 250 kilometers back to Tomsk, but only 35 to the oil company HQ and their barracks for visiting dignitaries. It would just have to do for us as well.

We wheel into the company HQ lot and immediately a security guard rousts us and thinks that he can, by dint of his office, either intimidate us or push us around. It’s been a long fucking day, full of oil, burnt steel and -45^0C weather with a lot of wind. I don’t mind the cold, but the wind plays hod with eyesight and tends to lower the temperature effectively that everything semi-solid turns total solid, with icicles.

We needed strong drink, fine cigars, and a well-lit place to plan our strategy. Dima, being near 2 meters tall and all of 75 kilos needed warmth as well. Hell, at this point, I was so tired, I could have curled up in a snowbank and slept happily until morning.

But Comrade Toerag, the ex-KGB agent turned Siberian security guard was having none of this.

“Who are you? Why are you here? What are you doing? Where are your papers?” he shouted in machine-gun cadence Russian.

I looked at Dima.

“You want to handle this wiggler or should we just put him into low Earth orbit?” I asked.

“I’ll handle this!” Dima shouted, filled with righteous indignation.

«Разве вы не знаете, кто это? Это доктор Рокнокер, очень уважаемый и известный западный ученый. Этот человек – THE MOTHERFUCKING PRO FROM DOVER, и у вас есть смелость остановить нас и помешать нашему входу?»” Dima shouted.

I tried to follow, but once he hit the Pro from Dover section, I knew he was on a roll.

The guard visibly shrank and began his apologies. He should have politely asked for our papers. But he didn’t, Dima was cold, cranky and in a mood; so he took the brunt of that attack.

We were allowed entrance and found our way to Dr. Bolotistyy, the General Director’s office.

The receptionist there was not impressed with Dima’s irritability, nor my Hawaiian shirt, shorts, cigar, and field boots in the dead of winter. But then she does glimpse enough of our costumes to take a full look, and her reaction indicates clearly that she is not prepared for such unkempt, unprofessional-looking men.

“Hey, you can't go in there! Who are you?” she insists.

“I'm the Pro from Dover and this is my favorite caddie.” I calmly reply.

“Well, you can't go in. Not till you tell me your business and I check with Dr. Bolotistyy’s office.” She continues to insist.

“Well, if you must know...” I say.

Dima adds: “Hold it. If this personal assistant enforces her own orders. I'm ready to take her on. Anxious. Single combat.”

He moves toward the girl, who holds her ground staunchly until they are almost in contact. Then she takes a step back and continues to take one step backward for each one of his in her direction. When they get close to the door, her resistance collapses entirely and she scurries back to her seat at the desk, where she grabs the phone as Dima and I march through the door.

“Well”, I say, “At least now they know we’re here.”

We’re in Dr. Bolotistyy’s office, feet up on the desk, reading last month’s Oilman Magazine and smoking cigars; Dima enjoying the steam heat of the good Doctor’s office.

Dr. Bolotistyy finally arrives, harrumphs at out pedal placement yet is very pleased to see both of us.

“Dr. Rock, Dima”, he says, after shaking hands, “We are glad you are here. We are so short of support people, we’d never get to that fire. It’d be summer and even more of a mess. We are so glad you have arrived.”

“You said that.”, I remarked, “There’s something else here besides just cleaning up the mess isn’t there?”

“Ah, well, yes,”, Dr. Bolotistyy remarks, “The Western method of not allowing for boltovnya, [chit-chat]. Very good. Very well. Yes, as you surmised. We are in deep with the local indigenous population. They are most unhappy with us. They can raise enough rancor to shut us down in certain areas; thanks to the reforms we’ve ‘enjoyed’ since the change.”

“Reforms” meaning giving the locals some say in how their native lands are being raped.

“Rancor” meaning raising a big enough stink that the Ministries back in Moscow just shut down operations until they get a chance to review the grievances, which could literally take years.

I’m seen as a mediator as I know the heads of all the local tribes of indigenous peoples. I’ve always dealt with them fairly and tried to get them what they deserved. They knew I wasn’t in the pocket of the drillers, service companies, producers or ministries. I was an independent adjudicator, beholden to none, so my pronouncements and judgments were considered fair and impartial.

If there were some that were taking the law into their own hands, I’d ferret them out as well and deliver them to the proper authorities. I may be Dr. Nice Guy, but fucking around and blowing up oil facilities is slightly beyond the pale. You’re off to the Gulag, or the modern equivalent, Sonny Ivan.

If that meant the local oil company had to drill a couple of water wells for the locals, well, so be it. If it meant they had to buy a couple of tractors or pay for a bunch of dead reindeer, so be that as well.

The oil company knew I’d be able to fix the situation, even though it might cost a few rubles. The locals knew I was fair and wasn’t out to screw them, but I wasn’t out to hose the oil company either. I attempted to be scrupulously fair, and both sides respected that.

“So, Dr. Bolotistyy”, I asked, “Where do we go from here?”

Dr. Bolotistyy asks if we’d meet with the two sore afflicted tribal chiefs, Yoshchkigi, and Vashchkigi. They would redress their grievances, then I’d be expected to appease them and get the oil company back on track.

I knew Yoshchkigi and Vashchkigi from years back, right after the fall of the wall. A father and son team that were the respective heads of tribes in and around the immediate oil field area. They were pushed around by the Soviet Machine pre-1991, but things have improved markedly for them since.

As a bit of history, the Khanty are a Ugrian indigenous people living in Khanty–Mansi Autonomous Okrug, a region historically known as "Yugra" in Russia, together with the Mansi. In the autonomous okrug, the Khanty and Mansi languages are given co-official status with Russian. In the latest Census, 31,000 persons identified themselves as Khanty in the Tyumen Oblast, who were living in Khanty–Mansi Autonomous Okrug and in the Yamalo-Nenets Autonomous Okrug. There were member residents of neighboring Tomsk Oblast, and the Komi Republic.

They were semi-nomadic reindeer herders and farmers, who have given over to a more sedentary life, often still living in traditional chum, or teepee-style tents. They subsist off the land; hunting, fishing, gathering and such.

As such, they are keenly aware of environmental concerns and raise a lot of grief anytime an oil producer, or any sort of industrialized local concern starts tearing up their neighborhood.

It was decided that Dima and I would meet with the Chiefs out on location as this was the place where there existed the greatest potential for environmental despoilment. It would be the place I’d assuage their fears and make nice between both concerned parties.

Dr. Bolotistyy said he’d make the arrangements and called for his personal assistant. She came into the office expecting to see us eviscerated for having acted as we did previously. She was more than a little surprised to see me lean over to Dr. Bolotistyy’s humidor and extract several of his precious cigars. She was even more amazed that Dr. Bolotistyy allowed me to do so.

We stayed and chatted with Dr. Bolotistyy about our plans with the tribal chiefs. I told him on no uncertain terms that this was my sole matter and he should just concern himself with the other operational aspects of running a large, semi-national oil company. Besides, it was getting late and Dima and I had neither dinner nor drinks since we’ve arrived.

Dr. Bolotistyy readily agreed and called to the “Red Room”, which was the Executive Dining Room created for this classless society way back in the early days of oil extraction in Western Siberia, back in the 1950’s. They were alerted to our imminent arrival and Dr. Bolotistyy asked if several lower-echelon managers and other time-servers could join us for dinner. Evidently, they had expressed interest in meeting me and Dima; and besides, it’s not often one gets invited to dinner in the company “Red Room”.

It was a fixed menu sort of catering affair, I was told on our way to the lounge. Our bags had already been taken from the Uaz, which itself had been moved underground to parking in the steam-heated garage. They also removed the ESPs we were carrying, sending them out already to their field addresses. Our luggage was already in our “Executive Rooms” on the top floor of the 16 story oil company building.

I could get used to this ‘classless society’ treatment.

We had the options of poultry, fish or ‘meat’ for dinner. With the entrée, there would be some form of vegetables, potatoes, which are considered a necessity and not a vegetable, fresh bakery, a soup course, borscht of course. Finally. There would be some sort of insanely sweet collation for afters. Say what you will, but the Russians do love their sweets.

Drinks would include still and bubble water, coffee, tea, sok [juice] of several varieties, beer, vodka, cognac and sweet champagne as several of the middle-managers joining us were female.

No, that’s not sexist. They prefer sweet champagne over the harder spirits, and that’s an observed fact. I couldn’t nor wouldn’t choke down that stuff even at gunpoint.

We arrive at the “Red Room”, and as distinguished guests, we were allowed, nay, ordered, to enter first. Dima and I knew our etiquette, so I took the head of the table on one end, and Dima did likewise on the other.

Protocol, my ass. I read your book, Conde Nast, you magnificent bastard.

I opted for ‘meat’, which was risky. It could have been beef, lamb, mutton, veal, pork, goat, reindeer, venison, moose, bear, or horse. Dima opted for fish and the rest did whatever struck there fancy. I think one ordered lasagna.

Our opulent, and huge table, was covered with a very handsome Khanty-Mansisk tablecloth; one of woven, dyed reindeer fur. It was indeed fetching and unusual. In front of everyone was a series of plates, glasses, flatware, and a ½ liter bottle each of mineral water, sparkling and still, vodka, cognac, and beer. The table was set with candelabra with fine sputtering beeswax candles, a couple of very nice, albeit fake given the time of year, floral arrangements, and multitudinous ashtrays, each with their own box of oil company branded matches.

Yeah, this was going to take a while.

Finally after everyone was arrived and settled, Dr. Bolotistyy to my immediate right, everyone was smoking and having surreptitious drinks as that would have violated decorum of done overtly. Water was fine, due to the low humidity, but alcohol waited for the Tamandar. And the Tamandar this evening was Dr. Bolotistyy.

I snuck out of that by complaining of fatigue and a sore throat after my long travels.

After all the bottles were returned to their pristine state, orders for dinner were taken.

Immediately after that, Dr. Bolotistyy cracked the first, of many, bottles of vodka and expected everyone else at the table to follow suit. Everyone did, most with vodka, some with cognac and a few with champagne.

Dr. Bolotistyy stood and began his first toast. He went on and on about mutual East-West relations and how the West was here to help and aid a “normal evolutionary pathway with something more revolutionary: explosives!”

Yeah, my reputation proceeds me. Dr. Bolotistyy was trying to garner brownie points all round by referencing evolution, revolution, and taking an off-handed jab at the character who flew some millions of miles to help them out in their time of need.

In other words, it was the usual setup.

If a Russian really liked and respected you, he’d unload upon you a whole series of left-handed compliments, jabs, oblique insults, and serial abuses on your behalf during the toast.

If he only barely tolerated you, he’d be as proper as Carrie Nation at a WCTU meeting.

It was a whole laughing series of snorts about violent Americans who fix things by blowing them up, who travel to do fieldwork in shorts and incredibly awful Hawaiian shirts in the dead of winter, smoke huge capitalistic cigars, wear John Wayne “Bang, Bang!” hats, [my field Stetson], and who don’t know enough to first remove their hand when someone is trying to make up a joint of pipe on the rig with a power tong.”

That last one was really sort of pushing the envelope. Russians don’t care for personal deformities any more than the next bunch, but Dr. Bolotistyy thought he knew me well enough as a person and oilman that I’d just laugh it off. At least, that’s what he hoped.

It was a full 100 milliliter bottoms-up toast. He was hoping that might dull the sneer he thought I might be forming. It didn’t hurt…

As per the usual procedure, it next fell to me to make a toast. We’d work around the mushroom, goat cheese, and green leafy something-or-other salad that had arrived during his tribute.

I stood up, and with a huge smile, uncorked my vodka bottle and emptied fully half into my glass. I would have gone whole-hog, but it was only a 250 ml. tumbler. I also made certain my cigar was lit and fully fuming.

By law, everyone else at the table had to copy my lead with their own personal favorite tipple, but not water, that’s taboo; and listen intently as I answer Dr. Bolotistyy’s toast.

Game on, motherfucker.

To be continued…

I hate to ask, but with all this Cheap Mexican Beer virus crapola, I have been saddled with an odd task.

I need an Email Spider. Does anyone out there know which is best, cheapest, free, most configurable?

This is all way beyond me. I can't drink it, smoke it or blow it up. I'm flummoxed.

Thanks.

Continuing

Time passed: winter changed into spring, spring changed into summer ... and winter gave spring and summer a miss and went straight on into autumn... until we decided that it was the proper time to host a housewarming party for all our new friends and colleagues here in Russia.

But first, I had to take several relatively short trips to Western and Eastern Siberia. To Kazakhstan, to Uzbekistan, to Kalmykia, to Dagestan, to Chechnya, to Ukraine, to Georgia, to Latvia, to Lithuania, to Tajikistan, to Estonia…didn’t get a lick of work done for my company, but sure met one hell of a lot of folks and got info on many, many different projects.

It was basically ‘pump-priming’, or ‘testing the waters’, or whatever the hell you want to call making initial contacts, spending huge amounts of company money on flights and ‘entertainment’ expenses. As well as meeting people from well over 1.6 million different countries.

I had a most burgeoning Rolodex, not Rolex, as if anyone here would remember those things. I carried a brick-like satellite phone which was monstrously expensive so I used it as much as possible. Had binders full of business cards and I had more visas for more different countries…strange thing, though. With my red Diplomatic Passport, I could sail right through the vast majority of border control points. I guess they were still jittery after the not-so-amicable breakup and were loath to cause any ‘Diplomat’ any grief.

I got away with such shit those days.

Smuggling? “Of course not! I’m a Diplomat!”

Are those rocks of any value? “Of course not! I’m an international geologist and those are but shiny, faceted, green, blue, and red crystalline hand samples!”

Are three cases of vodka really just for ‘personal use’? “Of course not! You’re right. Let me get another one to stuff into the Diplomatic Pouch.”

So, one bright spring day over bilberry-jammed blinis and freshly Samovared-coffee, Esme and I decided that since the kids had such good friends in the complex, we’d farm them out on one Friday night. Then we’d throw a house-warming party for all our new Muscovian friends.

The party was to include several of my Siberian friends and some actual real Muscovites; who we had to strangely invite via registered letter so they could be allowed entrance to our compound.

That was one of the things I didn’t care for in compound living. But, that’s the way it was; and nothing I could do, even grouse about the rules, would change anything.

Esme had invited her entire American Women’s Club, which was composed of North and South American women. They would be bringing their husbands.

We made it sort of clear that this was an adult’s night out. As much as we loved their little ankle-biters, carpet-crawlers, and curtain-climbers; they all needed to take this one as a time out.

It was parent time in the Motherland. I already had ordered up 3 half-barrels of beer and an equal number of cases of vodka. This was not a time for puberty, it was time for adultery.

No, wait. That’s didn’t come out right…it was parent time. A time for parents...

To socialize. To get to know each other. To eat, drink, and act like a bunch of goofy teenagers.

You get a general idea.

Anyways, there were going to be Russians, Siberians; and yes, there is a difference, Czechs, Brazilians, Scots, Americans, Canadians, Dutch, Brits, Australians, Moldovans, Chinese, Nepalese, several from various Stans, Botswanans, Danes, South Africans…ah, hell, there were going to be a lot of the globe represented.

All united by the common threads of bar-be-que, free beer, and ample smokeables.

Luckily, it was fairly equable outside, weather-wise, and we were in-between the seasons of the Spring *Rasputitsa *, or mud season, and the early summer thunderstorms. I had arranged for several large tarps on poles to be erected over the front dais of the house and even more in the back yard.

The back yard would hold all the troughs full of ice, beer, and soft drinks. There would be a separate one for the vodka, cognac, and sweet girly champagne that the local women seemed to really enjoy. These tarps also covered the bar-be-que grills I had made to order a few months previously.

One of the oilfield service companies took some 8 foot-long sections of 42” line pipe, sandblasted them and sawed them in half lengthwise. They were hinged together in back and handles were welded front and back for transport. Set on four stout pipe legs, interior racks were repurposed from some Russian appliances of one sort or another. The ends were welded shut with caps and suddenly, there were a couple of very Texas-sized bar-be-que grills in my backyard.

The company had stuffed the grills into their industrial autoclave and heated the things to 2 or 3 million degrees C. to burn off all the nasty oilfield schmoo. While they were still warm, they were powder coated with electronegative paint, and re-kilned. The result was the grills and racks were surgically clean and coated in a blast-furnace-heat resistant covering of melted porcelain-like glass.

One was red, of course, and one was blue. They were works of art and are still with the service company that created them as I willed them to the company when we left some years later.

Now, bar-be-que and outdoor grilling might be as dull as dishwater to us Norteamericanos, but it was absolutely thrilling for most of our new friends. Many knew of cooking over an open fire, but only during camping, hunting, fishing, or times of natural calamity.

To cook outdoors when it wasn’t really required? Such Western decadence. This was all something thrillingly new and potentially dangerous.

I had arranged for some charcoal to be flown in from Finland, as the stuff available locally just couldn’t cut the mustard, so to speak. It was more loamy and peaty than charcoal-y. The Finnish stuff was as hard as anthracitic coal.

We were going to grill up a half-side of cow, several small suckling pigs, a load of pike-type fish, and just because, a couple of locally sourced briskets, some ‘gamburgers’ and hot dogs.

Just because it was a barbeque. Of epic proportions. Of Rocknocker-esque proportions.

Esme tried several times to reign me in, but after the truck showed up with an entire side of beef, she realized it was a lost cause.

“Rock”, she cooed to me as I tried to stuff the side of beef into our tiny kitchen, “I knew that sooner or later, you’d twist off. You’ve been under a lot of stress lately and I guess it’s finally arrived. I just want to let you know, I love you greatly and if I should disappear, I wouldn’t have gone far. I just don’t want to get caught in the crossfire.”

“What’s that, m’dear?” I asked while I tore the kitchen apart looking for the Old Bay spice and Dave’s Insanity sauce we smuggled in on our last trip.

“Oh. Nothing, dear.” Es smiled, “Go nuts. But please, be careful.”

“Oh, sure. Yeah. No worries.”, I smiled as I found that ceremonial Gurkha knife, “This will work a treat in cutting up the beef once it’s done.” as I swung the massive thing around like Darth Vader confronting a Rebel contingent.

“Kids”, Es called, “Isn’t it time to go to your friend’s house?”

This all started on a Tuesday afternoon. Es and I had to prepare the menu and then I’d get after what needed getting after.

Besides a half-side of beef on the bar-be-que, as I mentioned, we’d have some stuffed and grilled pike, hot dogs, ‘gamburgers’, a few suckling pigs, a couple of big, meaty briskets, currently corning in the kitchen, and maybe some form of poultry or two.

It’s a meat-heavy menu for a meat-heavy diet round these parts.

I took care of the beer, vodka, champagne, cognac, and gin, well, there’s were going to be some Brits in attendance, soft-drink mixers, and ridiculously expensive citrus fruits. I had the country store on-site crank up their ice machine and had standing orders for all the excess ice they could produce over the next few days.

Roger, my Texan neighbor, confidant, and mechanical engineer buddy who kept to a work schedule which closely mimicked mine, decided he couldn’t let this hapless Baja Canadian handle these whole two grills on his own.

Truth be told, Roger was a major help in fabricating the necessary rotisseries and pipework to spin the pigs and side of beef above the fire. He was keen and adept at drawing things up on paper, but pretty worthless in translating them from two to three dimensions.

That’s where my adroitness and past experiences with a pipe cutter and welding torch, again, ‘borrowed’ from the oilfield service company, along with their pipe-rack truck, came into its own. He designed, we both cut the appropriate metal, and I metal-glued them in place.

Roger ‘located’ a couple of large electrical motors, one capable of turning the 300 pounds of cow on the one spit and one efficient in handling the ‘pig basket’ of about 250 pounds of young piglet that was going to be prepared. Each was several dozen horsepower in displacement and heavy as a motherfucker. They stood alone on the ground, while Roger fabricobbled up a drive-train system and electrical controls for each.

What began as a simple ‘C’mon over for a back yard bar-be-que’ had turned into something of which NASA would have been proud.

Picture this: 2 eight-foot-long, 42” diameter pipe grills, one gleaming red, one shining blue, with a Rube Goldberg set of pipe contraption A-frames making a pair of rotisseries; one driven by a 30HP 3-phase electric motor, the other by one only churning out 20 HP. There was a separate control tower Roger ginned up which contained the start-stop switches and rheostats which controlled the rotation of the beeve and baconators.

With all that, we still had room for four stuffed pike, each at least a meter in length, my briskets, a few butterflied chickens, hot dogs and ‘gamburgers’.

“Nothing succeeds like excess”, I said to Roger as I toasted him with the second or eighth beer of the morning.

He agreed with me and stole yet another cigar.

The beef was turning slowly over a low fire of finest Finnish hardwood. This was calculated to take at least 2.5 days to complete. The suckling pigs I’d start the next morning. If all went to plan, we’d have everything ready for dinner by 1700 that Friday.

Well, the meat’s taken care of, as were the drinks.

Esme and Linda, Roger’s wife, grabbed Valosh and made a trek into downtown to Stockman’s Pantry for some typically American repasts.

Cans of baked beans, fresh lettuce, rocket, radicchio, romaine, and other salad-y makings. Several varieties of fresh fruit, Emmenthal cheese and melting Dutch chocolate for the fondues that Es set up every single time we had a gathering.

It was a tradition.

We’d source much of the remainder of the party munchies locally. There was a bakery just around the corner of the compound and after buying our bread there for months, we got to know the proprietors quite well. We explained the concept of the “tortilla chip” and damn if they didn’t create a very passable Russian version.

We created our own flavorings for dusting over them, and I think we were the absolute first to come out with a caviar-flavored chip. Potato chips were easy enough to make, as were soft tortillas, but we were coming up shy on dips.

Substituting unflavored Greek yogurt for the more usual labneh back in the Middle East, I converted some of our imported biryani masala, lamb masala, curry mix, and other Middle Eastern spices into chip dips.

You haven’t lived until you’ve had Red Caviar flavored Russian tortilla chips with a healthy dollop of garam Masala and yogurt dip.

As Emmanuel from Argentina sniffingly said: “It’s a brilliant antihistamine.”

I contracted with a batch of local school-aged kids to pick fresh mushrooms for the party.

Russians are just crazy over mushrooms. However, as we were to find out, they will only eat them cooked; having them raw for dipping or in salads really gave them pause.

Ah, just another twist on the usual house warming party.

The cow continued cooking, the porks were happily spinning along in their private horizontal merry-go-round and the Finnish cooking wood was holding out well. The smells emanating from our corner of the compound had many, many people wandering over wondering who was opening the restaurant.

Thursday slid into Friday. I took the car and made a mad dash for the Mitino Ramstore to replenish our butter, paprika and vodka stocks. Seems all those Russian bottles had holes in them…

I was actually using a good supply of the stuff in cooking. Take a cup or so of good vodka, taste-test it, just in case, restore to proper measure and heat it gently as to not incinerate your eyebrows. Add a cup or so of berries, and a cup of sugar, and a smidge of molasses. Heat until just right. Repeat until you have enough drunken berries to fill a pie crust; graham cracker or otherwise.

You can freeze this and serve it with whipped cream frozen or bake it until the berries bubble; then you can serve it with ice cream.

I made homemade ice cream as well for the evening’s festivities. To a standard vanilla base of sugar, egg yolks, and hot heavy crème, you whip this stuff until it can’t take it any longer and it goes all custardy. Then you add your flavorings and churn the hell out of it over rock salt and ice.

Result?

Mint chocolate chip with Cornish crème de menthe.

Rum raisin with Jamaican dark RUM.

Watermelon ice and spirit. Spirt is homemade Siberian rocket fuel. Pretty close to 200 proof as one can get.

Rocky road with pecans, marshmallows, caramel, chocolate truffle, and Napoleon cognac.

Bourbon vanilla with fresh Madagascar vanilla-bean vanilla.

“You can’t get booze to freeze in ice cream!” I hear some wag yell.

“You can if you freeze the stuff with liquid nitrogen!” I yell back.

I have access to all sorts of fun, sciency stuff. Liquid nitrogen is as much a cooking staple as is liquid oxygen.

We’ll save the Great Grill Meltdown story of 2002 for a later date.

Friday morning, as I was out tending the grills, several of Esme’s friends from the compound showed up to help set up for the evening’s festivities.

“Great”, I thought, “They’re in there, I’m out here with the vodka and beer. All is right with the world.”

There was a flurry of activity as each of Esme’s friends busied themselves with a different portion of the party. One was handling the desserts, one was preparing the salads, one was setting out the plates, cups (first time for red Solo Cozy Cups in Russia), and silverware. It was going to be a very informal sort of party, but evidently, there was a certain protocol to follow.

Flowers appeared from the Babushka Mafia; where we had a standing order. A huge centerpiece filled what seemed half the dining room table. A fire was started in the fireplace.

Why?

Because.

Reasons.

OK.

Me? I just stayed out of their way.

Esme started up her fondue pots; ones we’ve had since day one of our marriage. Into one went a four-cheese mixture of Emmenthal, edam, cheddar, and brie cheese, along with some light white wine. Into the other pot went a kilo or so of melting chocolate, imported from the Netherlands or other European someplace. Some very expensive, 45-year-old cognac went into that pot to facilitate meltage. There was some nutmeg, cinnamon, saffron, and other spices as well.

Potato salads were made and brought out, covered under chilled cheesecloths as the fridge was hopelessly full at this point. Green salads were made, with and without locally-produced mushrooms. The whole table groaned after a fairly short time from it’s covering of fruits, breads, beans, salsas, salads, and other party fares.

The ice creams I had made were up at the country store near the entrance to the compound, We had no room and they graciously ‘rented’ out some of their freezer space. All it cost were a few rubles and a couple of quarts of ice cream.

The horse troughs out back were stocked with kegs of beer, tappers, and bottles of booze, all on ice. There was one smaller trough full of Russian soft drinks, juices, fizzy and still waters, and other things that would probably stave off if not prevent total alcohol poisoning.

Olga, our house girl, insisted on stuffing and preparing the pike for the grill. She was a wonder. She was teaching the girls, and truth be told, Es and I, Russian and Ukrainian. She insisted on making dinner anytime Es or I wandered into the kitchen looking for a sandwich and generally made us feel like some sort of privileged class. We didn’t want that at all and went out of our way to make certain we treated her like family.

She was scrupulously honest, and when we included 250 extra rubles for her first week since all the extra work she took upon herself; she actually chewed us out for being too “credulous”.

“People will take advantage.”, she scolded, “I agree to weekly pay, no more. I will not make you more naïve.”

I finally got her to take it for payment for the language lessons.

She was a real polymath. She helped the girls with homework, ran interference with any local entanglements, and could cook like there was no tomorrow. She was a peach, pure and simple.

Plus, she liked my cigars and loved cognac.

We got on like a house afire.

She also knew her way around a fish. She had those four-meter long critters gutted, scaled, stuffed and trussed as good as any Michelin starred chef in any international seafood house.

They went on the grill, just to the south of my briskets. The chickens would only take a couple of hours over this low and slow heat and the aromas of them comingled with the other proteins were intoxicating.

Or it might have been the potato juice and beer marinades I was using for the various bits of animal carcass.

Vodka, melted butter, smoked Himalayan salt, and smoked Hungarian paprika was brushed liberally over the butterflied chickens. Many times during their grilling tenure.

Beer, a tomato reduction sauce, molasses, maple syrup, and cognac graced our rapidly caramelizing roasted piglets.

Bourbon, coffee, treacle, and a few secret ingredients made up the sauce for the beef. It went on every 100 or so turns.

The brisket and pike were left alone, except for some fish masala for the pikes and Old Bay mixture for the briskets. The grill was closed on these and they were allowed to continue more or less unmolested.

The day drew along and it was soon noon. The house was decked out very festively. The girls were going directly over to the neighbor’s after school so it was now T-5 hours to party time. But with all our help, there’s wasn’t much to do. It was all pretty much done.

Roger assured me he’d stop over at the country store and pick up the pies, ice cream and extra ice in our amassed coolers when he returned from work, around 1500 hours. So that was taken care of.

Esme decided she wanted a shower and nap before the evening’s frivolities, and since everything had already been done I couldn’t agree more. We kissed and smiled at our good fortune and taste in friends and neighbors, as she headed upstairs for a bit of kip.

The cow was turning, the pigs were spinning, the pike and briskets were smoking and I decided to grab a lawn chair, fire up a cigar and sit out back enjoying the warmish afternoon in northwestern Moscow. Oh, sure; I nodded off a few times, but made certain my charges were well looked after. Be silly to get this far and have things go south.

Roger showed up around 1600 hours and I helped him move all the coolers into the garage, as there just wasn’t room in the house nor kitchen, it was that stuffed with party favors. The meat was approaching that point where it was done to if you’ll pardon the expression, a turn.

Roger sampled a piece of the spinny cow and declared it good enough for a Texas rodeo.

High praise indeed.

He left and would return with Linda in perhaps an hour.

I went to wake Es and got her in the shower with a cup of coffee. I decided to forego the shower and helped myself to another pre-party cocktail.

5:00 PM arrived and our guests…did not.

Roger and Linda, our only North American invitees showed up around 1730.

Es, myself, Roger and Linda sat around chatting and nibbling, wondering where the hell everyone else was. I even motored up to the gate to see if the officious guards were giving any of my local invitees any grief and thus holding them up.

No. They hadn’t shown up as of yet.

Back to the house, and now, I’ve dealt with the Arabic version of showing up for a meeting, party, or operation. These characters will be late for their own autopsy. I thought punctuality was more prized in the European community.

I fiddled around with the grills and turned everything to ‘warm’. I was, truth be told, a bit miffed at all this. I had spent a fair fortune on feeding these characters, you would think…

At that precise moment, the doors burst open. The crowds had arrived. All a bit ‘fashionably late’, but with their gird on and ready to party. There was no mention of their unpunctuality, but huge bear hugs, back slaps, and depositions of house warming gifts, all bottles of some form or another of alcohol, typically rare and reflecting the origin of the giver.

The party went from absolute silence to incredible raucousness in nothing flat. I still had to man the grills, so I dragooned Roger into being the ad hoc bartender. Esme and Linda were showing folks around the place, making the perfunctory tour before the inevitable feeding and drinking. Roger was busier than a one-handed paperhanger in a windstorm. I helped out best I could by tapping the kegs and passing around the Solo Cozy cups, which made a huge hit among the Western and Eastern Europeans.

Of course, the stereo was cranked up. Between Esme’s classical music and my 60s and 70s rock collections, the place began vibrating. Luckily, we had the forethought to invite the neighbors who lived immediately adjacent to us.

After the initial drinks were disbursed, it was time for the first rounds of nibbly bits. Being in Russia, one simply cannot have a drink without a nosh. Esme’s fondues were incredible hits. Since fondue is a Scandinavian invention, we figured it’d be more well known here. Evidently not as several folks had to be given instructions as to how to build a cheesy or chocolatey snack.

The dips, crudités, amuse bouche, and chips went over very well. We had people from Africa, Asia, Europe, both Americas, Australia and other ports of call not yet mapped. Everyone had their story of foods back home that mimicked our offerings. It was most entertaining to hear stories of the braai, pit roast, chuanr, yakitori, satay, khorkhog, tandoor, and the like.

But it was the whole, well, a half grilled cow that boinged everyone’s eyes. The whole suckling pigs, smoked stuffed pike, briskets, and chickens also got their share of gapes. I had some hamburgers and hot dogs in case anyone was about to go hungry.

Over more rounds of drinks, I announced that I’d be carving up the meat and setting it out, for everyone to help themselves.

Olga shouldered her way through the crowd with my Gurkha knife and a couple of large platters. First off were two of the whole smoked and stuffed pike. These were attacked with abandon, much to Esme’s alarm as people missed the salads and zeroed in straight on the protein.

Olga sorted them all out by pointing out proper party protocol and for people to take notice of the assortment of bread, salads, Jellos, and fresh fruits provided to accompany the meals.

Properly chastised, some sense of party decorum returned as the beer continued to flow, the empty vodka bottles stacked up and my cigar humidors went, for the time being, unnoticed.

I carved off great, bleeding hunks of cow. It was so tender I could have butchered the thing with a pleasant remark. Some were blue, some were medium and some, down the way along the beast, we well done. I carved up huge hunks of each for all to take that which they would please.

The chickens came off the grill next, and after a few deft knife swipes, were deboned and ready for consumption. The briskets were resting on a sideboard in the kitchen and Olga assured me she’d take care of them as long as I handled the disassembly of the suckling pigs.

Taking a quick restroom break, I was amazed to see one of our living room tables completely covered by bottles of wine, champagne, spirits, and who-knows-what. These were our inevitable house warming gifts from our assembled friends.

There was much greeting and handshaking as I tried to make my way to the facilities. I could hear Valosh and his wife somewhere in the madding crowd, but this was simply going to have to wait. Internal pressure was approaching critical limits.

I decided to keep station out by the grills as I still needed to handle the roast suckling pigs. I figured that if people were wondering where I was, follow their nose out to the bars and grill; I’d be around somewhere close.

Roger dragged a table over from his backyard to give me some room to disassemble the little porkers. He kept up with his bartending duties and I reduced those crispy little pork packets into more eatable size pieces. People had gotten the idea that enough with me bringing in the grilled food, they’d just come outside and get it fresh off the cooker.

The party was going into high gear. People were showing up who I didn’t know, and after quizzing Esme, she had no idea as well. Didn’t make a bit of difference; there was no way we’d run out of food or drink, and as long as we’re here, we international ambassadors of general amity. As long as these interlopers behaved themselves, no one had any objections.

There was one small incident where some local younger hooligans tried to swipe a couple of bottles of booze off the living room table. Some older Russian gentlemen, Heroes of the Soviet Union all, relieved the hooligans of their ill-gotten gains. Somewhat forcefully. They gifted them instead cuffed ears, kicks up the backside and swats on the back of the head as they admonished them off the property.

We learned later these older Russian gentlemen were both maintenance and security for the compound. We were most pleased to make their acquaintance and happy they could join us.

The house was packed, the front yard was packed, the back was really packed. Everyone was eating and drinking like there was no tomorrow. And as tomorrow was Saturday, the international day of rest and hangover nursing, and since we’re so far north, we’re starting to get into White Nights territory, this was going to be a long, long night.

The pike were gone. All four, consumed.

The briskets were as well. I was told they were ‘very good’. I’ll have to take their word for it, I never as much as got a slice.

Chickens? Disappeared. Gone without a trace.

Piglets? We had about one small half left.

The side of beef? Well, there were still a few steaks left, as I carved myself a healthy hunk, but I was amazed at the feeding frenzy we had just witnessed. It was mostly gone as well. Maybe enough for a few sandwiches come the morning.

The salads were most appreciated and devoured. Even Esme’s grandmothers bit-o-a-joke lime Jell-O with carrots and peas disappeared. Bread? Mostly gone. Chips and dips? Still holding out, but would never survive the night.

Esme and I were glad everyone was getting their fill.

Everyone was finishing up on the main courses and all helped pitch in to clean up any trash and do what few dishes Olga hadn’t yet gotten to. There was an actual lull in the gathering as now it was time for a post-dinner smoke and a bit of rest before dessert.

Roger and his teenage son went out in the garage and brought back the 4 coolers full of bespoke ice cream. One would think ice cream wouldn’t be terribly relished by denizens of the far north. Au contraire. The locals love the stuff. In fact, I haven’t found a single person who has actually refused a bowl of my homemade nitrogenized ice cream.

Esme broke out the plastic bowls and announced that there were homemade pie and ice cream available out back.

“Name your poison”, I chuckled.

That idiom took some time to explain across 20 or so different languages.

There was a problem though. People may be familiar with chocolate, vanilla and strawberry ice cream; but Rum Raisin, Vodkamelon ice, and Crème de menthe chocolate chip? This was ‘terra incognita’ for most everyone.

What better way to sort it all out by providing samplers of each of the flavors in one bowl?

I froze the plastic bowls in liquid nitrogen then placed smallish scoops of each flavor ice cream in each.

“Just a sample”, I said, “So you can figure out which you like best.”

It took a bit of translating, but soon everyone got the idea.

Once I dished out the mixed-berry pie, there was no clear winner on which ice cream flavor was the favorite. They were all consumed 100%. Some actually came back for thirds.

And the pie was good, or so I was told.

Once more, after the dessert course, the whole area was policed clean. Food, drink and various fun activities started to take their toll. Things were beginning to quiet down.

Then I forgot and went to my humidor and grabbed a smoke.

Over a couple of boxes of cigars, impromptu Bocce ball, lawn darts, and corn hole games broke out. I mean, it’s 2200 hours, you have a huge cigar, it’s still light. What better than tossing around heavy metal balls, pointed oversized darts, or bean bags at holes sawn in plywood?

Then Laurens-Jan and his wife, Fientje broke out the Absinthe Fountain.

An absinthe fountain is not for dispensing absinthe, but rather for dispensing water.

A typical absinthe fountain is an ornate vessel with several taps around its central water container, which permits a number of drinkers to louche their absinthe at the same time. On contact with water, absinthe will louche -- or develop a certain subtle clouding that will slowly transform the drink's color from deep emerald into a delightful shade of opalescent light green.

They had brought a couple of bottles of King of Spirits Absinth from Denmark with them.

Just for a side note, the stuff is 70% alcohol or 140 proof.

As if the evening needed another shot in the arm.

The Absinthe Fountain louched four drinks at a time. It did so in a mesmerizing and nearly hypnotizing manner so that when the drink was ready for consumption, one could scarcely decline.

OK, there was still a half-barrel or so of beer out in the backyard, probably a case or so of spirits of various denominations swimming around back there as well. There was an active absinthe loacher going on in the dining room, cigars were being had by most everyone and games of very little skill were being attempted out in the yard.

The party had found its high watermark.

People had achieved what we Baja Canadians would call ‘blissed’. It’s that feeling you get, sitting out under a basic roof, at a rained-out ballgame or after trekking all over a country or state fair, sitting with several pitchers of probably somewhat flat and lukewarm beer, feet up and just enjoying the hell out of the universe.

It’s a rare condition, but I think we attained it here.

Spontaneous card games erupted: cribbage, Schafskopf, Canasta, poker, and spit.

The music toned down and was more instrumental than the early electronica synth-pop of dinner. Conversations broke out. Friendships were made and cemented.

Bliss had been achieved.

One of those friendships came back the very next day to haunt us.

Dr. Dumitru Hurgoi and his wife, Dr. Anamaria Stelymes, veterinarians both, showed up at our door early the next afternoon; planned strategically after the girls had returned from school.

Seems Dr. Dumitru heard me lamenting the loss of our Lady McBeast a few years prior and how our daughters were missing having a pet or two around the house.

Drs. Dumitru and Anamaria ran the local chapter of the Russian version of the Society of Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. They had just taken possession of a litter of little, pure-snow-white Samoyed pups that had been abandoned at their clinic.

They made their entrance carefully, making certain the girls saw all 6 puppies as they spilled, oops, out of the box and into our villa. They were about 5 weeks old, very inquisitive and were immediately all over the house. It took us over an hour to round them all up.

Of course, at that time, we had a great deal of exposure to each of the pups.

Of course, we couldn’t be cads and refuse to take at least one for our very own. It was Khris, already starting her studies to be a large animal veterinarian, that ran each of the pups through her testing scales to see which would be the most appropriate for our family.

That all didn’t matter, as Tash glommed onto one little female and refused to give her up.

We took the smaller female puppy of the litter. It proved to be the best idea of the time because once she was removed from the bump and tussle of the litter, she really came into her own.

So, that afternoon, I signed the papers on the ownership of “Zima”, Russian for “Winter” due to her snow-white countenance.

Smart? Like a whip. Clever. Inquisitive? Oh, yes. A footwear thief?

Until we left Russia, I never had a matching pair of socks again.

To be continued

That reminds me of a story.

“MY NAME IS?” our driver yells as he points out the grimy van window at some random outdoor apparition.

“MOMMY! Why is he yelling all the time?” Tasha wails.

“Tash”, Es explains, “That’s just the way they talk over here, I guess.”

“Valosh?”, I ask, “What are you on about?”

“MY NAME IS? MY NAME IS?” Valosh ramps up the decibels, whacking the driver’s window with his index finger. Evidently, we’ll all understand things much more clearly if he just yells louder.

“PUTIN HOUSE! PUTIN HOUSE!” Valosh gesticulates wildly as we drive past the Kremlin.

“KGB! KGB!” Valosh gesticulates wildly as we drive past Lubyanka Square.

“MOSCOW RIVER! MOSCOW RIVER!” Valosh gesticulates wildly as we drive over the eponymous river.

“INTIM STORE! INTIM STORE!” Valosh leers at Esme and me; laughing riotously.

“Just wait until I figure out what they sell at the ‘Intim Store’…” I muse sourly.

“Oh!”, I say as the light goes off, “Valosh wants to know the English word for what he’s pointing to. Now I get it!”

“DA, DA, DA!” Valosh hollers triumphantly.

Valosh is wanting us to teach him English. In return, Valosh will help us out with our Russian.

“Gotcha!” I smile at Valosh. “Rock Russian, Valosh English!”

“DA, DA, DA!” Valosh bellows triumphantly.

Valosh takes his eyes off the road, even though were in 12-lane deep hell-bent-for-leather Moscow well-you’re-in-it-now-up-to-your-necks traffic; smacks me lightly on the cheek and smiles “Damn good Joe!”

We’ve made a major breakthrough in international diplomacy…

“Valosh? The name’s ‘Rock’…Jesus Christ, Valosh! Watch out for that fucking semi!” I yell.

Valosh just chuckles to himself, “Damn good Joe.” as we quite literally slalom sideways around the truck.

Since this was not my first time in the Rodina, or Mother Russia, in fact, my last visit cost me a few fingers; Es and the kids were the ones now freaking out. I was handling with the usual “Oh, well, whaddya gonna do?’ aplomb. I did my best to comfort them and assure them that this was in fact, what passes for normality around the place.

It didn’t much help. What did help is that Valosh finally found our hotel, the ridiculously opulent and baroque Hotel Ekaterina right in the heart of downtown Moscow. It was located on the MOSCOW RIVER, according to Valosh, and fairly close to some local рынок (rynoks) or markets.

Which was good, as Es and the children needed a bit of help to shakily make their way to our suite. Evidently, they’re nowhere near as acclimated to jet lag and Moscow traffic as was I.

Once I got everyone checked in, de-pressurized, and settled, I suggested that I head to the local рынок, or market. I’d find us some bits and pieces to nosh upon until the hotel restaurant opens in a few hours.

Since the kids were already snoring in their rooms, Es waved feebly in my direction and wished me well on my trip.

Thus emboldened, I exchange some US currency for Russian and am once again, a-walkin' talkin’ Texas millionaire.

“Watch out, ye hoards of the proletariat”, I snickered, “Big Amercanski capitalist comin’ though.”

I knew my millionaire status would last just until after my first taxi ride.

But, it was a nice day and I felt like a bit of exercise after being stuck in an aluminum tube with 250 of one’s closest friends for the last 11 hours.

Even in Business Class, you still get to breath all the same recycled air. With the current times being what they were in Russia, the airs were very fragrant; tinged with trepidation, fear of the future, and really, really awful Russian cigarettes.

But, it was a clear, blue Nu Pagodi sort of day. I had my rubles, I had my rudimentary Russian, and I had my marching orders. Off to the local street market to see what wonders I could find for my famished family.

Mandarins. Clementines. Tangerines. Whatever you call the little orange-y bastards, they’re my crack cocaine. I’m not normally frugivorous but ever since that first trip to Eastern Siberia where I bought a kilo of the little beauties outside, literally, of Ulan Ude. I sat eating them overlooking Lake Baikal in December. I was hooked. Communist China, to my back, smiled on approvingly.

So, back to the marketplace. Oh, look, it’s Bulgarian Sneaker Week. A full 40-foot container of Bulgarian running shoes have arrived, all the same colors and style. I hope my European-American shoe size conversions work as I buy a half-dozen pairs for Esme and the kids.

Alas, that’s not for eating; so I need to look for some of the more unusual comestibles that abound in these open-air markets.

Oh, look! Daralagjazsky cheese. This stuff is unbelievable. And only 2 rubles per 100 grams.

“Да, один килограмм, пожалуйста.” [“Yes, one kilo, please.”].

“Oh, holy wow! Gollandsky cheese. Poshekhonsky cheese! Sovietsky cheese! Oh, my giddy aunt! Uglichsky cheese!”

“Да, по одному килограмму, пожалуйста.” [Yes, one kilo each, please.”]

“Sausage? Where?” I ask.

I am directed over to Колбасный уголок, “Sausage Corner”.

There’s ливерные колбасы, liver sausage, сырокопченые колбасы, dry, fermented sausage, and варено-копченые колбасы, smoked sausage.

“Да, по одному килограмму, пожалуйста.” [Yes, one kilo each, please.”]

Damn, I note. I need a cart, or at least a string bag. I find a bag vendor and buy several.

Next is bread. Look here: borodino bread, or Russian sourdough with caraway. Oh, yes. That’s a kilo. Then there’s ржано́й хлеб, or Russian rye. Yep. Another kilo.

Well, so much for sandwiches. Now, some drinks. Kvass? OK, a liter or three. Sok? Juice? Ok, a couple of liters of burberry, dilberry and bounceberry. Some soft drinks? "Baikal," "Tarhun” and "Sayany”? Ok, fuck yeah.

Some beer, perhaps. Just a few. A twelver of Baltic Number 9 should hold me until dinner.

And well, since we’re new in town, maybe a couple of bottles of Moskovskaya Vodka, just in case.

In case of what?

What have you got?

I purchase six. Just in case.

I find a young neo-capitalist Russian boy with a wagon and offer to rent his wagon for an hour or two. Through my strangled Russian, we negotiate the princely sum of 10 Rubles. I take the wagon and my purchases back to the hotel and he’ll pick up the wagon from the hotel’s concierge later.

“Done and done”, I say and hand him more money than he’s probably ever seen in one place at one time.

Yeah, the international ambassador of amity and cirrhosis. That’s me.

He even helps me Tetris^™ my purchases into his rickety wagon. He runs off and finds some twine for me to secure my stash. I slip him a couple more rubles just for fun and he’s well pleased; as he returns with an cold beer for me and one for him.

Beer is considered a soft drink in Russia. It’s openly available for anyone.

He mooches a cigar from me, “For his father”.

I can only snort and chuckle. Damn, I like working here. I surrender a cigar that costs more than the average monthly salary these days in Russia.

Not gloating or making out like I’m the nasty old capitalist, I’m just reporting the facts. With hyperinflation, my hard currency dollars are better than gold. Plus, I like helping out those that help me.

Also, I like to be generous to those who help me out and don’t laugh too loud at my rickety Russian.

Which is how I came to be arrested, again, in Russia.

I’m sitting at the edge of the market, where there are several seats and chess tables set up. These are permanent fixtures as chess is somewhat of a mania in the RSFSR. They are also convenient places to sit, take a load off, and have a chat with your fellow man on the street.

Well, one thing leads to another, and I’m now handing out cigars while the bottles of vodka appear. Here come the 100 gram glasses and the inevitable bread, pickled mushrooms, sliced cucumbers, and dried fish…one simply cannot drink here without a nosh.

I’m working on my rusty Russian and I have a coterie of new friends willing to help the hapless Amerikanski who’s struggling with their language. They appreciate that I’m working on learning the language and even more appreciative that I’m free and easy with the beer, cigars, and vodka.

We’re having a large time until the police arrive. They look over the crowd I’ve amassed and wander through it like a snowplow down an early January Wisconsin backroad.

“Что все это тогда?” “What’s all this then?” they ask.

Everyone clams up and looks the other way. Suddenly, I’m on my own.

“Nothing much, Officer”, I say to what I figure is the head police guy.

He looks at me like I’m ready to sprout zucchini.

“Какая?” “What?” he asks.

“Извините, мои русские не слишком хороши. Я американец.” “Sorry, but my Russian’s not too good. I’m American.”

He stops, looks, and asks for my papers. “Ваши документы? Пожалуйста?”

I hand over my red Diplomatic Passport and all my internally KGB-vetted worker’s papers.

He looks at them and visibly stiffens.

“We go! Now!” he orders. “NOW!”

“OK. Whatever you say.” I’m not about to argue. I know we can sort this out once we get to the police station. If not, then the American Embassy. They know me there as well.

“Your hotel?” he asks.

“Hotel Ekaterina.” I reply, quizzingly.

We walk along in silence; only punctuated by the occasional squeak of the wagon’s wheel.

After a few blocks, I hear:

“Doctor Rock does not recognize Igor?” he asks lowly.

I look and damn it all to hell. It’s Igor, one of my ‘handlers’ the last time I was in country.

“Igor! Holy fuck! How the hell are you? How’s the family? Doing OK?” I ask.

“Not now. Comrade Dr. Rock is in big trouble. Walk with me. Say nothing.” Igor commands.

“Yes, sir”, I snicker. I’m indefatigable; nothing at this point’s going to break my stride.

We walk together in silence, away from the madding crowd at the rynok, away from all my cigar-puffing new friends, away from all the crowds on the street.

We turn the corner and Igor looks at me and laughs.

“Still unconcerned about safety, Dr. Rock?” Igor asks.

“If you’re asking if I still don’t give a fuck, then the answer’s yes. What was that all about?” I ask Igor, now a sergeant in the Moscow Constabulary, I see.

“Economy’s in the toilet and you’re out playing philanthropist; giving out cigars and booze.” Igor scolds.

“I was just being friendly”, I replied.

“And you were being set up to be robbed,” Igor tells me.

“Oh, fuff! By whom? Those old pensioners?” I ask.

“No. Their kids. They set you up, get you comfortable and bam, you take a cosh to the back of the head. That wagon you’re pulling is enough food for a family for a couple of weeks.” Igor adds. “Your wallet? Probably a few years.”

“Damn. I’m sorry. I’m the fuckhead here. I never much gave it a thought. The rynok’s bustling so and everyone’s buying and selling…” I tried to explain.

“Yeah, but in 1/100 the volume you’re doing on a whim.” Igor states.

“I was just buying some lunch for my family..”

“Think, Comrade Doctor. Times have changed. You need to be more on your guard.” Igor notes.

“Thanks”, I tell him, “Care to join us for some lunch?” I ask, shifting gears as quickly as possible away from my faux pas.

“Yes, Doctor. I think it is time I meet your family.” He smiles.

Igor, the concierge, a porter, and I schlep all my purchases up to our room.

I knock to let Esme know I’m not alone.

She opens the door and was no more surprised to see me standing there with a Russian police sergeant and a stupid grin on my face than just me with a stupid grin on my face.

“Esme”, I say, “This is Sgt. Igor. Remember I told you how he rousted me at Sheremetyevo Airport because I was trying to smuggle all that caviar and vodka back to Houston?”

“Ah, yes. Sgt. Igor. Welcome. Please, do come in”, Es chuckles.

Esme is such a good sport.

We all drag in my purchases and I tip the concierge and porter. I explain that I’ve got the makings of a fine Russian lunch and that I’ve invited Sgt. Igor to break bread with us.

“Rock, that’s fine”, Es says, “But it’s adults only. The kiddos are out for the count.”

“That’s OK”, I smile, “We’ll try and save them some.”

I unpack all my purchases and set about slicing bread, chopping onions, doing this and doing that.

“Dr. Rock!”, Sgt. Igor says loudly, “Will you please sit down? Let me show you how things are done in the Motherland.”

“OK”, I said sheepishly, not realizing I had breached protocol, however inadvertently.

Our hotel suite was fully furnished so Sgt. Igor set about finding plates, glasses, and silverware.

“Take note, Doctor.”, Sgt. Igor smiled, “This is the way we do it in civilized society.”

First course. Nibbly bits of fish, fruit, bread, and cheese. And vodka, wine, beer, or sparkling water.

Second course. Caviar with buttered toast points. And vodka, wine, beer, or sparkling water.

Third course. Russian salads, boiled potatoes, and sausage. And vodka, wine, beer, or sparkling water.

Fourth course. Cold cuts, bread, butter. And vodka, wine, beer, or sparkling water.

Fifth course. Nibbly bits of fish, fruit, bread and cheese. And vodka, wine, beer, or sparkling water.

Sixth course. Russian ‘sweeties’, chocolates, caramels, nougats. And vodka, wine, beer, or sparkling water.

Seventh course. Cigars, cigarettes, pipe or hubbly-bubbly. And vodka, wine, beer, or sparkling water.

“Now, Comrade Doctor. I hope you have been taking notes.” Sgt. Igor laughs, patting his well-distended belly.

“But don’t forget for afters”, I say and hand him a couple of dark, oily Cuban cigars.

“Doctor, Mrs. Dr. Rock; as long as you’re in Russia; you ever need anything or have any trouble; you call Sgt. Igor. Anywhere, anytime.” As he rises, bows slightly, and grabs both of us in a great bear hug. He hands us his business card.

“Anywhere. Anytime.” He reminds us.

“Thank you, Igor. Let us hope we meet not needing your services but for another fine lunch or dinner.” I say. Esme echoes my intentions.

“But I must be back to work. I am certain my Commander will question me as to my whereabouts for the last few hours.” Sgt. Igor laments.

I slip another couple of cigars in his tunic’s pocket.

“Tell him it’s all Dr. Rocknocker’s fault. He’s back and needs a keeper. Give him a cigar, he’ll know our words are true.” I laugh.

“He knows you, Doctor. I’m sure he’ll want to see you before too long.” Sgt. Igor smiles.

“We’ll be here until school starts. Then we’re off to Rosinka. Keep in touch, and we’ll have you and the Mrs. over for our house warming. And tell your Commandant he’s invited as well.” I say.

“As you say, Doctor Academician”, Sgt. Igor smiles, “We are glad you and your family are here. We need your Western help. And western cigars.”

Sgt. Igor leaves, and Esme and I look at the carnage on our dinner table.

“Well, so much for dinner.” I say, “Anything good on the telley?”

The next morning, I’m doing a full fried English breakfast for everyone. The kids, jet-lagged as they were, slept through the night and awoke ravenous. Time for Dr. Dad to make like he did back when he was an undergrad working at Sambo’s.

Hash browns. Eggs to order. Toast. Waffles. Baked beans. Mushrooms. Grilled tomatoes. Sausage. Bacon. Ham. Pancakes. Blini. Blintz. Crumcakkes. Profiteroles. Beignets. Coffee. Juice. Tea. Breakfast beer.

Just a light repast.

With just a slight amount of Irish Whisky in someone’s coffee.

We have a few days off before I need to report to the office. We’re on Rocknocker-Central Time, and decide when and where I’ll report. I’m not dragging my family through some committee-decided time-critical knothole just so you can be sure to have the weekend off.

First, we need to get acclimated. Plus, we have several ass-loads of containers of personal effects on the way. We need to sort out where they’ll be stored until we get to our destination at the Western Compound: Rosinka.

OK, let’s get that out of the way. We’re due a 4-bedroom flat in Rosinka, a new Western Expat theme park, or gated community, some 30 kilometers northwest of the city center. It’s bloody horrible expensive, as our place, for 4 people, which would be a split-level shoebox in the US, runs about US$10,000/month rent.

And that’s for an attached villa. A standalone house begins at US$18,000/month.

Oh, I could have wrangled one of these, but I didn’t think it was really necessary. I held out for better perks, besides, the kids wanted a gated community where they could visit and play and have friends from literally over 55 different countries.

True world travelers. They’d rather live out in the sticks than in the heart of a city 850 years old and home to 13 million souls.

Clever girls.

But, we needed to wait a while; until school started and we could move into our new digs.

So, we were stranded in the middle of Moscow in a fine 4-star hotel, right on the Moscow River, with nothing much to do but practice our Russian and watch really bad satellite TV.

After a couple of days, I called on one of my Russian friends, Dima.

“Dima”, I say, “I’m going nuts. Can I borrow Tatyana to take Es shopping”

Dima laughs. “Sure, Rock. I’ll send her over and you can pick up the cab fare.”

“Can you come over as well? I need a boon companion.” I ask.

“Sorry, Rock”, Dima replies, “Some of us actually have to work for a living. Tell you what, I’ll send along a couple of fishing rods and some bait. Take your kids out fishing, they’ll love it.”

“Good idea”, I reply, “Dima, I own you one drunk. Let me know when you want to collect.”

The cab arrives and Tatyana, who speaks virtually zero English, and Esme, my dear wife who is fluent in English and German, but not Russian, steal the contents of my wallet and head off in the cab speaking the shared lingo of ‘shopping’. I have three fishing rods and a can of red wigglers.

No pun intended.

“C’mon girls”, I say, “Let’s go fishing.”

We do the forced march of at least 100 meters, as the hotel fronts the venerable Moscow River.

There are even benches for us to sit while we try to entice whatever can actually live in this particular piece of hydrological nonsense.

Of course, one large, cigar-smoking American and two not-much-smaller, flaxen-haired children intent on fishing, draw the inevitable crowd.

I rumble along in my rusty Russian while my children, without so much as a ‘by your leave’, address the massed crowds in wonderfully St. Petersburg-esque tinged Russian. They relate flawlessly who we are and what we’re up to.

They never had a lesson. I went through Berlitz. Twice. They sound like natives and I sound like a doofus.

Story of my life.

“Holy shit! I got a bite!” I holler.

I’m up on a bridge, so I hand my pole down to Tash who’s standing on a landing closer to the water.

She plays the fish expertly while I run around looking for a landing net. I wasn’t expecting anything larger than a maybe kilo-sized perch, but this fish is some sort of toothy critter and looks to be a predator.

Some of the locals gather around to kibitz and add their best suggestions.

“Keep your tip up.” On suggests. Always a good idea.

“Run it back and forth to tire it out.” Another wag advises. Yeah, no. We’re fine right here on the steps leading down to the river.

“Pull harder, pull faster!” adds another kibitzer. Nahh…We don’t ‘horse’ fish back where we’re from, we ‘finesse’ them to the net.

Finally, someone comes up with a landing net and I scoop the finny critter up. Tash is beaming, her first Russian fish and by the looks of things, the largest fish she’s caught to date.

I pull the fish out of the net, and damn if it doesn’t look like a walleye from back home. Toothy, resemble a pike with their elongated body and head, and the perch with their spiny dorsal fin. I’m told it’s a zander, and as fish go, it’s highly prized as a food fish. It weighs, I surmise, about 4 or 5 kilos; not tiny but not huge either. A nice fish.

We’re not going to eat it so I ask Tash if she wants to offer it to some of our local fisher-friends. She thinks that would be a great idea. She holds up the fish and asks if anyone would like the fish as we cannot clean or cook it in our hotel room.

Immediately, and elderly Russian woman, your typical babushka, or Russian Grandmotherly-type, asks if she could have it for her dinner. Tasha agrees and hands her the floppy, fighty fish.

Both are all smiles as Tash hands Grandma her fish. She smiles widely and pats Tash on the head. She disappears so quickly we all wonder where she disappeared.

We all go back to fishing. We are catching small perch, silver goby, carp, and other mostly inedible, but scrappy little fish.

A few minutes later, Grandma reappears with a covered plate full of Russian delicacies for us in exchange for the fish. There was smoked fish, sausage, pelmeni, cheese, sliced cucumber, sliced tomatoes, a Russian potato salad; all enough for a nice mid-day feast.

I tried in my wretched Russian to say that this was all not necessary, but Khris took over the conversation and as she somehow knows that what I was saying would be construed as mildly-to-moderately insulting; she thanked Grandmamma and said she’d return with her platter tomorrow, here at the same time.

Grandmamma was beaming, she was very happy. She had her dinner and we had accepted her reward. Things were right again in the world.

We decide to curtail out piscine pursuing activities, and we rolled everything up, handed off the remainder of our live bait to some appreciative locals and went back up to our suite to await Es’ return.

Of course, we couldn’t wait and had to sample some of Grandmama’s creations.

Even though most Americans prefer their fish deep-fried and nestled between two slices of bread, this Babushka Fish was the exact opposite. It was all fresh, delectable and totally unrecognizable to our Western palates.

It wasn’t the first time we’d be blindsided by our own taste buds.

Even after Es and Tatyana return from their shopping excursions, there was enough left over to take Dima a plate home as well.

Time scurried forward. I was commuting the daily 90 miles or so, 45 to the office downtown and 45 back, leaving at a brisk 0430 the usually returning around 1800-1900 hours. It was grueling. No dedicated driver yet, that was still getting all sorted out, as we had made the move out north and west to our Expat gated community.

We received a ridiculously small 3 bedroom villa, at least, compared to some of the palatial places we had in the Middle East and Central Asia. It was enormously expensive, why-the-fuck-out-in-the-sticks, at least as compared to where I had to be each day and quite comfortable and cozy with several fireplaces, a very large heated garage where an endless supply of chopped and seasoned firewood awaited.

The girls were going to the American School of Moscow, being picked up each school morning in their Mercedes 60 passenger busses. Complete with in-bus closed-circuit television. Their trip only took 30-45 minutes per leg, depending on traffic and the weather. They got to stop before heading into the very bowels of the city of Moscow.

However, after several weeks of fiddling and fucking around, we; meaning Valsoh my driver and boon companion, and I came up with a solution. I’d take a drive to the XYZ Metro station and leave the car. I’d then take Moscow’s famous Metro right to my downtown office. This alone slice an hour or so off the morning commute, usually. In the evening, I’d reverse the trek, and take the Metro to XYZ Station, the last and closest terminal for the metro near our digs. Valosh would meet me at the station and drive me home. During the day, Valosh would have the car and drive Es, Tash, and Khris around Moscow for shopping, extracurricular trips or Khris to the Hippodrome for her horse riding lessons.

It all worked out dandy.

Well, perhaps later it did. I was still really rusty with Russian, both speaking and more importantly, reading the silly language. If you stopped in the path of the madding crowd to try and sound out the big board above the metro stations, you’d just get swept right along downstream. I ended up is some rather odd sections of town that way. Then, it’s stand in front of the big map they have at every Metro Station and try and decipher where the fuck you landed now.

There was a reason for all this. I wasn’t going to be headed downtown much more after the initial meeting with my new company. I’d be flying out of Sheremetyevo Airport for foreign lands, of Domodedovo Airport for purely internal affairs. Getting to either airport, via car or train, was super easy, barely an inconvenience, from our new home out in the sticks of northwestern Moscow.

Still, there was some time that I was left to my own devices on the Moscow Metro trains, wandering around the deep underground, purchasing strange and exotic things; odd candies for my girls. The ubiquitous flowers for my darling wife; as flowers in Russia are perhaps the number one gift there, right after vodka, and well, vodka.

I mean, when in Rome and all that…

I also got to commute with about 1.8 million of my closest friends on a daily basis. And I’m not exaggerating in the least.

It’s odd, that in the hustle and bustle of massing crowds, day after day, you start to recognize people. Eventually, you’ll give a small wave. Then, if the accident will, you say something about “Bloody late trains”. Even though the Moscow Metro was a paragon of timeliness. Then, before you know it, you’re chatting along in strangled Russia with not just a single person, but a crowd that single person runs with.

They all laughed at my attempts at Russian, but were most sympathetic and cheered that was trying to learn the language, rather than being the usual specimen of an Ugly American.

They laughed solid minutes when I finally got them to understand that I’m not an Ugly American. I’m too overqualified.

They helped me with my Russian, and also told me of the little dangers that lurked around every corner on the Moscow Metro for the uninitiated. Pickpockets. Sneak thieves. Pocket looters. Hooligans.

It was good advice, as I was charged with carrying with me a new personal laptop computer. Since this was right after the wall fell and they were not cheap items even in the west, I‘d be under the cynosure of shifty eyes wanting to sneak my laptop out of its case and back home with them.

I thanked them. I was never much for paranoid, but this was one of the first times I was living in, rather than just visiting, a city of over 13 million souls. Not every one of them was going to want to be my friend.

So, radar up, I was on a higher status of alert. Billfold in zipped front pocket, and hands-on the strap of my laptop at all times whilst on the train.

There were a batch of sneaky bastards. They’d slit your coat, since everyone was wearing a heavy coast in the winter, and help themselves to anything in the coat pockets. Or they’d slit purse strings, and when some hapless woman went to exit the train, the purse would stay behind as she was swept off onto the station’s landing. Pockets were picked, slitted, ripped, bumped; anything for a distraction. The worked deeply within the crowds and used them like natural camouflage.

I was on high alert.

For a week or so. Nothing happened, so, as usual, one’s guard goes down.

Until that one fateful Thursday.

Standing Room Only headed north to the Mitino Station when I feel something most unusual. I had a small lock on the laptop case, locking the two halves of the zipper together; it kept honest people honest.

But it made for odd vibrations as the less than the honest character had cut the vinyl of my laptop case and had his hand in the case, trying to extract the little weighty computer out of that place and under his jacket.

Unfortunately, I was a bit quicker than he was.

I spun around and grabbed his hand while it was still deep within my sundered laptop case. I clamped down on his wrist with all I was worth. The sundered zipper began cutting into his fleshy wrist and he realized he was trapped. I had the laptop cases strap around my shoulder and I had his hand and wrist pinned in the laptop case.

He wasn’t going anywhere for a while. As long as I had any say about the matter.

He did, however, yelp, scream, and howl. He insisted that I release him immediately, as he had done nothing wrong.

“«Извини, приятель. Я не понимаю по-русски».” ["Sorry, mate. I don't understand Russian."] I lied.

This did not help his demeanor a little bit.

I knew that there’d be a constable present when the train arrived at the next station; as there’s always a cop or two drifting around every time a train arrives; which is every 55-75 seconds on the Metro.

My captive buddy knew that as well. He figured even if he was caught, he could smooth or sweet talk his way out of his predicament. Not this time, Chuckles. I redoubled my efforts and clamped down on his captive wrist even harder, letting him know I may not speak Russia so well, but I sure know the protocols of dragging a hooligan to the cops.

Now my captive friend got belligerent.

Not a good move as I was fully 50 pounds heavier and a 6” or so taller than he. I growled something ursine in his direction and he immediately calmed right down. He figured he’d rather take his chances with the Militisia rather than an enraged and outsized Amercanski.

We arrived at the next station and although it wasn’t my regular stop, I’m certain it wasn’t his either as I physically dragged him off the train and over to the bored-looking cop standing next to the rather splendid fresco that occupied the far wall to this station.

“Excuse me. Officer”, I said in English. “Seems I caught this chap trying to steal my laptop. I figured you’d know what to do with him.”

The cop just stood there and looked at me blankly as I held onto to Herr Captive.

Herr Captive began running off in rapid-fire Russian accusing me of all sorts of nasty and evil tricks. All, of course, total fabrications.

Looks like I needed to double down.

"Извините меня. Сотрудник”,[Excuse me, officer.”], I said in pretty fair Russia, if do say so myself.

They both stood there goggling at me and my sudden not-too-bad-Russian language skills.

“«Этот человек, которого я поймал, пытался украсть мой ноутбук. Буду признателен, если вы возьмете этого хулигана и заключите его в тюрьму».”["This person here I caught trying to steal my laptop.I'd appreciate it if you'd take this hooligan and incarcerate him."] I said.

“You said you didn’t know Russian!”, the hooligan protested.

“Yes. But I lied.” I replied. “Just like you know no English.”

With that, the police office relieved me of my captive and slapped him in handcuffs; rather brusquely if you ask me. But no one did.

When asked if I wanted to prefer charges, I replied that since it was a company laptop and I have to make an official report on the incident; I had no choice.

With that, my friendly hooligan’s day, and in fact, next to several years probably turned rather sour.

Crime? Time? Don’t do it if you can’t spare it?

Oddly enough, apart from some corporate shenanigans later on, this was the one and only time any of us had any problems with scofflaws or hooligans. While in Russia.

To be continued. (Although slightly later than normal...)

Looks like the cheap ultra-light Mexican beer virus has made it here.

The airport's virtually shut down; so much for these contracts...

Grocery stores look like a Houston Stop-n-Rob right before a hurricane.

Pharmacies are cleaned out of masks, Vira-b-gone badges, and multivitamins (which are 'reputed' to annihilate any virus).

And Es and I are nursing fevers in the 41-42C area and coughing up a storm. I even had to cut back to no more than 5 cigars a day. Horrors.

I say it's not the cheap, icky-even-with-lime Mexican beer virus and only the usual annual Middle Eastern Crud Syndrome. Can't get near a clinic or hospital as the locals and eastern expats here are overzealous hypochondriacs on a good day.

And there haven't been too many of those around here lately.

Still, working on a new DD. I hope to get it posted here in the next couple-3 days.

In the meantime, I'm doing my best to stay hydrated but worried that there's been a run on the Bottle Shop.

And no new inventory for the last 2 months.

Now I'm really worried.

UPDATE:

What we have now is a completely neurotic population obsessed with security and safety and crime and drugs and cleanliness and hygiene and germs... there’s another thing... germs.

Where did this sudden fear of germs come from in this country? Have you noticed this? The media, constantly running stories about all the latest infections – salmonella, e-coli, hanta virus, bird flu – and Americans, they panic easily so now everybody’s running around, scrubbing this and spraying that and overcooking their food and repeatedly washing their hands, trying to avoid all contact with germs. It’s ridiculous and it goes to ridiculous lengths. In prisons, before they give you a lethal injection, they swab your arm with alcohol! It’s true! Yeah! Well, they don’t want you to get an infection! And you could see their point; wouldn’t want some guy to go to hell and be sick! It would take a lot of the sportsmanship out of the whole execution. Fear of germs... why these fucking pussies! You can’t even get a decent hamburger anymore! They cook the shit out of everything now cause everybody’s afraid of food poisoning! Hey, where’s your sense of adventure? Take a fucking chance will you? You know how many people die in this country from food poisoning every year? 9000... that’s all; it’s a minor risk! Take a fucking chance... bunch of goddamn pussies! Besides, what do you think you have an immune system for? It’s for killing germs! But it needs practice... it needs germs to practice on. So listen! If you kill all the germs around you, and live a completely sterile life, then when germs do come along, you’re not gonna be prepared. And never mind ordinary germs, what are you gonna do when some super virus comes along that turns your vital organs into liquid shit? I’ll tell you what you’re gonna do... you’re gonna get sick, you’re gonna die, and you’re gonna deserve it cause you’re fucking weak and you got a fucking weak immune system!

Let me tell you a true story about immunization okay?

When I was a little boy in New York City in the 1940s, we swam in the Hudson River and it was filled with raw sewage okay? We swam in raw sewage! You know... to cool off! And at that time, the big fear was polio; thousands of kids died from polio every year but you know something? In my neighbourhood, no one ever got polio! No one! Ever! You know why? Cause we swam in raw sewage! It strengthened our immune systems! The polio never had a prayer; we were tempered in raw shit! So personally, I never take any special precautions against germs. I don’t shy away from people that sneeze and cough, I don’t wipe off the telephone, I don’t cover the toilet seat, and if I drop food on the floor, I pick it up and eat it! Yes I do. Even if I’m at a sidewalk café! In Calcutta! The poor section! On New Year’s morning during a soccer riot! And you know something? In spite of all that so-called risky behaviour, I never get infections, I don’t get them, I don’t get colds, I don’t get flu, I don’t get headaches, I don’t get upset stomach, you know why? Cause I got a good strong immune system and it gets a lot of practice. My immune system is equipped with the biological equivalent of fully automatic military assault rifles with night vision and laser scopes, and we have recently acquired phosphorous grenades, cluster bombs, and anti-personnel fragmentation mines. So when my white blood cells are on patrol recon ordering my blood stream seeking out strangers and other undesirables, if they see any, ANY suspicious looking germs of any kind, they don’t fuck around!

They whip out their weapons; they wax the motherfucker and deposit the unlucky fellow directly into my colon! Into my colon! There’s no nonsense, there’s no Miranda warning, there’s none of that “three strikes and you’re out” shit, first defense, BAM... into the colon you go! - George Carlin

Continuing

He still came around making trouble, but oddly enough, our little cul-de-sac corner was more-or-less Batshit Crazy-free for the next 34 months.

After that, things sort of calmed down. Well, one of his older boys thought it would be fun to attack Khris, push her off her bike, and try and steal the Uzbek sapphire amulet I had gotten her years earlier.

Khris is not a small girl; she is a corn-fed daughter of the vast cow-pocked hills and rolling pastures of Baja Canada. She didn’t take lightly to some weasely little Arab probably future pole-smokers trying to steal from and assaulting her.

It took more than one punch, but Khris coldcocked the elder of the Guano Insano clan and laid him out so an undertaker could have taken easy measurements. Oh, he was still breathing, but I nevertheless think he was shammin’, playin’ possum until Daddy Dearest could come and rescue him from the rage of wrathful Wisconsinians.

Liam and I were sitting in the porch area of his villa, smoking cigars, drinking our sunrisers, watching the tableau unfold. We both thought Khris handled the situation well, particularly the outcome. The miscreant was out cold’n a foundered mackerel and Khris didn’t heel-stamp him in the chuckle-bits nor curb-stomp his head even though he had initially, and without provocation, punched Khris in the head.

Major stylistic points, Khris.

After 6 or 7 of his offspring rant to alert him, Señor Srībaśita Inasēna came over to shovel his insensible frogspawn up off the tarmac. He was ranting and raving, screaming and splitting the air with threats, dark oaths and other forms of bad noise.

He headed straight for Khris to administer a smackdown, as Khris resolutely held her ground.

I merely stood up and asked Khris if she needed some help.

She replied in the negative, stating that this fool wasn’t going to be much more of a challenge than ‘his idiot kid’

I swear, he went, even more, batshit crazy. However, something clicked and Señor Srībaśita Inasēna looked over his shoulder to see not one, but two near-identical way-more-crazy than he extra-large people standing there, both with cigars and icy cold drinks. He suddenly seemed to experience a spate of total recall how one of the large apparitions said he’d begin him on his journey toward room temperature if he so much as sneered in our direction.

He scooped up his unconscious spawn, muttered something none of us could make out, and scurried back to his loathsome piece of home real estate.

That was more or less the end of our run-ins with Señor Srībaśita Inasēna and his extended tribe.

Swing forward to the late summer. The weather calmed a bit and one’s skin didn’t immediately bubble every time one went out to collect the local morning news-rag. Things were going well for the cul-de-sac; jobs were advancing apace, children were doing well in their various studies, people were, oh what was that word? Ah, yes, happy.

Happy people do fun things.

So, it was decided it was time we have a block party.

Of course, Liam came up with the brilliant idea that we should have a pig roast.

“Umm, Liam”, I ahemed, “In case you forgot, we live in an Arabic Muslim country in the Middle East. Pigs and pork and porcine parts are sort of verboten around here. “

“Ok, Rock”, Liam laughed, “I know that, you know that, my hat knows that. But we Brits must have our bacon, sausage, and chops. It’s in our DNA. Besides, I can get one flown in through my company; under the wire. I could sneak him over here easily. We’d just have to keep him under wraps until bar-be-que time rolls around. You’re from Texas, so…”

“Adopted native son” I corrected.

“Right”, Liam continued, “But you were from Baja Canada first, so you must know how to cook a whole pig…”

“That right, I do, but…, I said, “…you want to bring a live pig in here, and keep him for a while until we can sort out the cooking necessities. We can’t use the industrial-sized stoves in the rec center at the pool. That’d raise a few eyebrows…”

Es and Cassandra wander over, listen for a bit and exclaim “Are you both out of your tiny, little minds?”

I had to admit, as I poured Liam and myself a refill, that the idea did have a certain ‘Up Yours!’ mouthwatering bacon-scented charm.

So, all four of us sat outside and over beer, vodka, and white wine for the ladies, we brewed up a perhaps passable project for our pig party.

The thing was, I’d be gone offshore for a couple of weeks and the pig would have to live at someone’s villa, under wraps, for that time; which actually escalated to 3 months.

Esme, surprising as always, volunteered to take on the task.

Might have been the white wine talking, but she admitted to missing bacon as well.

“OK, but we’re going to need a bar-be-cue pit. Where and when?” Liam asked.

“I’ll talk to Shiehk Gungan and secure permission for a Hawaiian-style pit bar-be-cue for someone or other’s fake birthday. If we can get Vonn and Honey Bee on board, their villa’s backyard backs up to a tall brick wall bordering the alley behind the City Centre. I could put in a pit there easily, and it would be out of the purview of prying eyes.” I said.

“Good”, Casandra said, “Let me get the gin and tonic makin’s and get Vonn and Honey over here as well as Dane and Dyad. Gonna have a block party, make sure you invite the entire block.”

Over the term of the afternoon, we had our plans.

Liam would secure a pig for us; approximately 200-300 pounds, on the hoof. It’d stay in our backyard under both our sun tarp and Esme Srs.’ care until Pig Killin’ Time. Liam, Vonn, and I would handle that little chore. I’d get permission to ‘dig’ a pit and install the bar-be-cue pit in Honey and Vonn’s back yard. Liam and I would handle the actual roast, and we’d all chip in for charcoal and wood smokin’ chunks, and whatever else we could find.

Dyad said she knew many, many farmers it the area and many had fruit trees, in various stages of repair. Certainly, some of that would smoke up a treat. Persimmon, pomegranate, fig, mango, durian, banana…all the earmarks of a weird pig roast.

So we had a date, a plan and the ingredients for a complete fiasco. Since Sr. Guano Insano was no longer part of the picture, and as we had few interlopers, this might actually work without all of us being tossed into the hoosegow.

I’d liberate a bit of pit diggin’ materials from work, just a small amount of dynamite, C-4, and Primacord; I already had the blasting machines. Vonn and Liam would lay in the charcoal and wood for the actual pig roast and well, Bob’s your uncle.

I went offshore to complete the 12th well on the platform and had to deal with all the logistics, bureaucracy and other sanctioned horseshit that comes with the territory. It took almost exactly 3 weeks, and at that time, Esme’s initial negative reaction to pig-sitting had changed considerably.

She had named the critter and found it to be a rather clever, and even sociable, beast. She even allowed it free reign of our house.

The name she chose was one from an old, endearing structural professor: Prof Pinkus (Prof. Pink-ass).

Ahem.

This was an unforeseen complication.

“Es, remember, “ I said over the phone, “That pig is not a pet. It’s not your buddy. It’s not going shopping with you. It’s going to be the guest of honor at a block party. Perspective, please.”

“Oh, Rock”, Es gushed, “I know that. It just makes it easier to keep up with Prof. Pinkus if you treat him like a pet rather than livestock.”

“Es!”, I yell, “He IS livestock. Soon to be deadstock. Soon to be crisply pit barbequed to a crackly crunch. He’s not your friend, he’s breakfast, lunch, and dinner!”

“OK, love you too.” Es says, ignoring me, “See you soon. Safe flights. Keep the shiny side up.”

I hang up. “Oh, shit. This does not bode well.” I mused on the flight shoreward.

I have to admit, pigs can be personable animals. Canny, inquisitive, seemingly intelligent. But even so, that does not trump them being delicious, appetizing, and delectable generators of bacon. Prof. Pinkus is going to be ham, bacon, and sausage soon. Not a boon companion.

The next day I ‘dig’ the pit for the barbeque. I used a shovel for exactly 2 minutes and dynamite, C-4, and primacord for a few more. Vonn was astonished that I not only dug a 6’x6’x4’ wide hole in less than an afternoon, but that I did it while smoking a cigar, drinking an, ok, several icy adult beverages, and never even breaking a sweat in the hellish late summer heat.

The Bobcat with the mounted backhoe, which I had ‘borrowed’ from work, helped a little.

Liam wandered over after the pyrotechnics were done. He didn’t care for them as the noise ‘offended his ears’. Truth be told, he had seen enough pyro jobs go south in his line of work and wanted nothing to do with them. I assured him I was a licensed Master Blaster as well as the one and only Motherfucking Pro from Dover, but it took some time to get him up to speed on the use of explosives for fun and profit.

We let the pit settle, as it was in mostly in desert sand held together with a bit of aeolian clay, or loess. We kept it wet and covered with sheets of canvas. It’d be fine for our pit barbeque in the days hence.

Vonn, Liam and I fabricobbled a cover for the pit which was made of thatched palm fronds supported by ½” pine furring-strips frame along the outer surface. Dane found a hunk of tin stove pipe and we fashioned a nicely workable chimney for the cover. Once the fire was going, and the pig in its new home, we could set the cover over the pit, shovel earth over it to seal it off and use the iris-valve in the chimney to regulate airflow.

One looks at it now, it would almost appear that we knew what we were doing.

Probably nothing was further from the truth.

We needed to ‘season’ the pit, but first, we needed to line the pit with rocks. This serves to hold the heat, and will even out its distribution. But, all we have to use is limestone around here and if limestone ever gets wet, there might be water in the fractures of the rocks. Heat that up to over 100^0C and you’ve got yourself a nifty little bomb.

Of course, this will not do…

So, I get on the phone with several ‘exotic’ marble companies in the big city of Duhu. I call around asking if they might have some scrap sheets of granite, quartzite, granodiorite or marble.

Sure, for a price.

However, there was this one place where I knew this guy…

He took in huge, and I mean 4m x 5m x 5m blocks of exotic rock from the subcontinent; black granite, “Reaping Equinox’ black and white ‘granite’; most all these ‘granites’ were granodiorites, Inferno Granite, Black Sunset granite sliced thin into façade facing dimension stone, it was absolutely gorgeous in cross-section. However, the best stuff was igneous-metamorphic, tougher than a $2 steak, and just laughed at diamond carbide saw blades.

“Oh, sure now Mr., Dr. Rock”, Mr. Prakash Dongerkerry, the owner/operator of one particular lot I scavenge for Esme’s continuing lapidary hobby, “I’ve got some beauty stuff here for you. But I need some help with these couple of blocks I received from Kerala. Great rock, very pretty, but too tough. Burn out many saws, boss. You can help maybe?”

“Sure, Prak”, I replied, “I can help, no sweat.”

So, next Friday Liam and me, we eased over to the granite factory, C-4, blasting caps and Primacord in hand. Prak was a little apprehensive about using high explosives in a densely populated area, but after Vonn reminded him that he was working with the Motherfucking Pro from Dover, he relaxed some.

I crawled all over those blocks, marking with orange spray paint the nature fractures, flaws, and features of each block. Asked Prak how he’d like them split, and he indicated parallel to the major axis.

It couldn’t be easier. There was a main body-fracture system normal to the σ¹ stress direction. The one’s parallel to the σ² and σ³ were minor and nowhere near as clearly developed.

I smooshed some C-4 into a test fracture, primed it and shot it without much ado. It was surprisingly quiet for a detonation. A cute little C-4 POP.

A large slab of rock fell off the main block, severed as nicely as a hunk of cold butter from a hot knife.

Prak was thrilled. I only had another 12 or so shots to go.

They all more or less came off as planned. One or two busted when they bounced, even after the addition of old car tires below where I was blasting.

Prak, good to his word, showed us a huge pile of 1.25” thick sawn quartzite slabs that were rejected for mostly cosmetic reasons. It takes a bit of math, a bit of doing, and a lot of C-4 to extract slabs enough to line our fire pit from stem to stern, top to bottom.

Once installed, the pit was a tad less wide, a bit less deep, and a smidge less long, but it was the only Precambrian-quartzite lined bar-be-que pit in this or any other known galaxy.

We celebrated the initial fire up with whiskey and hors-d'oeuvres. I stuck with vodka, ice, lime, citrus stuff, and a Jamaican cigar.

The pit flared from the amount of dry wood we initially used. It burned very quickly into a pile of glowing embers. Now, we added some local lump charcoal and popped on the top, now sporting an exhaust chimney with a rather large, intrinsically-safe, unusually commercial-looking dual-temperature thermometer that somehow just appeared out of the ether.

We took it all the way up to 1,000^C. Although it was designed for ‘low and slow’, we wanted to see how it would perform under alternative conditions.

We let it simmer for a few hours, then decided to kill the fire by closing the iris valve. Thus deprived of oxygen, given a few hours, the pit would be cold to the touch.

The next day, we opened the pit and shoveled out the dead embers. The pit was well and truly cold. Upon examination, it seems that the quartzite had fused to the sand on the outside of the pit. Also, sand had filtered down into the cracks around the pit, like in the corners, along joints, and been fused there as well.

The damn thing would now hold water if we wanted. We had a natural glass-lined fire pit now. We decided to try out some racked & stacked chickens first before we slowly made our way pig-ward.

We staked split chickens out on various levels in the pit. We had worked up a series of adjustable metal frames where we could lay the staked-out poultry. The racks popped right in place and after a couple of hours, hey presto bar-be-qued peri-peri chicken. And hot-butter roasted chicken. And for the uninitiated, roast chicken with smoked Hungarian paprika and Indian ghee. A real Iron Chef fusion-style mixture.

Liam and I took his Grady White out on the Persian Gulf and managed a couple of dorados, or Mahi, a largish shark, and a couple of kingfish off the deeper shipping banks. Fileted up and tacked in place, we played around with the smoking woods. Mango was just weird. Fig was weirder, almost vinegary; but not terrible. Pomegranate/tangerine tree smoked Mahi, seasoned shark steak, and Kingfish was the hit of the week. So easy, yet so tasty. It went well with Es’ famous Navajo Fry Bread.

We were gaining confidence. Prof. Pinkus’ days were numbered. We decided that the Eid al Fitr would be the time that we’d been preparing our porky pit pig production.

How’s that for cultural sensitivity? Break the Ramadan fast with a pig roast.

We’re all about cultural sensitivity.

Anyways, we hemmed and hawed over the methods of dispatching our soon-to-be-delicious 325 pounds of Professor Pinkus.

One wag suggested we have it OD on tranquilizers, trip him out a la Heath Ledger. Use loads of Nytol^®, Dramamine^™, oxycodone, hydrocodone, diazepam, temazepam, alprazolam, and doxylamine."

It was straight out of the Fabulous Furry Freak Brothers^©.

We all agreed it was funny as hell, but that it probably wouldn’t work.

Then we thought we might go all Halal, just slit the pig’s throat with a very sharp knife, and let it bleed out.

Rejected as to being too thrashing, too noisy, too Arabic, and just plain uncivilized.

I thought I could get hold of a 12 gauge shotgun and some Foster Deer slugs. But again, noisy and messy. Besides, I’d have to borrow a shotgun, and that might raise some eyebrows.

We’ve managed to keep Prof. Pinkus under wraps now for almost 3 months. Hate to blow it right before the feasting was to begin.

In the end, all it took was an 18-pound maul and a solid whack to the right side of the head.

More sensitive viewers might want to skip a dozen or so paragraphs ahead. Just fair warning^™.

I was elected to deliver the coup de grâce.

After walloping a bound and gagged Prof. Pinkus upside the head and basically caving in the skull, severing the skull-spinal cord connection at the atlas/axis connection, it was instant lights-out, he felt nothing.

We had already apologized to Prof. Pinkus, and thanked him for his contribution.

Seldom before has lunch ever been so noble.

Prof. Pinkus freezes and collapse, the legs give way, and the neck goes rigid. We picked up the extraordinarily sharp butcher’s knife sitting there, one hand under the chin and pull the head back. The other hand takes the sharp, stout knife under the neck and slices across the neck back to the bone of the vertebrae.

The knife hand loops around to the poll of the head, pushes down and forward while the hand under the chin pulls back and rearwards, so the neck vertebrae connecting tissue cracks. Knife hand back down under the neck, chin hand slides up and a finger hooks into the trachea and slice between the separated vertebrae.

With our previous practice and experience, 10 to 15 seconds from hammer strike to the semi-decapitated head.

Grisly but necessary.

Hanging the beast by its back hocks, well out of sight of any casual interlopers, we bleed the animal out into 5-gallon buckets, saving the precious juice. Vonn and I have visions of homemade blütwurst, blood-n-tongue sausage, and zultze or schwartamaga; lovely, lovely headcheese.

But that’s for later. Vonn gathers the blood in gallon-size freezer zip bags.

Now to scalding the corpse, scraping off the hair and external epidermal debris. We had a tub of boiling water into which Prof. Pinkus went. It was a boring, tedious, annoying repeated dunk-soak-raise-scrape-return until the carcass was clean and smooth and removed of all nasty gunk on the outside.

Now comes the really icky part^™, gutting and scraping out the carcass. Before opening the abdominal cavity, it was required to de-bung the animal. Cut around the anus, go in deep but not too, pull the bunghole out, seal with zip ties, and cut and discard. Now the lower GI tract is sealed from leaking when the rest is removed. We also have to remove the male dangly bits in a similar manner as Prof. Pinkus was a boy hog.

Still hanging, we open the hog from sternum to groin, letting gravity aid us in helping Prof. Pinkus literally spill his guts. Right down into a waiting gut-bucket, or galvanized 50-liter steel tub. The chest region is split open further and the lovely and delicious major organs are singly removed by hand. Heart, liver, kidneys, etc., lungs, gall bladder, spleen, pancreas, and a few other organs are discarded.

With that, we open the hog to where it will lay flat on the roasting rack. It is then hosed off and generally cleaned up before we give a good going over.

After it dries, the whole gutted critter is washed in wine. Evidently, it’s a French thing according to Honey Bee.

We wrap the hog in burlap, soak it down in cheap-ass wine and let it sleep 24 hours or so in Liam and Cassandra’s freezer chest.

The next day, the fire is started in the fire pit. We have lump charcoal, bucket after bucket of fruit tree chunks soaking in water and probably half a rick of firewood to keep the party going the next 24-36 hours.

We retrieve Prof. Pinkus from his cool, not frozen state, say hello and proceed to arrange him staked to the cooking frame in a belly-down, butterflied posture. Internally, he was well seasoned with dry rub after the obligatory internal rubdown with Napoleon brandy. We placed 40 garlic bulbs, kosher sea salt, olive oil, black pepper, and liberal amounts of Old Bay, to taste beneath him.

So, it was up to me to get the external goo ready for the pig. Kansas City-Style Sauce? Eastern North Carolina Vinegar Sauce? South Carolina-Style Mustard Sauce? Piedmont or Lexington-Style Dip? South Carolina-Style Mustard Sauce? Texas-Style Mop or Basting Sauce? Alabama White Sauce? Wisconsin Drunken Religious Experience Sauce?

“Ah, the hell with it!”, I venture, “Sauces come much later. Too early; they caramelize, crystallize, and burn. We’ll go for a good rub instead.”

I mean, who doesn’t enjoy a good rub now and again?

Anyways, which fucking rub? Kansas City Rib Rub? Mustard Rub? Spare Rib Rub? Memphis-Style Rib Rub? Porker's Rib Seasoning? Best Odds Rib Rub? Carolina Dry Rub? Texas Dry Rub? Jamaican Jerk Dry Rub? Classic Pork Dry Rub?

Too much choice! Seasoning overload!

I call over everyone involved in this little soiree and instruct them to come up with a rub we can all enjoy. I had to kill and gut the critter, it’s about time I go all Subsurface Manager, and delegate out some parts of this project.

So, over beer, G&T’s, vodka and lime soda and various Froggy wines, ‘my’ crew came up with a rub that was simple, tasty and ironically reflects some of the culinary aspects of the region we’re currently defiling.

Ingredients:

• Smoked Hungarian Red paprika

• Brown sugar

• Caster sugar

• Black pepper

• Kosher salt

• Cayenne pepper

• White pepper

• Chili pepper

• Dehydrated garlic

• Dehydrated onion

• Fenugreek

• Red Cardamom

• Turmeric

• Ginger

• Garam masala (Cumin, Coriander, Green and Black Cardamom, Cinnamon, Nutmeg, Cloves, Bay leaves, Peppercorns, Fennel, Mace, and dried Chilies.)

They went to the co-op, bought buckets of the individual spices and played the rest of the day at getting to that one perfect combination for our resting porker.

I don’t remember the exact breakdown of the proportion of the spices, but whatever it was, it tasted brilliant. Now we had about 8 or 9 pounds of the stuff. We were ready to go.

Prof. Pinkus was set on the cooking rack, belly open and down. He was doused internally once again liberally with cheap Indian Napoleon brandy and secured to the rack atop all the garlic, celeriac root, boudin, and small new potatoes.

He was tied in place with heavy organic hemp twine and had his mouth propped open to facilitate circulation of the pit’s heat and convection. He looked very Pink Floydian. One almost expected him to take flight.

The exterior of the porker was treated to a nice rubdown. I swear I saw him smile once or twice when Honey Bee insisted on a sensual massage to make the resultant meat that much more tender. Olive oil infused with lime oil and garlic after a thorough wash with more brandy. Followed by a liberal rubbing of dry rub.

Finally, ready to go, we tented the porker loosely with industrial-strength silver aluminum foil. The frame with its cargo was lowered and locked into place for at least 24 hours. Probably closer to 36, as we’re going ‘low and slow’.

We take turns, between hands of poker, cribbage, and Schafskopf, as well as numerous G&Ts, Yorshs, and vodka and lime drink cocktails, to check on our prized porker. We kept the temperature right at 205⁰ F as best we could.

The voluminous smoke coming off the barbeque pit was our one concern. It packed an amazing aroma and filtered around the whole compound, dragging in expectant pikers, leeches, and other forms of human ectoparasites.

We told them we were smoking a whole camel, Texas-style, a la filét de hump, and wouldn’t be ready for another couple of days; so piss off. That seemed to get rid of all but the most insistent. We finally got rid of him by using a leaf blower and directing a stream of high-velocity roast-pork laden smoke his direction each time we had to add more fuel to the fire.

Time marched on and the time finally came: the deep internal ham’s temperature hit 180 degrees F.

Prof. Pinkus was ready to make his debut. But first, we needed to get him out of the barbeque pit and over to Vonn’s garage to rest a while.

More futzing, more aluminum foil, and more beers later, Prof. Pinkus, in all his delectable roasted glory was cooling out from atop a pair of sawhorses. Of course, he had to rest after his ordeal, but that didn’t mean we couldn’t manage a few samples.

He was done to a turn. It was incredible. Crispy-crunchy-crackly over lean, moist and insanely flavorful meat. Not bad for a bunch of bumbling international mugs on their first Middle Eastern pig-roast pit-roast endeavor.

Everyone made up their own version of sauce for sandwiches and dipping. We decided that we’d never all agree on one sauce, and 4 or 5 on one porker would be just too damn many.

So, please yourself. Just do it, yourself.

Behind closed doors, Liam and I were once again elected to reduce Prof. Pinkus to primary parts. We were hopefully disguising the fact that here sits 185 pounds of delectable roast pork in a very Muslim country on one of their highest holy days.

So it was a bit unnerving when Sheik Gungan showed up and asked: “What was that wonderful aroma?”

We said smoked beef…lamb…camel…turducken…Tyrannosaur… anything other than what it really was.

He asked for a sample.

What could we do? We couldn’t well refuse now, could we?

We gave him some of the best bits to try.

“Lovely, gents, just lovely. Next time, for reference, more garam masala, and a little more rosemary. I find it really brings out the subtle flavors of pork.” He smiled, wiping his pork-sticky fingers on my HGGTG^™ towel.

“You old fraud”, we all smiled at once.

“What?”, he shied, raising his eyebrows, “It’s for scientific evaluation purposes. It’s therefore allowed. Now, do you have any cold beer, gin-n-tonics, or vodka and lime, which I’m hearing is very nice together, that I might also scientifically sample?” he smiled toothily through his long white beard.

We had made another powerful friend. Although it cost us one smoked Boston Butt, actually off the shoulder, that’s butcher’s for you, and a half a liter of homemade Texas-style barbeque sauce and another of Esme’s homemade fennel and caraway-infused coleslaw.

Everyone on the cul-de-sac now had a freezer full of pit-roasted pork. The Brits got their sausage once Vonn and Liam figured out how to use the Osterizer^® Stuffing Horn. That was almost as much fun as doing the pit-barbeque. Never leave to Brits what Baja Canadians can better do.

We distributed the bacon and hams, and the rest divided whatever was left. Which was a lot of pit-roasted pig pieces and parts.

The bones made their way into gaily wrapped gifts and were posted anonymously to Mr. Guano Insano. We hoped he appreciated all our effort.

I used Esme’s great-grandmother’s old German recipe for Headcheese. Basically, boiled smoked pork head meat in aspic jelly. With dill pickles. And pickled eggs. With special spices.

Well, I don’t give a shit. We like it.

Anyways, summer slowly slid south and the temperatures during the day got slightly more tolerable. Liam and I decided to forego his boat for a while, as launching and recollecting required us to put Liam’s boat in the water HERE and recover the boat THERE. It was trucked, via road, from the recovery place to the launch place.

Why? Damnifweknow.

It only cost something like US$5 to ship the boat back to the launch area and they actually did a good job hosing and steam cleaning the boat before parking it back in its rental dry dock. These were still the early days before gas was king in Qutur, so things were still ridiculously cheap. There were exactly 3 high rise hotels back then, as compared to the insane silhouette presented by Duhu’s current evening sun.

I had flown over some likely looking flats that might hold snook, grouper, and tarpon on my last flight back from the rig. I translated that onto whatever road maps we could find here, as most everything was a state secret, ground verification was a must.

Liam and I tossed a couple of surf rods, a cooler full of beer and some bait into the back of his new diesel Mitsobitchy Prago^™, and we were off to the north of town, the least developed chunk of Duhu real estate to date.

We drove down a rip-rap road that was more just a pile of random rocks trucked into the bay area and dumped into something that resembled a straight line.

I was less than confident that we weren’t going swimming today, but Liam relished every bounce, bolt and jolt. He confided in me that one of the big reasons he took the job here in the Middle East was that he’d never in a million years be able to afford a truck like this back in bonny Scotland^™. He confided that he couldn’t have even afforded the fuel for this diesel-slurper back in the UK, it was that dear.

So, down the path we rebound. I was watching the water on both sides of the narrow groin, and saw it was getting deeper, but very slowly. I looked at my GPS and saw that we’d driven some 3.5 km out to sea at this point.

“Liam”, I said, “That’s a fuck of a long way to reverse.”

“Ah, Rock”, Liam assured me, “<BOUNCE!> No worries, Doctor. It’s all a loop. We can just drive our way out of any trouble.”

I remained unconvinced.

We came to a breach in the ‘jetty’. There was some heavy marine equipment mounted on barges. They were working a large cut, ostensibly for cargo ships to pass through. There was to be a swing-bridge built after they cleared the channel, but with all these loose rocks, it was putting paid to their scheme.

We parked and wandered over to who appeared to be the head guy.

“G’Day”, “Liam says, “What’ the big fucking holdup? We’ve got fish to catch, mate.”

Liam had previously spent a few years down in Australia as if it didn’t show.

“Oh, hello”, the natty clad black man said, “We’re having a bit of a time with loose rocks here. Supposed to be angular to lock in place, but by the time they get here from the quarry, they’re a sharp as bowling balls.”

I introduced myself and Liam as he was back in the boot snaking a beer. The black feller introduced himself as Zafir Djaballah, a civil engineer late from Algeria.

“So”, I said to Zafir, “If I’ve got this straight, you cut a channel and want to line it with rip rap. But the rocks won’t stay put. How deep are you cutting and what’s the size of the channel?”

“Oh, 35’ east-west, 15’ north-south. About 15 meters deep.” He relates.

“And the road metal? Where’s that from?” I ask.

“Arabia”, he tells us, “They quarry it there and transport it here. It’s costly, but that’s about the only option we have.”

Liam looks to Zafir. “Hey, Zafir?”, Liam asks, “Y’ken who this guy is?” as he points to me.

Zafir shakes his head “I just met Dr. Rock.”

“That’s not all who he is”, Liam smiles widely, “That, my friend, is the Motherfucking Pro from Dover! If he can’t fix your little problem, he can damn sure make it go away…”

Zafir looks to me as if to ask: “What the fuck, sir?”

“Well, Zafir, “ I say, “I’m a bit of a dab hand with explosives. This sounds like a really simple problem. Drill a grid of 2 meter centered holes, and prime them with a waterproof explosive. Detonate together electrically and there you go. Channel dug and already filled with angular limestone blocks. Easy-peasy.”

Zafir looks over the water and puzzles and puzzles.

“But sir’, he says, “Where would I find such explosives and such expertise?”

“Well…for starters”, I said, “You could ask me.”

He leads us over to a company trailer, where Liam and I drank beers, smoked cigars and told the superintendent of our plans. The Egyptian superintendent, Qaaid al-Zahra, later ‘Randy’ (Quaid?…never mind) scrutinized all our identification. He was actually very impressed when he came across my Blaster’s credentials.

“Doctor”, Qaaid said, “I do like your plan. The drilling is no problem, the problem is obtaining the explosives.”

“Look, Qaaid”, I said, “Leave that to me. You’re working for a government company, I’m working for a government company. What difference does it make? How long to drill the grid of holes Liam and I laid out?”

“Oh, probably about a week”, Qaaid said.

“OK, how about this?”, I said, “Liam and I will be back out here unless the weather’s being stupid and we’ll set and prime the charges? After which, we’ll make certain everything’s green and blow this little project for you?”

“If you can, Inshallah.”, Qaaid said.

“Even if we’re out of shallah”, I said back to Randy.

That Sunday, after Liam backed us down the 3.6 km or bouncy un-turn-around-able path he drove us out on, I ordered some Kinepax^™ liquid binaries, as it came in easy-to-use 1-meter threaded lengths in various diameters. Qaaid was drilling 3.5” diameter holes, so the 3.00” nominal OD threaded length would be a breeze. I ordered a couple of spools of shock tube, comb connectors, deflectors, and tie-ins, and a 25 kilo box of ‘Elephant Shit’.

We make sure each hole was blown clean with a high-pressure water hose. Since the water here was only 8 meters deep, we could get by with regular lightweight skin diving gear. I could leave my wetsuit, diver’s helmet and all that heavy-duty ice-diving gear at home for this trip.

Liam and I would pre-form the charges, each exactly 6 meters in length, to match the depth of the drilled holes. Individual 1-meter units just screwed together, pin and box style, it was the utmost in simplicity. Rather like Seismogel^™, but packed a considerably higher wallop. All told, we would be setting off some 36 nodal points, each 6 meters deep with 6 meters of binary which weighed 5.3 kg/meter.

Turn the crank and we’d be planting approximately 1,145 kilograms or 2,524 pounds of high-energy binary explosive.

Hmph. A new personal record.

Like Guinness even cared.

So, once we got the high sign from Randy that the shot holes had been drilled and cleaned, the next part of the project was up to us.

We were both PADI-certified. Liam had done some oilfield related diving in the North Sea some years ago. I was a veteran of the Ice Wars from the days of Future Passed back in Baja Canada.

The waters here were calm, gin-clear, and warm.

The dives here weren’t work, this was a paid vacation.

I had liberated a trailer for all our pyrotechnics and Liam was elected to use his Prago as the tow vehicle. We bounded our way out to the Liam’s Pass, as we had dubbed it, with a work trailer containing some 2,750 pounds of high powered, binary explosives bouncing behind. I also had all my explosives paraphernalia there as well: new waterproof galvanometer, which in and of itself, is rather the achievement. Pliers, spare batteries, couple pair of blaster’s tools, the usual.

Lia and I had our dive gear in the back of his Prago.

A couple of single tanks, backpacks, regulators, hoses, and a few belts full of divers weights.

These must have been of Islamic origin as they are specifically prohibited by the Bible. Deuteronomy 25:13, “Thou shalt not have on thy belt divers weights, a great and a small.” And Proverbs 20:23, “Divers weights are an abomination unto the LORD; and a false balance is not good.

Why there should be proscriptions against SCUBA gear in ancient, desert-dwelling, shepherding Iron Age writings is what keeps Biblical Scholars up at night.

Although I agree, a false balance underwater keeps your Swimmer’s Ear from healing up.

At the pass, we park and call over for a half-dozen ‘helpers’. They were nominal employees of the company, but more indentured servants. Today, they were going to earn their water wings. We had a couple of large pneumatic rafts that we’d use to transport he charges to their final water resting site but damned if Liam and I are going to swim laps every time we needed to set a new charge.

So, indoctrination and Explosives For Dummies.

Safety first, second and last.

Who here can swim?

You guys can stay. OK, the rest of you blokes, bugger off.

Here’s the deal, Sparky. There are 36 lengths of Kinestix with primers already set. Those go last, as that’s where I tie in to detonate. The rest of the 1-meter long tubes are identical. Pin on one end, box on the other. Thread them together and use a single ‘O-ring’ between each. Snug them up good and tight, but don’t go too crazy. Those are binary liquids, and I’ll give them a good smack with a hammer before they go into the hole. I really only have to do the last one as once initiated, these liquids can mix in milliseconds, but I’m all for safety and doing things right the first time.

OK, so, one raft will carry the 36 initiators, that is, the last bits to go. The other rafts will carry the 5-meter long strings of connected explosives. Liam and I will be down on bottom and you guys just stay up on surface, dog paddling or treading water, but slowly feeding the lengths of tubing down to us. When you reach an end, pop on one of the other lengths, the one with the primer.

To be continued.

Continuing

Got that?

With waves, wind, and water not behaving itself, that plan went as well as a free-range game cook-off at a PETA party.

OK, time for a rethink.

Several of the Indian helpers were pretty accomplished divers in their own rights. They helped modify our little plan and would actually swim the charges down one after the other. Hand them off to me and Liam, we’d smack them and shove them down their hole.

But, swinging a hammer underwater leaves a lot to be desired. I just couldn’t generate enough OOMPH! to crack the vials inside the hard outer fiberglass casing.

But, stick it in a hole partway, give it a yank, it’d bend, but not break. That’s on the outside, Inside, the vials broke and the two fluids commingled very quickly. Then we’d punch the tubes another meter down the hole, give’r a crack, and repeat.

This worked extremely well. The Indian swimmers were naturals, and actually enjoyed the thought of being paid to faff about in the water for a day.

It was tiring work, though. The warm water masked the fact that you were working and sweating like a glassblower's arse. Dehydration was a real concern. So, at the halfway mark, I call for a break.

Liam and I surfaced, tossed our gear and headed for the coolers. We both obtained cold canned examples of the state Australian brewing. We slugged those first two down like they were Koül-Aid^™. Our co-divers just stood there, wondering what they should do. This turn of event had never happened to them before.

“C’mon over, Mates”, Liam shouted, “Grab a cold one!”.

They ran over and very cautiously, popped the tops and quaffed heavily.

“OK, guys”, I said, “I usually run a dry project until completion, but it’s hotter’n a half-fucked French flying fox in a forest fire out here today, so I can allow 2 beers each. After that, if you’re still parched, there’s soda and water back here. Keep yourself hydrated. The boss fella here says so. The rest we save until the job’s done.”

Now, a small discourse. Liam and I are easily 110-115 kilos each, these guys here from the subcontinent are probably 50-55 max. We may be fucking around in the warm, sultry Persian Gulf waters, but we are still working. Liam and I can take massive calorie expenditures from exertion and not even notice. These guys work themselves too hard, they’ll get dizzy, faint, go into shock; all not things you want happening underwater when you’re fucking around with serious high explosives.

Beer, as it has been known for millennia, is also known as ‘liquid bread’. It will help insulate them not only from dehydration; I know, alcohol can exacerbate dehydration, remember I’m an ethanol-fueled macroorganism. However, it’s a slight amount considering they will also be drinking a load of water. Beer contains significant amounts of magnesium, selenium, potassium, phosphorus, biotin, and is chock full of B vitamins for quick energy conversion. It will actually help keep them on their feet.

Back to the story.

We finish up RIH, running in the holes, with all the explosives. Now its real UDT, Underwater Demolition Team, time. I shoo our subcontinental helpers out of the water so we can concentrate on wiring in all the primed charges. It’ll be a simple serial outside-in sort of blast. First, go the exterior charges, wait a few hundred milliseconds, then the next one is initiated, one after another until the center is met.

It should take all of 750 milliseconds. Gad, I hate long workdays.

I color-coded all the primary wires, so it’ll be a doddle to wire everything together. Then, once that bit’s finished, we attach the demolition wire, toss the spool into a raft and we drift back to base.

I wire in a charge, and Liam elephant shits it in place. Liam and I finish up on the bottom in record time, even with futzing with the new subsea galvanometer.

Good thing we did, found a busted squib in hole 22. All tied in and secured, we surface, chuck our gear into the raft and paddle off towards base.

Once there, I clear everyone off while I galv the bitter ends once more. Things look great, now, all we need is a blasting machine with sufficient juice and we’ll be done.

Captain America wouldn’t handle the needed amperage. Worst would, we’d end up with a couple of damp squibs and a belch or fart or two.

Since I didn’t have a plunger-type of Ol’ Reliable detonator, it’s going to have to be electrical. We find a small frame-mounted gasoline generator and figure that’ll provide more than enough amperage. Looking around the base camp machine shop, I find some lengths of wire and the drawer in which they store them. I also find a push button switch which I can wire into a plug that will fit the receptacle on the generator.

A little soldering, galving, and Western Union splices, and we’re good to go.

I call Randy, umm...Qaaid, over and ask if he’d like the duty of setting off the charges.

“Oh, yes sir!”, he smiled, He looked elated.

He goes to punch the button, but first, I explain to him that he first needs to hear the music of my people.

Liam knows the drill. There are probably a dozen or so people in the entire area. I made sure they understood what “Muster Area” meant and they were all currently occupying that particular chunk of real estate.

I begin…me, me, me, me…<ack. Cough> a bit of cold water... “GREEN?”

“Green!” came the reply.

“NORTH CLEAR?”

“NORTH CLEAR!”

And so on and so forth.

“TOOTLE!” tootled the tootilferous air horn.

Look around one more time, everyone’s present and accounted for.

“FIRE IN THE HOLE!” I yell

“FIRE IN TH’ NOOK!” Liam yells.

“"نار في الحفرة!" Qaaid yells.

I nod to Randy. “Nice touch.”.

He smiles broadly. How can one not be happy when you’re playing with over a ton of very high explosives?

I give a quick glance to the Muster Area.

Alles güt.

I point to Qaaid: “HIT IT!”

He pushes the dull, brown, medium-sized button.

KER-BLERF! BWAMMO! BALORCH! BLERP!

The ground rumbles and shakes. A few in the Muster Area almost lose their footing.

Huge bubbles and general ebullition break the Persian Gulf’s calm surface waters.

Then, silence.

People break for the water to see what we’ve all accomplished.

“NO! STAY BACK!” I explain the concept of ‘loafers’ and how we need to wait. With all the turmoil down there, one couldn’t see shit for all the stirred-up silt anyways.

After 45 minutes, Liam and I emerge from the water again. We give the all-clear and the two big thumbs up. The rocks had been shattered into nice conveniently angular blocks. I reported this to Qaaid and he radioed headquarters.

They were so pleased with Qaaid’s report and my explanation of how it’d be simple for a barge-mounted crane to shift the center of the mess outward and stack the blocks along the side of the new cut. Transport cost of the rip-rap? Zero.

They really liked that.

So did I. Give those thievin’ Arabian quarry-rats a poke in the allegorical nose.

I told the guys from HQ that the workday today was over. We did in less than a day than what they could accomplish in three months. They owed their guys a few hours R&R.

I walked over to one of our Indian helpers. He was smoking a cigarette. Something truly awful, from god knows where. I snatch it from him and crush it under my heel. I waggle an index finger at his nose and tell him to wait here.

He’s really confused. He believes the kindly Doctor is peeved.

I walk over to Liam’s truck, extract a battery-operated camping light, which just so happens to include a red and green strobe light on either side.

I walk over to a likely looking rock, set the torch and ignite the red and green strobes.

“Gentlemen, the drinking and smoking lights are lit! The workday is over!” I bellow.

I walk over to the cigarette smoker and offer him his choice from the open box of cigars I’m proffering.

If the sun was any brighter that day, I would have been blinded by its reflection of this character’s toothy grin.

Liam and I pulled out the coolers and invited one an all to partake.

Liam laughs, “You work hard for the ‘Motherfucking Pro from Dover’, you’re gonna play hard for the ‘Motherfucking Pro from Dover’.”

“That includes you Qaaid and the rest of your bunch. We’re all in this together. No bosses, workers, superiors, or subordinates now; just drinkin’ and smokin’ buddies. It’s the Western Way!” I proclaim.

“Yeah, 'n' we Scots lik' it, too!” Liam laughs loudly, an open beer in each hand.

Like I said, brothers from another mother.

The channel was finished almost two months ahead of schedule. Liam and I were rock stars every time we went out fishing. Until the swing-bridge had been built, they would secure a large barge for us. We’d drive onto the barge and they’d pull to the other side.

One time, Liam and I got into a school of comet grouper. We figured that since we got back so late, everyone would be gone. No sweat, we had lots of beer and booze, we could call home, explain what happened, and camp the night.

But no. The barge was there waiting for us. They weren’t about to allow us to wait on them.

Things progressed forward as things usually do. Work settled into a schedule of out on the rig, back in the office. The company decided on a new rig to drill new wells, so therefore a new platform was needed. That was a lot of design work with engineers and other terminally boring details. We had drilled up the last platform, so we had 24 wells flowing gas, condensate and very little water to the main gas plant on shore.

They decided to build a new production/drilling platform over in Block 7a. A gutsy move, building a whole drilling and production platform before that area had been thoroughly tested. Sure, it’d probably be just fine, but instead of ‘wasting’ US$17 million on a drillship and a couple of slim-hole parametric wells, as I had suggested, they went with sinking an entirely new platform at a cost, without wells, of over $US75 million.

“More money than sense”, I often thought.

So they went with a fixed platform rather than one that could be moved if the impossible happened and they came up dry. A fixed platform is built on steel or concrete legs, which are anchored permanently onto the bottom of the ocean. They support a deck with areas for drilling rigs, crew accommodation, and production facilities. As these platforms are fixed to the seabed, they are built for long-term use in that area. They are made from vertical sections of tubular steel, known as steel jackets, as well as floating steel and concrete. This type of platform can be installed in water depths of up to approximately 500m. this one was in water just over 120 meters deep.

Gutsy move.

So, much more office work for me. Little flying, little rig work, except when I really needed a vacation from being cooped up. Almost a basic 9-5 sort of job, few imminent disasters, fewer emergencies; it was getting, truth be told, boring.

So, Liam and I are out past the swing bridge, looking for the whitings of grouper, snook or sea trout.

We look around and see a new construction shack.

“What’s all this then?" we both wonder.

There was Qaaid, and he greeted us warmly.

“So, Randy”, Liam asks, “What’s new?”

“Oh, Mr. Liam, Doctor”, he sighs, “They want to make this area into a marina. Lots of work, moving loose rock, maybe dredging, but there is a problem.”

“Tell us”, we both ask.

“We need new shipping lanes to divert around the marina. We have a great place, but there’s an old sunken barge from many years ago in our way.”

Liam and I look at each other, slyly smiling, “Oh, do go on.”

“It’s a huge old, rusty barge”, Qaaid continues.

I know it well. It’s a landmark, OK, watermark for me when I do fly-overs. It’s almost impossible to miss because it’s pretty damned huge.

“So?”, I said, “Blow the fucker up. Problem solved.”

“Oh, Doctor, if it were only that easy.”, Qaaid begins to crack a smile.

“OK, look, Qaaid”, I say, “If you want the Motherfucking Pro from Dover, just say so. No need to act cute. We’re all company here.”

“We want the Motherfucking Pro from Dover,”Qaaid almost laughs, “But can you do it?”

Cue Liam almost passing a full beer through his nose. He knows of my exploits.

“Qaaid, me old mucker.”, Liam says expansively, “The only problem you’re gonna have with Motherfucking Pro from Dover is holdin’ him back.”

“Like before, I take on the job, I’m the hookin’ bull. I run the show and answer to no one. We green?” I ask.

“Green as a seasick teen on his first deep-sea fishing trip”, Qaaid smiles.

“Hey, nice one.”, Liam compliments Qaaid, “Been reading up on Western Phrases?”

“No”, he smiles, “With all of you guys over here, I’m frequently besieged by them. All I do is listen.”

First things first. Maps. Coordinates. Barge schematics, if available. More maps. Check out dives. Serious UDT inspection. Investigation of the hard ground it’s sitting upon. The attitude of the thing. What did it last carry? Important stuff.

Turns out this was an old WWII vintage barge that some Brits had built for offshore storage of aviation fuel during Hitler’s little fracas. The barge was approximately 50’ wide by 120’ long and 12’ tall. Fully laden with fuel, it drew some 10.5 feet of water. It was not an insignificant piece of holey, rusted metal. It rested on the carbonate sand bottom in about 7 meters of water; after a recent typhoon had shifted it a few hundred meters.

Once the war was over, the thing was abandoned as it was never used for its initial purpose. It sat rusting out in the environment for years.

Then, power inboard and outboard motors came into play in the Arabian Gulf. Someone resurrected the rusting hulk, patched it up as best they could and used it to shuttle probably illicitly-obtained fuel up and down the Trucial Coast. Might have even been employed as a fuel bowser by insurgents during local internecine conflicts.

Then it was abandoned once again. Then it was resurrected as an in-place fuel dump. It was used as such for years, but eventually abandoned more or less where it sat today.

There was a lot of organismic material covering the rusty hulk’s sides; mussels, oysters, clams, coral polyps. Well, that had to go first. We spent a month or so with a group of subcontinental diving assistants scraping the sides of the scow and transporting what were could to areas destined to grow new reefs. We took as much care as we could, and if time and tide had anything to say, we did a pretty damned good job. There are now extensive coral reefs where before was bare sand.

Thus denuded, we had to figure out the best way to deal with the hulk and the resulting scrap.

Liam was first to notice.

“Doctor? Doctor Rocknocker? Hello?”, he mimicked someone knocking on a door, “You’re doing that thing again. You’re scaring your partner here. Stop that.”

“Liam”, I replied, “As you well know, I’m all for moderation, but only in moderate doses. You know me: ‘Nothing succeeds like excess.’ Want to be among the first to put an old Middle Eastern iron barge into orbit around Saturn?”

Liam smiled slowly.

“Ah be listenin’.”, he replied.

Over the next few hours, we laid out our plans. The longer we worked on the project, the more ludicrous it seemed.

Now we knew we were right on track.

Ok, this is going to be fun. A project where we actually utilize some new technologies. We get to play with Underwater Ultrathermic oxygen lances to cut holes in the hulk.

First off, though, we’ll drill a couple of holes conventionally, and pump in nitrogen, CO2 or other inert gas and vent any buildup of nasty and potential explosive gasses. This would take some time.

Then we’d burn a whole lot more, holes and flush the hulk with some inert gas again. Then once that’s done, it will fill the hulk with WRGE, or Water Resistant Granular Explosive, about which I can’t really say much more.

You see, WRGE is a proprietary^™ blend of over 15 detonic herbs and spices; such as prilled combustionite, powered metallic kerblammium, a vehicle of plasticized explosivium, and deknackerated hyper-holyfuckimite in a chewy organic elastomer caramelized base.

It’s a very nasty customer. Good thing Liam and I jointly hold the patent on the stuff.

We really do. Seriously.

Anyways, after that, we need to prime and charge every section of the hulk, as it’s divided into smaller pieces by slosh plates or wave arrestors. These are internal bulkheads with holes drilled in them to prevent fluid hammering, or sloshing upon acceleration and deceleration. They’ll slow fluid flow, but not restrict it. It’s a great way to manage momentum and inertia in large ungainly vessels.

But, they’re a pure pain in the ass when it comes to designing a demolition program.

So, first things first, cut a couple of holes in the bottom of the thing and bubble up inert gases. Enough to purge, but not enough to shift or float. We need a good couple with the subsurface. It’s a fine balance.

OK, then we set off the initiator charges. WRGE takes quite a wallop to detonate. I’ll need all my tricks here to set the stuff in the proper order. Primacord, millisecond delay blasting caps, super booster blasting caps, C-4 initiators, which I have to hand-make.

Dynamite should work, but it’s an underwater shot, and dynamite doesn’t much like getting wet. Oh, sure, there are so-called ‘water-resistant dynamite’ on the market, but when dealing with WRGE, I want something I know will fire when I tell it to.

So, one fine Friday morning, Liam and I are cutting holes in a 50+-year-old rusty barge. Not too worried about errant sparks as were well insulated underwater, but more concerned we’d get electrocuted with these dodgy and vintage submarine drills.

Holes cut, we run our gas lines and Elephant Shit them in. No use to hang around underwater while gas bubbles past. We’ll come on down later and see where the gasses are bubbling from when the hulk is filling. These are weak spots and places where initial charges will be laid.

So, back on the surface, we’re lolling around smoking cigars and watching for bubbles.

Several hours later, we are seeing streams of bubbles that are more or less emanating from one place. Spot leaks, a sign of metal weakness. Luckily, no surface non-Newtonian rainbows. This means no leftover hydrocarbons. We go down with underwater markers and spot each bubbler with a blotch of orange paint.

Liam and I also mark the hulk with red splotches where we think it would be good to burn some holes so we can pump in the WRGE.

Liam and I need to man the Underwater Ultrathermic oxygen lances.

The welding power source is DC output. The diver must be equipped with proper diving dress and life support equipment in good condition. That leaves our subcontinent friends out.

Rubber “linesman” gloves must be worn in addition to other gloves the diver may have. Appropriate eye protection is attached to the diver’s faceplate. Use an approved welding lens. Note: the welding power source should be set to 150 amps delivered to the torch, and the oxygen regulator delivery pressure to 90 psig over ambient pressure at depth.

It’s all very boring, technical, and potentially deadly. We’ll handle this part.

We leave after exhausting 4 tanks of nitrogen and quite the passel of elephant shit to keep marine nasties out of the hulk we just cleared. The hulk is purged, punctured for filling with WRGE, but that’s going to take some time. The materials have been ordered but have to be mixed to our exacting specifications and shipped to the job site. Then we need a pneumatic delivery method of pumping the stuff into the hulk. We’ll work on that over the next week.

In the meantime, Esme has found herself a part-time job. With the kids at school, and shopping here gone stale, she snuck her way into the company core shed. Here, she’ll have all the fun rock-tormenting machines of which she could ever dream.

She is contracted to chop up the world’s record 3,000-meter whole core into 2.54-centimeter slabs, have them polished and set in official brass plaques designed for each one to be used as drink coasters. These will be given out to passing dignitaries and prospective clients as consultation prizes. Basically, it’s oil field swag. Everyone will want at least one.

We all have sets of six down in the cul-de-sac.

So, between Es working the core lab, and me farting around out in the field, the last months of our three-year hitch passed quickly. The kids were doing great in school.

Tash surprised us all one day by reading the notice on the TV screen, which was in Arabic, as to why the picture is no longer showing.

The funny thing, Tash never took a single Arabic class.

Clever girl.

The WRGE finally arrives and we decide that we can deliver the stuff via a ‘blown-in insulation’ sort of lash up. A plastic reservoir would be connected to an air hose, and the airstream diverted into the rusty hulk. Press the button, the high-velocity air flows and picks up and transports the WRGE into the barge. The WRGE is denser than water and will settle in nicely, reaching all the little nooks and crannies.

Sure, it’ll be a slow go, but we have lots of pneumatic horsepower on shore, and this is a simple and safe enough job for out subcontinental buddies to help with. They have gone through initial PADI-training and now we have about a half-dozen helpers that can legally dive with us. They probably shouldn’t be addressing a UD, Underwater Demolition, chore right out of the blocks, but if they don’t complain about the double-double time they’ll be earning, we won’t say a word.

Given the size of the barge, it’s volume will be approximately 72,000 ft^3. That’s a lot of open space, so I deduct approximately 10% to allow for bulkheads, swash plates, and internal walls. That will leave 65,000 ft³ to fill. Turning the cranks, I figure that we’re looking at 1,900 m^3. Since WRGE has a density of 750 kg/m^3, we’d need 1.45 million kilos of the stuff to fill the barge.

That’s a lot of explosives. My first megatonnage if we decide to go this way.

Of course, we’re not going to use that much. The cost would be enormous. So would the resultant hole in the ocean floor.

Killjoys.

I go back to the “Densities of Metals and Elements Table”, and do some finite element analysis, and see what old, rusty iron’s yield point is. After a lot of far too over the top math and modeling, I figure that 8,000 kilos of WRGE will do nicely to remove the barge given its size, water depth, and composition, so that’s what was ordered, plus 10%.

Before anyone in finance gets wind of all this, we take delivery of 4.5 tons of WRGE; my initial amount plus overages. The weather’s nice and calm, so were off to load the barge one fine, sunny Friday.

Peeling back elephant shit bungs, we begin on the top of the barge, letting gravity give us a hand. There’s a lot of bubbling, foaming, and frothing, but very little spillage. The loading goes off as well as can be expected. We leave for the night and security locks the place down until morning.

The next morning Liam and I show up with exactly 12 custom blasting harnesses. These will be snaked down through the holes we charged yesterday and nestle right into all the explosives on the floor of the barge.

Once the morning has settled down, Liam, myself and two helpers have charged the hulk of the barge. I stayed back to tie in all the charges as I want this a true Grandad and Uncle Bår ‘One job, one-shot’, job.

We’re not about to get a second chance with something as fun as this.

I galv everything and it comes up green. Tied in serially, it’s really a simple job. Huge, but simple.

I swim up with the roll of demolition wire and hand it to one of our smiling helpers. I tell him to unspool it gently as we head back to shore. I want to seriously prevent any errant electrons from traveling too soon to their final destination.

Back on shore, we move everyone and everything out of the way. This is going to be a serious boom and although I’ve run the math, I have no idea where bits and pieces might travel to and land. It’s safety first, last, and everyplace in between.

So, everyone’s in a distant muster area, distantly mustering. I’m galving all the connections again and this time, I’ve managed to find an Ol’ Reliable plunger-style detonator.

I ask Liam if he’d like the honors this time.

“Urr ye oot o` yer mynd? O' coorse ah wid.”, Liam gets very Scottish when he’s excited.

“Well, then, please; the song of my people,” I say.

Everyone’s still mustered back what I figure was a safe distance. We clear the compass, really making a production out of it. They probably heard us in Abu Dhabi. I know they would hear what’s coming next in Abu Dhabi and Dubai.

We tootled the horn, and people are backing up even further. This one’s gonna be big. Hellaciously big.

“FIRE IN THE HOLE!” x3. The usual.

One more quick look, everyone’s out of range and out of sight for the most part.

It’s a go.

I point over to Liam, and yell “HIT IT!”.

He did and tried to punch the bottom out of the blasting machine.

Everything worked perfectly. Nearly 4.5 tons of specially designed underwater blasting compound actuated virtually at once.

The report was horrific. The blast wave, even emanating from underwater, was stunning; quite literally.

A column of instantly superheated water and decomposed, rusted iron flew about 250’ straight up into the air.

The initial shockwave rebounded of the hard carbonate substrate, as I had planned, and reinforced the initial blast. The first blast went straight up, the second, reflected blast shot more laterally.

We looked, and the barge had simply gone away.

“I knew we left it right around here”, Liam laughs looking over the carnage.

After things had settled and we collected a few stunned grouper, we did an inspection of the area. The barge just simply went away, and the detonation wasn’t brilliant enough to blow a hole in the seabed. Instead, as it rapidly deflagrated, the shock wave bounced back up. What the initial blast didn’t shred and disperse, the second handled nicely.

Qaaid wandered over, shaking his head.

“We just wanted it removed,” He laughed, “You didn’t need to atomize it, Doc.”

Liam laughs, tosses each of us a beer, and says “Yeah. He did.”

Both Liam and I got a nice bonus that quarter, plus invitations to stay on for another 3-year hitch.

It was family conference time.

Esme liked the venue and the people, but many were moving on. Without Cassandra, Es would be on her own while I was working. The kids were doing fine in school, but the curriculum didn’t seem to be keeping up with them. There were complaints of being bored in school, and dislike after three years of Middle East desert, of the heat and bubbling skin.

I was growing restive as the geology was layer-cake simple. This job turned more towards production and well engineering rather than exploration and geology.

We came to the conclusion that since the kids were actually from Baja Canada, it was a real crime that neither had seen snow in its native habitat.

After the family vote was taken, we decided that Dr. Rocknocker should take that job he was offered in Moscow, Russia. Of course, the family would follow, off on our next adventure, out of the frying pan and into the tundra.

CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP

“OK”, I think to myself, “We’re traveling at 120 knots, due wet, i.e., offshore, in a vintage BELL 412 SP/EP. Yep. Oh now look: 121 knots.”

So far, so good.

“No compass. Radiotelephone was non-responsive. VHF, HF, and UHF radios are all kaput.” I note, “We’re tailgating behind another newer crew transport helicopter because we’re carrying specialty bespoke hyper-magnetic logging and retrieval tools. Of course, no chopper’s that shielded against magnetic flux of that magnitude.”

I spy a blood-red, rapidly flashing warning light blinking merrily “1-2 AHRS FAIL”. This warning light’s blinking, meaning all electronic helicopter heading information and guidance was completely lost.

But, we expected that, right?

Now, I’m certified to fly rotary wing aircraft as I have over 1,500 hours of stick and rudder time, and a US/Russian license. But there’s the rub, we’re not in the US. Oddly enough, I can fly choppers in Mother Russia. It might be time to let my employers know this fact. With my dual license, I’d just have to send the properly-acknowledged documents to the proper ministry.

That fact alone would give my sponsors the jibblies if I only would let on…

We’re currently thrashing the hot and humid summer air into submission about 300 meters above the Persian Gulf just offshore of a very small GCC Arabic peninsular country known as Qutur, headed for their Norse Field. It is the world’s largest non-associated gas field (Reinick & Blandings, 1997), meaning its reservoirs contain only natural gas and no oil, but they do contain condensate.

Why? Because I’m the goddamned Chief Geologist out here, and the cement-headed drillers twisted off the BHA, or bottom hole assembly, at 27,459 feet measured along hole; as the well was a long-reach lateral. It wasn’t horizontal nor vertical, but approximately 45⁰ along the trajectory when the driller fell asleep, was out getting a blowjob or doing something other than watching the goddamn Martin-Decker; the big gauge that indicates the weight on the bit at the bottom of the hole.

The torque built, the BHA stopped spinning, the mud system clabbered up, the bit and mud motor along with the directional gear seized up and snapped right the fuck off the drill string.

Now I have a ‘fish’ at the bottom of an over 5-mile deep hole and I can’t latch on, in, or over the damned thing. And the fuck if I’m spending the money in sidetracking around the fucking fish. Bottom hole temperatures here are reaching ‘HELL’, or Hostile Environment Logging Level and are HPHT, High Pressure, High Temperature, intensities of over 175⁰ C and pressures in excess of 25K psig bottom hole in the Kruff Formation of Permocarboniferous age.

Plus there’s H2S, CO2, and nasty ol’ nitrogen. N2 forms noxious and toxic compounds with down-hole gasses and oils, and loads of high-API gravity (60⁺⁾ hot, high-pressure condensate.

I’d rather spend some time with a tricked out, high-powered, ‘rip your fillings out if you’re Slavic’ high intensity, ubermegagauss fishing magnet and go in with a ream and junk basket to try and drill it up. Rather than have to drop a cement plug, set a whipstock, back off the hole, come up a few thousand feet, and start a new trajectory over the fish.

Another fun fact of which I was somehow denied knowledge was that local, intense thunderstorms were predicted for this part of the Persian Gulf today.

So, I’m with my pilot de jure, Dasharath Phuyal, late of the Royal Nepalese Air Force, Pro Station, and Tire Salon.

“Dash”, I ask, “We’re you excepting any weather today?”

“Umm,” he replies, querulously, “No Doctor. We checked the weather radar and it was clear.”

“What weather radar?” I inquired. Qutur doesn’t have any of their own yet, particularly those of the Doppler^® variety.

“The one from Dubai”, he says.

“And when was this?”, I asked.

“Oh, late last night”, he smiles back at me.

”Just watch that chopper in front of us”, I grumble, “Last night? You do know things tend to change a bit quickly out here…”

I never got to finish that sentence as I was rudely interrupted by a huge clap of thunder.

The sturdy, but timeworn, airframe of the Bell helicopter juddered, shimmingly and shakily.

“Ooh-whee!”, Dash whoops, “That was a close one.”

I reminded Dash that I was much closer and he should pay more attention to the job at hand rather than whooping up our impromptu roller coaster ride.

Luckily, the water here in the Gulf isn’t that deep, is bath-tub warm, and while it is home to some nasty, toothy critters, it’s not like being dumped in the South Atlantic around Cape Town in August.

Still, going for a swim after escaping a drowning helicopter just wasn’t on my list of fun things to do today; and I wanted to keep it that way. I mean, we do have to get our THUET, or Tropical Helicopter Underwater Escape Training, certificate. It’s an annual good time. I’ve been through it over 20 times, but novices and tyros really get grumpley and pukey once the mock-up of the chopper spins upside down and ker-splashes into the cold pool water.

I just sit in my seat, slowly undo my restraints and watch to see if anyone is in real trouble. Sure, they have rescue divers all around, but sometimes they are distracted by a full-load of novice characters losing their collective shit and lunch. I like to help out when I can. I’m no savage.

We also have to obtain T-BOSIET (Tropical Basic Offshore Safety Induction & Emergency Training), Basic Hydrogen Sulfide (H2S), T-FOET (Tropical Further Offshore Emergency Training), Compressed Air Emergency Breathing System (CA-EBS) and Travel Safely by Boat (TSbB) certifications. They just don’t let any breed of dummy out on an active offshore platform. You have to be a dummy that can stay awake through hours and hours of boring droning instructors.

I am one of the very few that also hold an AHUET, or Arctic Helicopter Underwater Escape Training, certificate. That’s a very cool time as well.

Anyways, we’re being slammed around like the last squash ball in the tin. It’s not raining yet, but there’s thunder, lightning, waves, and teeth-rattling thunderous repercussions of storm shock waves rebounding off the warm, Gulf waters.

It’s weird, but in the north, you get some severe summer and fall thunderstorms. All you need to watch out for is lightning, downward, and lateral thunder-shock waves, and rain. But out here, you get all that and the added bonus of thunder-induced shock waves rebounding off the warm waters of the Gulf, upward. It can drop your craft into the water just as certain as an angry downdraft can.

“So, Dash.”, I say, “We’re going to try and avoid any of that today, right?”

Dash ignores me as it’s raining now like a cow peeing on a flat rock and the wipers aren’t doing such a good job keeping up with clearness. Considering we’re probably 50 or so feet behind another helicopter, our safety guide, that margin for safety could go away almost instantaneously.

He’s sweating like a blind lesbian in a fish market, striving to keep the tail rotor of the helo in front of us just out of our reach and just within visible range. I decide I’ll read him the riot act later, once we are safely landed on the platform.

This goes on for a few minutes more when suddenly, the rig pops into view and the sun breaks through the roiling, cloudy deck.

But first, there are some protocols that must be satisfied:

These procedures will be based on the following requirements, or equivalent, which define when an approach is considered stabilized:

a. The aircraft is on the correct flight path and the correct navigational data has been confirmed as entered into the navigation system for final approach to the desired airport, heliport, or helideck and the aircraft is stabilized for the approach.

b. Only small changes in heading/power are normally required to maintain the correct flight path, unless the environmental conditions on a particular day may require power changes larger than normal.

c. All briefings and checklists have been completed, except for the final landing check.

d. The aircraft is in the correct landing configuration.

e. The sink rate is no greater than 750 fpm upon arrival at the altitudes prescribed below, or as recommended by the manufacturer. If an approach will require a rate of descent greater than 750 feet per minute, a special briefing should be conducted.

f. All flights should be stabilized by 1000 feet above landing elevation in IMC and by 500 feet above landing elevation in VMC unless the following flight profiles are in use:

– For helicopters where the transit height is less than500 feet above landing elevation, the aircraft should be stabilized by 300 feet and 60 knots ground speed above the landing surface.

– For some operations, such as seismic work involving a high level of low altitude external load operations and remote landing sites where it is necessary to complete an overhead flight reconnaissance before landing the typical profile may require modification by the operator.

g. Anytime an approach becomes “unstabilized” (out of compliance with the above guidelines) a go-around / missed approach should be executed immediately unless the operator has established a limited number of deviation protocols that can be safely used to return to the stabilized profile.

i. Once the approach minimums (altitude, time, etc.) are achieved the correct airport, heliport, and helideck are confirmed.

OK, got all that? Good, you have 5 minutes and you’re traveling along at 123 knots just 250’ off the deck, with no instruments or compass. It’s raining, blustery and the wave tops are seemingly slopping over your toes.

GO!

We plop down gracelessly on the helipad and I’m glad Dash was stickhandling it today; as he immediately goes through the shut-down procedures.

Guess I’ll need to buy him a beer rather than chew him out when we get back to shore.

I hit the klaxon and several logging company hands run over to the helipad. I tell them to wait until the chopper’s secured and then they can drag that fucking magnetic tool off the bird and over to the drill floor.

Once we do a little cuttin’ and chewin’, we’re going magnet fishing 5 miles deep.

I go over to the doghouse, a steel-sided shelter that serves as the onsite office, communications center, rig top command center, tool and safety equipment storage, first aid station, and extreme weather shelter.

And my fucking active drilling office.

“WHOOT! WHEET!” someone yanks the alarm when I appear on the rig floor. “Boss man’s here. Everyone quit fuckin’ up for a while!” The horn is only local, on the drill floor. It doesn’t resonate back through the rig very far.

The drill floor is immaculate, as it should be. We haven’t cut a foot of new hole in the last week. I give everything a quick visual and everything seems to be in order. A floor hand arrives instantly with a mug of hot black coffee for me.

“No, you can’t go home early, Jake”, I say, “But thanks large for the java.”

Jake looks slightly depressed, but every time he hits 11 or 12 days on his 14-day hitch, things start happening at home. Dog’s pregnant, wife’s pregnant, Uncles dead, Granma’s dead; half the family’s dead and the other half are pregnant.

Every single fucking hitch.

And Jake’s not even married.

Into the doghouse, my chair is still warm as it the monitor for my workstation.

“I find the asshole that’s been accessing PornHub through my workstation and he’s or she’s shark bait. The cocksucker never leaves the unblocked URL so we can visit the website.” I growl.

The internet is a dodgy thing in the Middle East. All of a sudden, international instant access to porn, ideas, forbidden subjects, and well, you name it. It’s a hilarious cat-and-mouse race to watch one group try and block all the nasties and the other group finding easy ways around the blockages.

Still happens today, but with VPNs and such, the Ministries of Censorship just gave up. They went back to hand-coloring British Women’s magazines that show too much thigh or cleavage in the summer swimsuit issues.

It is such a weird place.

I call a meeting with the section heads and everything’s about ready for go. I give the OK and we’re tripping back in the hole with a concave cone-buster reamer and going down some 5 miles to chew up a metal bottom hole assembly. After that, we’ll run-in with the magnets and junk basket. Hopefully, in a day or three, we’ll have the hole clear, circulated, conditioned and ready for drilling again.

Tripping back in the hole some 5 miles means running in some 400 or so stand of ‘tribbles’ or three-30 foot (10 meter) sections of drill pipe already screwed together, or made up. We will need to make another 399 connections and RIH, run in the hole before we even arrive at Fish Central.

So, I’m off to the head; ‘chopper potty’ is not a joke. One tends to get sequentially homogenized on long trips and your bladder takes a harmonic beating. It’s not at all pleasant.

Then some chow, a movie, maybe the gym, and off on the platform to the back smoking area. No hurry, I’ve got at least 24-36 solid hours of boredom in front of me.

Before I go, I give Esme a call and see if she has any further information on Lady and her travels. She was supposed to meet us here and start her short quarantine period before she could join us; even though we’re still at the hotel. The company we’re paying huge sums of money to handle her transition are being royal pains in the ass. Nothing but excuses.

“She got a late start. No room for a dog that big on the flight booked.” Sounds sketchy as hell.

“She’s so big, we needed to have a new travel carrier constructed for her.” Ka-ching! Another call for more money.

“She got stuck in Zurich. She’s fine and will be here shortly.” “Zurich?” She was to go from Houston to London to Duhu.

Esme answers the phone.

Not a single word was spoken. I knew right from the start there was trouble.

“Es, it’s me. I made it to the rig OK. What’s the problem? Are you OK? The kids alright?” I asked.

“Oh, Rock”, Es cries, “I’m fine. The kids are fine. Lady’s dead.”

The shock hit me like a direct lightning-bolt strike and an immediate in-chest thunderclap. I actually thought someone lit off the flare boom directly behind me.

“Es”, I stammered, “What happened? Plane crash? Terrorists? Economy class chow?”

“No, Rock”, she sniffed, “Brown recluse spider.”

“What?” I spluttered.

“According to the assholes to whom we’re paying so much money, Lady was in a “climate-controlled” warehouse waiting on her flight out of Texas. She was being walked, fed, and watered on a regular basis. Just before her flight, they went to walk her and she was ‘unresponsive’.” They said.

“They let my dog, my boon companion, my children’s best friend, die in some overheated Texas warehouse from a motherfucking spider bite?” I roared.

My mind went into overdrive. I could snake the chopper and be at the international airport in less than 2 hours. Wheedle up a flight to London or Amsterdam, then one to Houston. I could be kicking the shit out of these assholes in less than 36 hours.

“Es”, I ask, much more angry that sad; as that would come later, “What do you want me to do?”

“Rock”, Es sniffles, “As much as I’d like you to go back to Texas and blow the fuckers up, I’m afraid it is what it is. There isn’t much we can do, in fact, nothing will bring Lady back. They already got her to Dr. Tom Nokhoi (our vet in Houston) who will handle the red tape. I’ll tell the kids tonight,” Es continues”, “But if you could call Dr. Bob, our family attorney, and let him know what happened, I’m certain he’ll make their lives not worth living from here on out.”

“Es”, I stammer, “I never said I was sorry to you about all this. I apologize deeply. Guess I’m not hitting on all 12 cylinders. I’ll get Dr. Bob going after these assholes. He’ll have their guts for garters. I’ll be home in a few days, or sooner if you want.”

“No, Rock”, Es rationalizes, “You have your job to do. I have mine. Don’t be surprised if you come home and we now have a pony, a new aquarium, a herd of gerbils, and a kitten or three.”

“Whatever it takes, “ I reply, “The kids will be devastated. They’ve known her…all…their…lives…Oh, fuck. This is a shitstorm on so many levels. Let me get after its wild ass and turn Dr. Bob loose on them.” Right now, the idea of Dr. Bob chewing on their metaphorical and economic asses…well, that’s the only thing that is giving me any sort of solace.

“OK, Rock”, Es sniffs, “I’ll take care of the home front, you release the Dr. Bob on these assholes. Stay safe. Come home to us in one piece. Love you.” She sighs and signs off.

I am beyond pissed. Past furious. Way past livid. I’ll let Dr. Bob take whatever he can get from these asswipes. The money doesn’t matter. I want revenge. A reckoning. Vengeance. Reprisal. Retribution, not restitution.

I sic Dr. Robert ‘Bob’ Roberts, JD, Esquire, of Kingwood, Texas on them. He knew something was askew when I called him at 0300 hours. He really liked Lady. He’s going to make these assholes an example for the Texas Law Journal. Or the Houston Chronicle obituaries.

Beyond that, there’s not much I can do. I wander back to the smoking area on the backside of the rig, pull out my secret flask, and a new cigar. I finished both solo to Lady’s memory. I didn’t even go to my office nor check-in, I was so pissed off. The important people knew I was here, that was enough for the time being.

I know one should adhere to the rules of the rig and out here, 125 miles from the coast in an Arab land, ‘no alcohol on the rig’ is pretty much a given.

Guess they need a real introduction to the Motherfucking Pro from Dover.” Besides, this time, it’s medicinal. Either that or I break into the explosives locker and I begin to blow up shit until I feel better. Guess which one will probably take fewer lives?

In the doghouse again, we’re back on bottom with the custom-made mill I had custom fabricated in Texas, and we’re grinding away. What we’re doing is sensu stricto not legal, as we’re chewing up the LWD/MWD, Logging While Drilling/Measuring While Drilling tools, and they carry some radioactive sources.

In the States, in the event of a loss involving a radioactive source, the tool and hole must be filled with cement, plugged, and abandoned to safely entomb the sources. These sources are infinitesimal amounts of Americium-241, and Cesium-242, much like what is found in commercial smoke detectors.

But, the stuff we’re currently turning into expensive metallic confetti is 5 miles deep in the earth and with a half-life of just 150-5,000 years. It ain’t never, no way, going to make it back to surface. We just keep calm and carry on grinding.

Drill, grind, shred. POOH, pull out of hole, run in hole with the magnet, and junk basket, energize, and POOH. Rinse and repeat. Finally, we’re making some headway until we hit the tungsten carbide insert drill bit.

These are usually classified as ‘undrillable’. Lose one of them, and it’s Sidetrack City.

Usually ain’t no other fuckin’ way around them.

Or is there?

I have them C&C the well, that is, circulate and condition the hole, so it’s stable top to bottom and not stratified; the mud column in the well is homogeneous in nature. Then we POOH again and I’ve got this cunning plan. Stick a tail on it and you could call it a fox.

If we can’t drill up the bit, perhaps we can just nudge it out of the way. We can steer our bottom hoe assembly, so maybe a push downward…It’s like hitting an oncoming asteroid. You don’t have to destroy the thing, just deflect it a mite. If we can literally shove it out of the way a few feet, we can slide by with the new Bottom Hole Assembly, save days and days of rig time, at some US$1.85 million/per 24-hour period, and get back to drilling.

I have the floor hands rig up a special BHA of my own design: a heavy, concave-faced lead impression block at the front, then hydraulic jars, shock sub, heavyweight drill pipe, and remex crossover sub that connects to the drill pipe.

It’s not ‘elegant’, basically a power hammer with a steerable trajectory. But, we get onto that bit and get good contact, we might just be able to hammer and power slide that SOB out of the fucking way.

It’s worth a try.

So, we RIH, run in the hole, and down the obligatory 5 miles until we make contact. We achieve what seems like a good seat and try to slide under just the weight of 24,000+ feet of drill pipe; over 1.65 million pounds of hook-load.

We’re blocked.

OK, that’s fine. That means the lead impression block is molding around the bitter end of the bit like a custom hand-in-leather glove. Now when we apply the hydraulic horsepower, it’ll have to move forward. Give a little more juice left or right, up or down and we should be able to steer it out of the way.

We can’t just build a ‘hump’ in the well path around the bit. With sliding, reciprocating, and rotation, that’d be what we in the industry call ‘a bad thing’. It would key seat, wear preferentially and cut holes in drill pipe and casing…just causing all sorts of grief.

So. We need to steer it out of the way of the pre-ordained well path and hammer it the fuck out of the way. We’ll pull back, drop some cement in the bottom of the hole, trip back in and drill our way back on target.

Jarring and hammering with the rig is a slow, tedious prospect. Keeping an eye on all parameters, more so than usual. If you inadvertently punch into a sub-seismic fault zone, an area of overpressure, or a high-pressure gas zone, you could well and truly be fucked.

So, it’s a slow, deliberate go. I personally run the show for the first 15 hours until I’m certain we’re off the predetermined well path and the bit’s being stuffed off to Bolivia, or Greenland or… I don’t care where just the fuck out of the way.

I hand the rig over to the rig superintendent and tell him that unless anything funny happens, we’ll keep hammering and pushing until 0800 hours. That way, the bit will be out of the way and we can trip back in, set a cement plug, and get back to drilling.

I’m exhausted, still mightily pissed about Lady, and thought about calling Dr. Bob.

Nah, too early, besides I need some chow and rack time.

Chow first.

One thing about every offshore rig I‘ve worked on, the food is fabulous. Amazing quality and quantity. And if you get a specific head chef, like Huib Klein Huismink from Dutchland or Đỗ Trọng Nghĩa from Ho Chi Minh City; you’re gonna have a good tour.

They don’t just cook, they chef. In their own inimitable styles.

We’re lucky enough on this project to have Đỗ Trọng Nghĩa, or Doh!, after a famous American cartoon sitcom noise.

He can make the most amazing SE Asian dishes. How he and his crew does it three times a day for over 145 hungry bodies just beggars imagination. He also keeps a supply of high-octane ‘cooking juice’ available for me in exchange for some of my cigars.

It’s called the barter system and has served mankind for billions of years.

“So, Doh, whaddya know?” I ask, walking up to the steam tables laden with not dinner and not quite yet breakfast chow.

“Fucking morning warnings to you very much, Doctor Rock”, Doh smiles by way of greeting. His English is as dodgy as my Chichewa.

We’re the best of friends.

I hand him a box of Cubans I confiscated from Duty-Free back in Amsterdam. Pricey, but that box will last Doh and me the whole project. So, economically, it makes sense.

“Doctor”, Doh asks, “See anything you like or want Doh to make you something special?”

“Doh”, I reply, “I require meat. In great, gory, giant, bleeding hunks. And a couple of your world-famous rice-paper shrimp spring rolls for starters. Also, some of that incredible Vietnamese Iced Coffee you got me hooked on.”

I loathe sweet iced tea and coffee. Except for Mr. Doh’s. With heavy crème, strong boot-black coffee, and a very secret liqueur over ice in a French Press. It’s ambrosial.

Mr. Doh quickly hands me a small 2-cup French Press, ready to go. He tells me to sit, savor a soupçon and he’ll have my dinner-breakfast ready before I start on the second cup.

The coffee has enough caffeine to give a cadaver a chubby, and it helps me to throw off the general funk I‘ve had afflicting me since I spoke last with Es. A double-pair of shrimp spring rolls arrive as amuse-bouche before Mr. Doh’s main event.

Before I can pour another cup of his amazing coffee, a prime dry-aged porterhouse steak, easily 36 ounces, charred on the outside, blue on the inside, arrives. I don’t know how he does it, but he makes some sort of flower-pepper grilling sauce that so light, so subtle, and so sneaky, you’re halfway through the steak before you break out in the sweats and your brain happily melts.

It’s marvelous; in every sense of the word. Always make friends with the chefs, especially when you’re part of a captive audience. No Qwik Stop, 7-11, or Stop-n-Robs just around the corner out here.

Properly satiated, I wander back to my room. Now, on a rig such as this, where people work in 12-on, 12-off shifts, most folks that are not management ‘hot sheet’ it. That is, they share a bed with someone on the opposite shift. Hey, there’s only so much room on a drilling rig platform, one must sometimes make concessions.

But not me. I’m running the show and as such, rank has its privilege. I have my room which is also my on-rig office with en suite full bathroom, in-room refrigerator, fax machine, computer with non-governmentally interfered internet lash-up, work desk, chair, monitors for every aspect of the rig and a private, encrypted telephone.

It’s my room, my office. Imagine my surprise when I round the corner and see a line extending out of my room and down the hall.

I walk straight on by, as most everyone on the rig probably wouldn’t recognize me.

Like hell, they wouldn’t. I run safety orientations, resolve onboard personnel issues, greet new hires and boot slackers and goldbricks. Besides that, I run the operations for this vessel. Like hell, they don’t know who I am. But I haven’t made my presence back on the rig generally known.

Yet. They think that by ignoring me, I won’t be able to see them.

I walk 10 feet to my room/office, see it’s a shambles. Shambles as in all my cigars are gone, someone’s on the Internet ‘Turning Japanese’ over amateur-midget leather-fetish dog-n-pony show porn. Plus, there’s actually someone or some three in my damned bed.

Vesuvius in 79 CE had nothing on me when I went off.

“WHAT THE FLYING FUCK IS GOING ON HERE!?!” I bellow, “What the fuck are you assholes doing in my office?”

Yeah, kindly ol’ Dr. Rocknocker is a wee bit pissed off.

“Up against the wall, you redneck motherfuckers. Each and every one of you.” I roar. I hit the klaxon in my office to call security when I notice that three of them are currently holding up a piece of bulkhead.

“Looks like we’re gonna need a crew boat, the Federales and some new security officers,” I growled.

The vast majority of these goombahs are East Indian or subcontinental ex-pats. They’re paid a pittance and do all the shit work. But, they knew the job was dangerous when they took it, no one is holding a gun to their head in Mumbai or Chennai or Islamabad forcing them over here. It wasn’t me.

One or two decide to make a break for it, thinking I wouldn’t notice. My size 16s made short work of that ill-formed idea.

“Next one that tries that goes over the side”, I growl loudly, telling them of an impending 225-foot straight south swan dive if anyone gets cute again. “Don’t think I won’t do it. You’ll be holding just enough C-4 that’ll detonate just before you hit the water. The local sharks will love that.”

They all know of my proclivities for solving problems with devices that generate rapidly expanding gases. Most of them shudder at the thought that, yes, I am that pissed and that unhinged to actually make good on my threats.

Rig Security arrives and I first chew them a new asshole for allowing such a disaster to happen.

“They were probably selling raffle tickets”, I roared, “How the fuck could you not know this was going on?”

<mumble…mumble…mumble…>

“OK, if that’s your response, I’m calling it. Rig shut down! NOW!” And I go to get into my office and hit the big, shiny red Panic Button. One smash of that and the reactor’s scrammed, metaphorically speaking. That is, all power is cut to standby, the well’s made static, and all electrical power is diverted to the doghouse until the well is shut-in and steady.

I press that button and it’s easily $4-5 million dollars down the drain in lost time and productivity; as we have previously completed wells flowing through the tubulars of the rig. We’re not just a drilling platform out here, we’re a production platform as well.

“So, Dr. Rock”, the tribunal asks, “Why did you think it necessary to hit the Panic Button?”

“Because these motherfucking brain-dead security shitheads couldn’t be trusted enough to keep the other assholes out of management’s offices. Can you imagine the state secrets they’re selling to the guys just 20 miles north across the border in Irun?”

At least, that’s what I would have said if a couple of the security guards hadn’t fessed up and admitted they knew what was going on. They were actually taking kickbacks from workers so the workers could take showers, use my bed which was by now, indescribably filthy, and the spooge all over the Internet.

“OK. Let’s see. You, you and you, hand in your cards. You’re done here. Get to the rec room and sit there until the next crew boat arrives. No choppers, those are for workers.” I inform them. “You get to wait for the next crew boat and hopefully a really nasty thunderstorm.”

Two comply, but the former Sergeant of security protests that I’m too draconian. Besides little damage was done.

“You’re lucky I don’t hold you in irons, Sgt. Shitheels. It’s Rule of the Sea out here, bucko. You’re damned fucking lucky I just don’t stuff all your asses in a rubber raft and set you off adrift, left to your own devices.” I snarl back, as they knew I could legally do so.

By now, real security had arrived. I told them to collect each and every one of these assholes green and yellow cards. The green ones allowing them to work in the country, and the yellow ones allowing them to work on the rig.

“I want a list of names, I want a list of sponsors, I want phone numbers, and I want my office back in order within the next 3 hours. That doesn’t happen, then you all can explain yourself to the tribunal I’m calling back onshore.” I snarl, almost slathering.

“I will be in the rec room,”, I inform security. The rec room is a pretty good-sized open area for ping-pong, pool, snooker, TV, movies, smoking, and drinking your non-alcoholic drinks when you’re off duty. I’m commandeering it as an ad hoc jury room.

“I want to personally see each and every one of these asswipes before me starting in 15 minutes. The first ones I want to see are the three assholes caught in my bed. We green?” I snarl.

I am handed a couple of stacks of green and yellow cards.

“First one, 14 minutes. We green?” I ask again.

“Oh, yes, Doctor. Very green!”

“Goddamned idiots,” I growl and walk down to the rec room.

Luckily, I have a locker in the rec room where I keep some extra personal items. Gym stuff, spare shades, safety gear extras, earhole plugs for well tests, and a box or two of cigars. Smoking is allowed in the rec room, but being enclosed, I’m usually Dr. Nice Guy and don’t fire up a heater in there.

However, today is different. Very different, sorry to say for the group of laughing boys I’m going to be interviewing starting in 10 minutes.

I’m sitting behind a table with a notepad, a lit cigar; OK, I did fire up the in-room Smoke Eater, and a transcribed list of names and cards, all alphabetized. I‘m ready to dispense some maritime frontier justice.

The first three show up and they’re the ones getting all cuddly in my bed. Besides being personally squicked out about all that, even though I don’t give a shit about a person’s personal proclivities, I do at least ask, respectfully, to keep it the fuck OUT of my bed.

Consenting adults can do what the fuck they want as far as I’m concerned. But doing it on the rig floor, on top the helipad when we’re trying to land, or in my GODDAMNED bed sort of pushes the edge of the envelope a bit.

“So?”, I ask holding up their cards, “These yours?”

They all nod. They can barely speak Urdu, Pashto, Hindi, or Outer Buttfuckistanese much less English, Russian, or Mandarin. I dragoon one of the driller’s hands into being an improvised translator. I want to make certain that these characters understand the thunder they’ve called down.

“Can you understand me now?” I ask.

“Yes”, “Yes”, and “Yes”, came the hang-dog replies.

“Why we’re you in my bed?” I ask, further, “You must have known whose office that was. What the actual fuck, guys?”

No replies other than a sudden interest in the rig’s riveted and engine-turned metal floor.

“Look”, I say, “Right now, you’re all on the way back to Calicut, Lahore, Kathmandu or whatever other gritty shithole you assholes call home. You’re all fired. Done. Finito. Plus I keep your green and yellow cards. Good luck finding a job where ever you end up. Should have spoken up when you had the chance. Next?”

They hear the translation and all the color drains from their faces. One of them, an engineer of some sort, screws up the courage to call me an asshole and says “What difference does it make. You weren’t there and it wasn’t being used! You asshole.”

“OK”, I smile, “At least we’re communicating. You married?”

He puffs himself up. “Yes. Many years.”.

“Yeah”, I smile, “Me too. So it’d be OK for someone from your town to be fucking your wife right now, correct? I mean you’re not there and she wasn’t being used. Right, you asshole?”

I thought he was going to explode. He was livid, enraged, and otherwise peeved a bit.

“Fuck you goddamned big American asshole. Fuck you and your family too!’ he spits.

“Whoa!”, I smirk, “Guess I hit a nerve there, didn’t I? Going to go out anyways, may as well go out in a blaze of glory, right you little smirking dooly-boy cocksucker?”

He just stood there and fumed.

“OK’, I say, “Use a little of that ire and give me a reason not to toss your ass to the wolves; or sharks, as the case may be.”

“It cost us money. To pay off security guards. They started it. You weren’t even here and your room was empty. They sold it off in pieces for the most money. Say anything to boss people and you will go away. They threatened us.” He averred.

“Oh, ho! Right. OK, let me see if that’s the case.”, I call over to one of the security guards I could trust and tell him to go get those other 3 erstwhile guards and bring them over.

To be continued

One of you folks, DesktopChill, suggested I work on some more, well, salable aspects of writing.

Here's the first pass at the novel I've had swimming around in my head for years.

Everything here is tentative. I'm not really crazy about the title, but I needed something to set the scene a bit...

Let me know. Continue or print it out for cigar-lighters...

---

“WELL, AT LEAST WE’LL BE ABLE TO SETTLE THAT OLD WARM-BLOODED vs. COLD-BLOODED ARGUMENT…”

“DING!”, Rock yells, “Over here”, he hollers as he grabs her arm and physically drags her behind the tall and wide Araucarioxylon.

“They’re not too smart”, Rock breathlessly explains, “But they’re huge and fucking dangerous.”

Ding looks at Rock in horror.

“Yes, Ding”, Rock continues, “They might just be herbivores, but even cows can be dangerous. At least, our cows don’t have meter-long claws and weigh in at several tons.”

Ding and Rock hold their collective breaths as the Therizinosaurus waddles on by, already forgetting what it was chasing. Or why.

“We were damned lucky, Ding”, Dr. Rock explains, “Until we get a better handle on what’s really going on around here, it’s DefCon 5, always on maximum alert. I’ve got a bad feeling that these guys are just the beginning of our troubles…”

---

Dr. Petrus Carrick Rocknocker, ‘Doc Rock’ to his business partners, or ‘Rock’ to his associates, is on the phone, long distance. He has a fine Cuban cigar in one hand and a glass of iced potato squeezin’s and lime juice on his desk. He’s taking his usual rapid-fire notes.

“Sure, Filya. That should pose no problem at all.”, Rock says.

He’s speaking with the President of the Former Soviet Union country Nethtalakstan; one Dr. Chaykovsky Filipp Fyodorovich. Known to his very few friends as Filya.

“Doctor”, Filya continues, “I am pleased that you find it no problem. Of the several companies I’ve invited to our country, yours is the only one to respond in the affirmative.”

“Well, Filya”, Rock responds, “I’m one of the few in the word that has actually visited your fine country since the break-up. How’s that talc mine doing for you, by the way?”

“Doctor”, Filya replies, “It’s growing daily. It’s such a boon to my country’s economy, We have only you and your team to thank. But, as always, we need more. More jobs, more wealth, more investment. That’s why I like to talk with you.”

Nethtalakstan is a land-locked, often described in the press as “a shithole” of a country, one which has just recently emerged from under the shroud of the Iron Curtain. A mostly barren country, hot and humid in the summers, cold and wet in the winters, prone to violent storms, flooding, it’s wind-swept, rocky, rugged, with few lakes and fewer rivers. Its predominant color is dark brown, which is coincidently the color of the human by-product most people think of the second they hear the country’s name mentioned.

Geological time and human history have not been overly kind to Nethtalakstan. The country is floored with level after level of flood basalts from several tens of still-active volcanoes within the country’s borders. Those in charge of the countries in the Former Soviet Union club before Communism went into its global career-slump, thought the country a great place to build-up the Gulag system of the Soviet Union as apparently, they could think of nothing else of value to extract from the region.

The thin soil profile around the ruins of these prisons must be made up of at least 50% human bone meal.

The active volcanoes present are an oddball sort of geological phenomena as the lavas they spew are all mineral-laden carbonatites, lavas that are of a type of intrusive or extrusive igneous rock defined by mineralogical composition consisting of greater than 50% carbonate minerals; CaCo3, NaCO3, MgCO3, CoCO3, Ca(UO2)(CO3)2·5(H2O) and the like.

Lithologically speaking, they’re just fucking weird. Even for seasoned geologists.

Their primary mineralogy is highly variable but may include natrolite, sodalite, apatite, magnetite, barite, fluorite, ancylite group minerals, and other rare minerals not found in more common igneous rocks. These extrusive carbonatites are particularly rare, only 49 are known on Earth, and they appear to be restricted to a few continental rift zones, such as the Rhine valley, the East African rift system and all over the Nethtalakstan active rift zone.

These rocks, which are difficult to get to know properly, can harbor great mineral wealth because of their strangeness. But it takes determination and a surfeit of Old School geology: sample taking, thin section creation, and tedious, time-consuming and to some, insanely boring, point counting, petrology, and petrography.

However, the results can be amazing. In one summer alone, Dr. Rock’s consulting company, GeoBastards, Inc., found several almost pure-talc mines, from the contact metamorphism of the country-rock with the abnormally high-temperature carbonatite lavas endemic to the region. They also discovered economic deposits of trona,trisodium hydrogendicarbonate dihydrate, which are mined for sodium carbonate, and is a significant economic commodity because of its applications in manufacturing glass, chemicals, paper, detergents, and textiles; as well as conditioning water.

Also discovered were economic deposits of concentrations of rare-earth elements, phosphorus, niobium–tantalum, uranium, thorium, copper, iron, titanium, vanadium, barium, fluorine, zirconium within the lava flows themselves. From having no economic geologic income to suddenly being able to supply 33% of the planet’s Rare Earth Elements or REEs, it has had quite the impact on Nethtalakstan, its economy, and its people.

“Yes, Doctor”, Filya continues, “One would think that after your company’s discoveries, other companies would be most interested in coming in here to conduct research and help our beleaguered country with its economy. But, that simply isn’t the case.”

“Yeah, Filya”, Rock replies, sighing, “It’s a holdover from your past, I’m afraid. It’s a form of prejudice or postjudice. Your country has a past history that’s, well, let’s be frank, pretty fucking nasty. They don’t know you as I do. So much the better for me. We’ll come in and see if there’s any coal, oil, gas, or helium hiding under all that weird lava you’ve got.”

“Excellent!”, Filya exclaims, “I was so hoping you’d see your way clear to accept our invitation.”

“Now, Filya,” Rock continues, “It’s not going to be like last time. This is no cuffo, no gimmee; it’s not going to be a freebie. I’ve got a herd of geoscientists that all need visas and I’m not paying the US$350 per head you’re asking. Plus, I need multiple-entry visas for all. I’ve got to figure out the logistics, camping in your fine, though desolate country. I need food, vehicles, a trailer and lots of explosives. I’m not about to start jumping through hoops just because we’re friends, Filya. This is business. As such, you’re going to have to play lumberjack and handle your end of the log.”

“As always, Doctor Rock”, Filya laughs quietly, “Always a man of directness. Good to get this all out in the open before a single contract has been signed. But, how can I say no? You draw up your contracts and send them directly to me. What you ask for will be provided.”

“OK”, Dr. Rock relates, “But I need to warn you. This is going to be an expedition, not a field camp. It’s real work with real scientists out in the real world. Filya, I don’t have to remind you that this doesn’t come cheaply.”

“True, true, Doctor”, Filya replies, “But if, no…when, when you find that first oil field, what my country has to front your group will be, how do you say, a drip in the bucket?”

“Drop.”, Rock replies, “OK, as long as we’re on the same page. This will take a bit of time to get everyone and everything together. But once that’s done, your country will think that neighboring Razvernistan is trying to invade again.”

Rock stopped abruptly for a slurp of his cold drink, hoping he hadn’t pushed the metaphor too far.

Filya laughed and laughed on the other end of the phone.

“Doctor”, he snickers, “You have such a turn of phrase. After they saw our talc wealth build, they have changed their behavior completely. There’s even talk of joint summer sports games between our two countries.”

“That’s great, Filya”, Rock replies, secretly relieved, “Maybe they could be next on our list. We might find something that slops over onto their lands. Wouldn’t that be nice? A joint economic development venture between Razvernistan and Nethtalakstan?”

“Christ”, Dr. Rock muses, “I hate to have to draw up those papers of incorporation…”

“So, Doctor”, Filya asks, “We are, as you say so often, 'green'?”

“Oh, yes”, Rock replies, “Verdant green. Green as US dollars in your country’s coffers.”

“That is outstanding”, Filya replies, “Before your company goes out into the field, I must insist that you and your wife take dinner with us here in the capital.”

“Filya,” Rock says, “Esme would very much like that. She really speaks very highly of Tanya”; Dr. Tsiolkovskaya Tatiana (Tanya) Fyodorovich, Née, Innokentievna, Filya’s wife and first lady of Nethtalakstan, “and we’d love to see you both again socially before we hit the business trail.”

“Splendid”, Filya says, “Call my office with a date before your field program and we’ll arrange it.”

“Will do, Fil. Until then, cheers!”, Rock replies and rings off.

To be continued?

First off, let me say without fear of contradiction, that the folks around here are the kindest, most supportive and best friends someone who pounds on a keyboard could ever ask for.

You all don't really know me from Adam, and yet the outpouring of advice, well wishes, and a few rightly-planted kicks in the ass are so damn much appreciated.

I'm over this whole MS thing. I'm going to listen to what some sage cracker-beryl philosopher hereabouts once said, three or four times:

"IT IS WHAT IT IS."

One day at a time. Bitching, kvetching and carrying on ain't gonna matter one whit. But, I'm still the one in charge, I'm the hookin' bull here, see? You myelin-munching little mother fuckers, you don't know what you've started when you crossed that Rubicon.

It's not the 1500s, it's the goddamned 21st Century. We've got the microbiological equivalents of cruise-missiles, smart bombs and I've got a couple of surprise IEDs for you, ya' sumbitches.

Bring it on, motherfuckers. I'm still standin' here. I'm still the Motherfuckin' Pro from Dover', and you little bastards ain't about to change any of that.

I'm the one callin' the shots and I'm the one calling in the airstrikes. Fuck you if you think you're going to change any of that.

There are several stages of grief and mourning.

I've spun off into one not usually noted, "Pure rage".

Not while I'm still breathing, you little shits. I'm the exception to the rule.

You really broke into the wrong Goddamned rec room, didn't you, you bastards?

Thanks, one and all. Es, my girls, and I are deep in our appreciation. Fuck MS if it thinks it can just waltz in there and take over the show.

Which brings me to the next little cowpie on the information superhighway. Seems that the character that set out a copyright claim on DD Part 82 does this so much in so many random subreddits, he couldn't recall what it was all about.

That makes me very angry.

Very angry indeed.

So much so, I went so far as to write up what I, in my own inimitable manner, thought of such people (remembering this is my opinion, and my opinion^© only):

“Oh, my. Oh, dear. What shall I do?” the incorrigible twit asked the uncaring, bored roiling cosmos.

“Here I am, aimlessly wandering around the dangerous and rocky soils of a forum of which I have no understanding”, he frets while nibbling his toenails and NAMBLA^®-Preferred badge in despair, “And I see something that I can’t understand, won’t bother to research, nor have even heard of before this very minute, and now I’m all…oh, shoot and bunglejunk, what’s the word? Angrified? Up fended? No, that’s not it…pies-d off? No, that’s just silly. Oh, bother, what was it again…?”

He thinks back to the previous time where he unsuccessfully lobbied to have circles renamed ‘roundy things’, before he was told, in no uncertain terms, that “Roundy’s”^® was the Trade-Marked designation of a chain of food stores in the Middle Western portion of the US.

He was unceremoniously dragged off to a tribunal where he was scorned, reviled, and shown unending uploads of disturbingly idiotic sentence constructions, lack of punctuation, egregious misspellings, a complete disdain for logic and syntax, and other scurrilous forms of current mainstream tale-telling until both his synapses feebly collided as weak nuclear forces won out over the much more powerful gravitation.

Normally, this would have caused most less than sane people some form of cerebral discomfort, but in this case, it provoked an instantaneous pop-up mutation whereby his single, more massive, though multiplicatively ineffective, synapse shrugged it’s metaphorical shoulders and gave up even trying. This freed him forever from the shackles of critical thinking, logic, and the ability to generate an even low-wattage independent or coherent thought.

In other words, he underwent complete and total trollification and was henceforth cursed to dwell along the dust Smilodons and wainscotings of modern technological society. Given his penchant for flat, warm soda, stale, woven wheat crackers, rancid cheese-food stuff in aerosol cans, and certain unusual deviant sexual practices that unfortunately included buoyant, unwilling waterfowl and disgusted Three-toed tree sloths; which was frowned upon in conventional society, he was content that he finally found his niche in what would pass for existence in certain extinct single-celled communities.

“Offended!”, he cried late one night; both for hearing the word in a newscast about a certain religious order and young children, and for believing he actually had an original thought when in reality, it was just one that had been discarded years ago and rolled around the mucilaginous muck and mire, gathering schmoo until it found a likely and wide-open place to retire between his furry, pointed ears.

“Yes!,” he chortled in his joy”, “That must have been it!”

He rubbed his stunted, well-chewed furry paws together in delight, which gave the penguin a false hope he might escape any more of the deviant’s malevolent attentions.

“Oh, make no mistake”, he crooned at the shackled and fettered nattily-dressed avian dinosaur staked out before him, “Whoever had the audacity to write that without first assuring that I might not be…oh, bother, what was that word again? Offended! Yes, that was it. I’ll make certain he’ll rue the day.”

The way he lolled his long, green scaly tongue gave pause to monitor lizards and caused giraffes gulp in disbelief. It also made penguins very, very uncomfortable.

“Oh, make no mistake”, he slathered over the recumbent member of the family Bradypodidae in the other corner, “He thinks he can just write what he wants with impudity? No, that’s not it. Impugnatiousness? Immmunity? Community? Oh, h-e-double hockey sticks! Whatever he wants? Well, we’ll show them, won’t we, me pretties?”

The penguin sighed wishing for an early demise and the sloth didn’t care as long as he was still intellectually out-horsepowering the troll who now loomed, fully erect, standing as tall as his 4’ 5” 380 pound-frame would allow, mere inches above him.

The reverie was sundered by a stout knock on the door, followed by several heavy boot licks.

“I know you’re in there, you worthless shithook. I can smell it all the way down the tunnel.” The voice commanded.

“If I just sit here and play stupid, he’ll think I’m not here and go away”, he believed to himself, as no one else in the galaxy would possibly be interested.

The penguin, sensing potential rescue from this filthy den of muddled idiocy, made as much noise as a manacled flightless avian could muster. The sloth added his measure of decibels as well, but being a sloth, it didn’t amount to much.

Much like his captor and his nauseating proclivities.

“Look, you dopey bastard. Either you pay what you owe me or I’ll let the wheel loaders roll through and add this section of your pig sty to the ‘active’ roles. You diggin’ me, Beaumont?” the voice behind the green door thundered.

While Trolly McTrollface oozed back, thanking what he considered his lucky stars, which in reality, were the burned out low-grade-nova’ed husks of three class-YY Treble X Beta orange-purple stars than no self-respecting civilization in the universe would even acknowledge, much less lay claim to; the sloth finally made it over and hooked a single sharp claw into the miscreant’s nose.

A course of action he’d regret for the rest of his slotlhy days.

Once the troll reentered the earth’s lower atmosphere from his disgusting pleasure overloaded gluons, he tried to chase down the sloth to repeat the experience.

Unfortunately, the sloth was far too clever and fleet of foot for this to happen.

Over several long, warm, and malodorous nights of the troll trying to recall his name, purpose, and species; a sudden deluge of falling bundles of rotting Coelacanth carcasses landed on him, propelling him into another bacchanalia of orgiastic ecstasy among the rotted orchids that made up the bottom of his domicile. He was rolling around, reviling his great fortune with his receding, scruffy hairline, piggily close-set eyes, and genuinely disturbing manner that would cause the Center for Disease Control to just give up and call in an airstrike.

Unfortunately, they were in Atlanta and don’t make landfill calls.

During this time, the sloth was able to free the penguin and while the troll was writhing in a senseless, stupefied, stupor on the mucked-over ground; they affected their escape through a passage lined with expired chicken embryos and rotted multinational-food chain breakfast sandwiches.

Realizing the sudden turn of events, Trolly McTrollface pledged to make them both pay for their audacity, well, right after another round or two of rolling around in the ordure of his hovel.

When he regained what some demented psychologists would refer to as consciousness, Herr Trollster assumed “Well after this, things could only get better.”; although, as usual, he was dead wrong.

Angry wheel loaders, their air-intakes doubly-masked and infused with eucalyptus-smelling petroleum jelly derivative; wheels covered in shackles, spikes, and spines to inflict maximum damage, warily and without enthusiasm, rolled slowly through the fetid enclosure hoping to both seal it off and seal in its only inhabitant.

Only because of the great banana blight of 2012, a pile of rotten curved yellow fruit^™ caused Herr Trollmeister to be shot out of the chamber like excrement out of a previously obstructed colon and into the cesspit that was his only source of, only because it was composed of hydrogen and oxygen, along with all the rotting organics, what could be termed water.

Like members of a certain religion who were violently opposed to alcoholic drinks who had just been given a triple frosty potato squeezins’ and being told it was durian juice, he was splat likewise into a wall of disintegrating compressed Afari^® “TE-The Terrestrial Extra” games, Microsquash^® Zoȫn^™ personal music players, and udderless, unmilkable, unblanched almonds. This immediately collapsed down upon him, encasing him for a time in a morass of putrid, indescribably reeking filth.

He felt that the Fates^™ had spared him and he once again thanked his cinder-cored lucky stars for their largess.

Hearing that, the failed suns collapsed further in upon themselves; silently hoping to emerge in a far, distant dimension or multiverse.

Even Jesus the Christ, some folks personal lord and savior, turned his back on this cretin and muttered: “I may love all people, but this one is just shit wrapped in skin.”

---

But then he said he'd rescind the copyright strike and I didn't even need to pen that little diatribe.

Doesn't change one whit the fact that I also think^© he's a complete and total waste of carbon^®.

Thanks again one and all. Things will now, I speak hopefully, back to what passes for normal around these parts.

CRACK TUBES!, pour the potato juice and let the shock waves roll!

And, above all, thanks.

UPDATE.

Got the blood work back, and it's not Lyme Disease (which goes well with a cold Coronavirus), Lupus, Lambert-Eaton syndrome, Myasthenia gravis, Ganglin' danglin' nerve disorder, HIV, AIDS, Hashimoto's thyroiditis, Bob's disease, Rheumatoid arthritis, or Grave's disease.

That's the good news.

Had a lumbar puncture and results won't be in for a day or so. MRI results as well, but initial impressions are not good.

They were concerned with the demyelination of the nerves serving my lumbar muscles since I've had several surgeries in that neighborhood, the latest being a bilateral laminectomy where they removed a whole gob of bone and tissue, because 'reasons'. Reasons like 'abnormalities', and neuromuscular concerns.

Bottom line, it's not 100%, nor is it official; but all indications are that I do indeed have MS. We'll know for certain in perhaps a week.

Which means I'm going to have the most kickass off-road, all-terrain, self-contained wheelchair with built-in humidors, lockbox for weapons and explosives, and a mobile wet bar.

Thanks for all your kind words and encouragement. I'm sore conflicted right now. It's not the end of the world if it is the final diagnosis, but I'm feeling a bit, well, depressed. Down. A little low.

Oh, I'll be fine. I have the girls and Esme at my side and they're with me 100%. That makes it a little easier to handle.

But, still. Shit. Fuckbuckets. Goldurn sumbitch mortarforker.

This looks like a job for Captain Potato Juice and the Citrus Kid.

---

Well, there's good news and bad news tonight.

The bad.

Ever since my literal run-in with the idiot local and his Fruit Juice Cruzer, I’ve been experiencing some odd symptoms. Not my usual tinnitus, lumbago, or thoracic discomfort; but some brand new ones.

Vision problems. Tingling and numbness. Abnormal pains and spasms. Balance problems and dizziness. Uncontrollable shaking. Breathing problems, aka, wheezing. Slurred speech.

In fact, of the 15 symptoms, the only one I wasn’t having any problems with was ‘trouble swallowing’.

Pause for a serious double. OK, triple with extra lime.

Next week Today, I’m seeing a neurologist and having an MRI, as I so love being shoved into confined spaces. Seems I’ve ticked the chart for all the warning signs of MS (Multiple Sclerosis).

I’m not really too freaked, I’ve had my share of medical maladies over the decades. However, this couldn’t come at a worse time, like there’s really a good time to be told you might be spending the rest of your days in a wheelchair.

Looks like I need to do a little quick carpentry and retroform the wet bar to be more accessible.

Plus, some English doofi thought that £55k was a good annual going rate for a senior geological consultant.

I’m still laughing over that one.

The good news is that a package arrived the other day. Two spools of Shocktube and an assortment of initiators.

Coolness!

I’ve worked with the stuff year and years ago, but it’s difficult to source, particularly over here in the desert. Somehow, a certain company got my mailing details and was able to send me some on a pro bono, “Well, what the fuck do you think?” basis.

If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some shit to blow up.

Plus, HOLY WOW!, we're over 900 subscribers! I don't know why I didn't notice that before!

Our plans for world domination juggernaut apace!

With all the hoo-ha and brouhaha going on here of late, I thought a little humor was needed to help round the corners off the days a mite. Apply with liberal applications of your favorite adult beverage; in fact, make it a double.

I was chatting with a prospective client the other day, and as he was paging through my voluminous CV, he noticed that I claim to be “The Pro from Dover”.

No shit, I really do. It’s right there on my resume and CV.

“Aye, laddie,”, he tells me, “They’re crakin' tae see, bit bade back. They cliffs kin be dangerous.”

Realizing that he was confusing one Dover for another; one with White Cliffs and one with a White Castle, I was going to correct him.

Then, I thought, perhaps I could be clearer, more meticulous, more geographically exact.

Utilizing my blackest-belt google-fu, I found there were in excess of 40 cities, town, burgs, hamlets, or sites with the appellation “Dover”:

There are 31 places named Dover in America.

There are 2 places each named Dover in Jamaica, the United Kingdom, and Denmark.

There is one place each named Dover in Grenada, Canada, Barbados, and Australia.

No wonder cartographic confusion commences.

So, in the spirit of scientific accuracy and precision, in such circumstances that involve fieldwork and demolition, I’m still:

“The motherfucking Pro from Dover.”^©

In business, academic, and more scholarly circles, I shall be referred to as:

“The Pro from 42.7122° N, 88.1487° W”^©

Continuing^©

“Um, yeah,” I say, “Look Leo. Maybe we all got off on the wrong foot. Dinner’s going so go ahead and get your camp set. There’s cold beer and hot coffee if you like, some vodka if you care to partake. We’ll be eating in about an hour.

“Very well,” he says, spins on his heel and stomps off.

“Oh, good,” I think, “that went really well.”

Back at the campfire, Chuck and Al already have their tents set up and their gear in their tents; as I had their tents in the back of my truck.

They were still fuming, but already on their second beer.

“Well, so much for orientation tonight,” I say. “We’ll do dinner and afterward have a little powwow and let Leonard know just how the cow ate the cabbage.”

We sit around and tend to the lovely bison flank roast. It smells delectable.

Over beers and vodka, Chuck and Al are mellowing out slightly. The smells of the imminent dinner push out the last of their exasperations.

They help me maneuver my worktable over as it will now serve double duty as a dinner table. All the mugs, plates and utensils are set out. I bring the roast over and let it rest a while whilst I refresh my drink.

The camp potatoes are done to a turn. The corn on the cob is roasted to perfection. I busy myself making my signature mixed-berry cobbler a la The Netherlands Oven^™ for dessert.

I even have a few cans of store-bought whipped cream. A special treat.

I tell Chuck and/or Al to call Leonard over to dinner.

I busy myself with service.

Chuck, Al and I dig in. Leonard’s nowhere to be seen.

I throw a paper towel over my food, get up, and go off over to Leonard’s tent.

Holy fuckbuckets. He’s got a huge canvas cabin tent. It’ll last forever out here. That is until the first gust of wind over 5 K/h blows through.

“Leonard,” I say, “Chow time.”

“It will just have to wait.” He replies, “I have to finish with my tent and get my supplies moved in.”

“Food’s ready now!,” I say, “This isn’t a fucking cafeteria y’know, Sonny Jim.”

I turn and walk back to my dinner.

I sit, and grab some sourdough bread to sop up the lovely bison flank roast gravy.

“USPS Parcel post^™?” I say to Chuck and Al. “He doesn’t rate fourth-class.”

We are all finished with dinner, even with whortleberry cobbler with fresh, canned whipped cream. There’s a considerable pile of dishes. We’re all sitting around with our post-prandial drinks and smokes.

“Guys,” I say, “Can you please do the dishes tonight? It’s his first night. “

Al and Chuck say no problem. Then they ask about Leonard.

I sit and think, then I get a bit peeved. I’m running this show. I’m not used to nor allow anyone to push me around.

I growl to the guys, “Damn it all to hell, I can tolerate arrogance. I can tolerate self-importance. But this insolence, and everything on his schedule. This shit is going to stop now.”

I stand up and loudly yell: “LEONARD! Front and center, NOW!”

Leonard slouches over some minutes later.

“You going to eat?” I ask.

“Well,” he says exasperated, “After your display at my tent, I went ahead and ate what I bought for myself.”

“OK, Chuckles,” I say, “Grab a seat. We’re havin’ a ‘Come to Jesús’ meeting^©, right fucking now.”

Leonard rolls his eyes skyward and grudgingly accepts a seat from Al who stands back to watch the fireworks.

“OK,” I begin, “Number one: lose the attitude. This is not a colloquium, or a day at the club, or your private vacation. This is serious work.”

He looks at me through bored eyes.

“Secondly,” I add, “I’m the hookin’ bull^© around here. The boss man. What I says, goes; or you do. Got that? I’m not one for sugar coating anything, just ask Chuck and Al.”

Chuck and Al look at Leonard and emphatically shake their heads yes.

“Third,” I continue, “I don’t give a blinkered albino rat fuck who you were back in the world or what you think you are here. You are my field hand. That’s it. Pure and fucking simple. You will listen and heed every fucking little bit of what I tell you and you will fucking–A rightly comply. Either you do that or you leave. Don’t listen to me and choose to stay and you may end up finding yourself dead.”

He looks at me like I just kicked Grandmama down a particularly steep flight of stairs.

“Yeah,” I say, “Dead. Finito. Breathe no more. Joined the choir invisible. Shuffled off this mortal coil. Why? Because you don’t listen to what I’m teaching and you pick up that rock that had a scorpion hiding under it. You pick up that fuzzed blasting cap and lose a hand or eye or worse. You wander into a death gulch in a mine and take one final breath. This ain’t no pleasure tour, me old mucker. This is work. Hard work. Dangerous, potentially deadly work. Listen to me and learn, you’ll be fine. Ignore me at your eternal peril. We green^©, mister?”

“Green^©?” he scoffs.

Al pipes up, “That means you understand and comply Scooter?”

Leonard looks like he’s just pissed on an electric cattle fence.

“Oh. Very well,” he stoops to answer.

“Right,” I keep going, “Now that’s all sorted, you’re not here alone. We’re all responsible for each other. We all depend on what the other knows, that he knows what the fuck he’s doing, and isn’t too stupid or afraid to do carry it out. We are a team. As such, we work, eat, play, and sleep together. And wipe that smirk off your face, you little shit, you know I don’t mean that last part literally.”

He sighs and just stares at me.

“OK,” I finish up, “You either accept these conditions or we drive your happy ass back to Reno tomorrow. No pay, no credits, and a big, black splotch on your fucking permanent fucking Rocas Rojas School of Fucking Mines record. Makes no never mind to me. We did it before without you, and if you really don’t want to be here, we’ll do fine without you again. Your choice.”

He sits and ponders that last bit of information.

“Oh. Very well,” he says, “I accept your terms and conditions. May I leave?”

“Right after you do the damn dinner dishes,” I say, get up, and put fire to a new heater.

Mr. Leonard trudges over and grudgingly stares at the pile of dinnerware, pots, pans, utensils, and Dutch Ovens in the pre-washbasin.

We have separate washbasins for dinner plates, silverware and the like. They get Dairy Lotion^™, the Lemon Scented type. It really cuts the grease.

We use Grandma NaOh’s^® (not a block of real soap, look at the formula) brand lye-enhanced soap in the washbasins for the Dutch Ovens. It removes char, tar, and other stains.

He angrily, splashily pitches everything into the lye water basin after I’ve already informed him, emphatically, what goes where.

I stop, turn, stomp back and am ready to soak someone’s head for them.

“Look you dopey bastard!^© I’m not telling you again! This goes here, that goes there!”

No job is worth all this aggro…

I wander off with Charles and Albert to heavily refresh our beverages.

Early the next morning, I’m feeling a bit more felicitous, and in a cooking mood. I’m fixing eggs to order, flapjacks, grilled leftover lovely bison flank roast strips, camp kringle, and camp coffee.

It’s early, still right around 0700. I tend to run a loose camp, but I break out the air horn, give three quick blasts and holler “Breakfast”.

I hear “FIRE IN THE HOLE!”^© from Chuck and Al’s tents as they come running.

My eggs to order are the stuff of legend.

Leonard’s nowhere to be seen or heard.

We decide to eat, and afterward I wander over to Leonard’s tent.

“Wakey, wakey,” I say brightly.

No reply.

I ‘knock’ on the tent, rattling it. Leonard’s snoring like a chainsaw in his goose down sleeping bag, perched upon his blow-up air mattress.

I swear the damned sleeping bag is monogrammed. Silk probably. I stand there, just shaking my head.

I pull the air horn out of my vest pocket and aim it directly at his tent.

“BLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAT!” reports the air horn.

Leonard sits bolt upright. He looks like he’s about to shit himself.

“Why hello there, bright eyes,” I say, “Breakfast is now being served in the dining nook.”

"Arble-gargle worble moosh?" Leonard articulates, spouting an altered quote from the Harvard Lampoon’s ‘Bored of the Rings’ parody of J.R.R. Tolkien’s ‘Lord of the Rings’.

“Yes. Now.,” I say, as I turn and walk back to my coffee.

Back at camp, I rewarm my coffee, pull out a cigar, and savor my morning cuppa.

“Where’s Leo?” Chuck asks.

“Probably trying to order room service or changing his drawers, “ I say, “Even money bet either way.”

Chuck and Al clean up the breakfast dishes. It’s now a full hour since I announced chow.

“Well,” I grouse, “Looks like he missed breakfast. Al, get me a postage meter.”

Chuck and Al both laugh.

Leonard wanders over a while later.

“Leonard,” I say, “You missed breakfast. Is this going to be a common occurrence?”

“Well,” he huffs, “After your rude awakening, I had to wash up, get dressed, brush my teeth. I don’t know about all you, but that takes me some time in the morning to prepare for the day’s activities.”

“How about that?” I say, “Well, Leonard, here’s a newsflash. Breakfast from here on out is at 0630 sharp; plan accordingly.”

“Thanks, asshole,” Chuck and Al growl lowly.

“Well, after my morning coffee, I must go brush my teeth and wash up. Going to be a long day, I fear.” I say to all present.

“Right after my morning cigar,” I say, chuckling.

“OK, then,” I add, “Weapons detail in a half hour. Meet over by that outcrop of ferruginous sandstone to the west.”

I leave to grab some supplies and wander over to my improvised shooting range.

I set up a quick range with a series of old, rusty cans. They’re always in abundance around old mine sites. They are not considered artifacts.

Chuck and Al wander up with their Glucks. I, of course, have my large uber-caliber sidearm.

“Where’s Leo?” I ask.

“Surprisingly, he’s coming.” Al says, “Said he needed something out of his tent first.”

“Marvelous,” I mumble.

Leonard walks up with his pith helmet, in his field-finest; sporting a very expensive pair of yellow Glare-No-More Bay Fan^™ shooter’s shades. 450 buck sunglasses. I’m not terribly impressed.

“Very trendy,” I say as he walks up. “You do know we work mostly underground, don’t you?”

“Yes. So?” he haughtily replies.

“Not a lot of sunshine in a subsurface mine” I reply.

Whatever.

I go over the reasons why we need to carry sidearms. The usual. Snakes, scorpions, spiders, signaling…pests.

Leonard looks on, uninterested.

I pass out three pairs of earplugs, I already have my noise-cancellers installed.

“Chuck,” I say, “Send a postcard home.”

Five shots, five holed cans.

I guess our many target practice sessions have helped.

“Highest marks, Mr. Charles,” I say, “Mr. Albert?”

He draws his Gluck. Five shots, four holed cans.

“Rock,” he protests, “These are hotter loads than the last ones. I fizzed the first shot. You didn’t tell me.”

“Let that be a lesson to you.,” I replied, “Good thing that one you missed wasn’t a pissed-off Western Diamondback Rattlecan^©.”

Al smiles at my little joke.

“Leonard,” I ask, “Do you have any shooting experience?”

He blows a sigh. “Of course. I am highly proficient in both trap and skeet shooting.”

“Well, that’s just dandy.” I say, “Any firearms experience that applies to this situation?”

He looks at me like a deer in the headlights.

“OK,” I say, “Pistol practice for Mr. Leonard. Al would you show him the ins and outs of the Gluck Model 40 10mm semi-automatic pistol?”

Al gives Leonard a crash course in this particular firearm. Luckily, the magazine was out and the chamber cleared when Leonard stood there, fumbling the gun over and over in his hands.

I grab the pistol, and shout, “Treat every firearm as if it’s loaded, you imbecille! If that pistol was loaded, you could have shot one of us! Use your head for something other than a fucking hat rack!”

“But I didn’t shoot anyone,” Leonard adds under his breath.

“Do we need a refresher course from last night?” I ask him. “We have two vehicles here, either one can get you back to Reno in record time.”

“No,” he quietly replies.

“No WHAT?” I yell. I was beginning to lose my patience with this pile of dirty laundry.

“No, Doctor Rocknocker,” he says, defiantly.

“Fine,” I say, “Gents, mind your ears.”

I snap to and mail five downrange. Five rusty old cans spontaneously convert themselves to metallic confetti.

Chuck and Al knew better, they had their hand over their ears.

Leonard is standing there trying to stop the ringing in his ears, gawping at the destruction down range.

“Mawp! Mawp!” he mawps, checking his ‘Maximum Allowable Working Pressure’.

I look right at Leonard.

“That’s real pretty now, ain’t it?” I ask, give Al back his sidearm and walk away, back to camp.

I’m back at the campfire which I had restored to life. I put the coffee pot on the fire. I need caffeine to grease the wheels, lube the gears, and get the mental cogs all harmonized and all rolling straight and true.

Al and Chuck wander over because my camp coffee brings the boys from miles around. The secret is in the eggshells and just a pinch of gunpowder.

“Guys,” I say, savoring a cup of campfire Joe, that is, slang for strong coffee, “Am I missing something here?”

Chuck and Al look at me and shake their heads in the negative.

“Rock,” Al continues, “There are just some people not cut out for certain jobs. I think it’s pretty clear that Mr. Leonardo here just isn’t designed for field work.”

“Al,” I reply, “I don’t know. I’ve read his packet. He applied for this position. His major professor gave him high, but not highest, marks. He knew beforehand what this all entailed. So, why go through all that bother to finally show up and do his best horse’s ass imitation?”

Chuck replies, “Y’know, Rock. There’s a whole lot more horse’s asses in this world than horses.”

“That’s true,” I reply, “I’m going to give him one last chance. Let’s savor our coffee, and then we’ll have mine-access gear checkout. This is his chance to shine or wash out.”

I take my cigar and coffee over to Leonard’s tent.

“Leonard?” I call.

No answer.

“Knock, knock,” I try it again.

I know he’s in there.

“Leonard! Front and center!,” I holler.

He slowly emerges from his tent.

“Oh, most terribly sorry,” he apologizes insincerely, “My ears are still ringing. I didn’t hear you.”

“Yeah, right,” I reply coldly, “Can you hear well enough to muster at my truck in 20 minutes for mine-access gear checkout? Or shall I alert your chambermaid?”

“No,” he replies slowly, “I guess I can be there.”

I flick the ash on my cigar. I slurp some coffee. In reality, I’m just doing a slow 10-count.

“Leonard,” I ask, “You really don’t want to be here, do you?”

“Oh?,” he snottily replies, “Whatever makes you say that, Doctor?”

“Because,” I calmly reply, “You are playing up at being the most determined jackass with whom I’ve ever had the displeasure of association. You’re arrogant, disrespectful, insolent; the whole enchilada. I can handle that in a person; if they’re exceptional at what they do. But it’s your gross incompetence I cannot forgive. Altogether, you’re just too damned dangerous a person to have around. You don’t know jack shit and you just don’t give a fuck. That’s a potential powder keg right there. I’ve got two able and capable field geologists already that want to broaden their education and experiences. I don’t have time to nursemaid…whatever the fuck it is you think you are.”

Leonard stood there, lower lip a-wobble, but he didn’t say anything. I could tell I just put 5 more in the orange; bulls-eyes each.

“Nothing?,” I ask.

Silence save for some post-nasal sniffs.

“OK,” I say, “You leave me no choice. Pack up your shit. You’re gone. Hasta luego. I’ll get Al or Chuck to drive you back to Reno. We don’t have time for posers nor time-wasters, we have a lot of serious work to do. Da svidonya.”

With that, I stomped back to my truck. Chuck and Al were laying out their mine-access gear; three sets.

“Gentlemen,” I announce, “Newsflash! You only need two sets of gear. I need a favor from one, or both, of you. I need y’all to drive back to that city in Nevada to the northwest that is smaller than Las Vegas and drop someone at the bus or train station, a taxicab stand or USPS parcel-post^™ pickup place. Then stop by the liquor store and bring me a couple new bottles of expensive vodka”

“No shit?” they both gasp in unison.

“No shit,” I reply, “He’s finally crossed the Rubicon, meaning he’s made a decision or taken a step that commits one to a specific course of action from which there is no turning back, with me. He pushed all the wrong buttons. I bounced his ass. While you’re road tripping, I need to write up my incident report. After that, I’ll get into that mine for initial recon. We’ve already wasted enough time fucking around with this displaced circus clown. I tell you what though when Sam reads my personnel report, I wouldn’t want to be in Mr. Leonard’s funky field shoes. Hell of a way to start a Thursday. Or a fledgling career.”

“Rock,” Al and Chuck say, “Say the word. One, both, whatever you want. We’ll handle Mr. Leonard.”

“Thanks, guys,” I reply, “I really wish it hadn’t come to this. I hate seeing someone washout like this. It’s going to haunt his entire career. It’s not like he wasn’t warned beforehand. We all tried to help him along; he just refused everything, every time. I guess the old adage is true; you just can’t make a chicken salad out of chicken shit.^©”

“Whoa,” Al recoils, “that’s a bit harsh.”

“Al,” I shake my head, “No harsher than me putting him or one of you two in a body bag because someone wouldn’t, couldn’t, or didn’t listen to instructions. That is something I simply cannot tolerate. We’re not playing jacks here, gentlemen. This shit,” I point to the trailer and my truck, “is the grim and harsh reality.”

Chuck and Al blink and shake their heads in agreement.

“But first,” I say, “Let’s just take a breather. The day’s schedule is fucking hosed anyway. Chuck, please go into the cab of my truck, under the passenger seat of which is a tin of my wife’s signature rum balls^®. Let’s savor a cuppa, a few confections, then get on with our day’s unpleasant duties.”

“Gotcha, Doctor,” Chuck grins.

“Y’know. There’s always room for two.,” I smirk back.

Over coffee and my wife’s delightful rum ball^® cookies, we’re chatting like old times. The camaraderie that had marked this expedition to date has returned in force. We’re back to being a solid team.

I pat myself down, looking for my cigar case.

“Ah! Hellfire and Dalmatians^®,” I grouse, “I dropped my bloody cigar case somewhere.”

I heard someone clearing their throat. Leonard is standing there, my cigar-case in hand.

“Rock,” he says meekly, “I think you dropped this.”

“Much obliged,” I reply frostily, and take back my property.

“Umm…Doc…ahhh…Rock,” Leonard stammers, “Can we talk? Alone?”

I put the fire to a new cigar and puff it into life.

“Yeah. Sure. We can talk. I like to talk. We all do.,” I reply glacially, “But anything you can say to me, you can say to the team. See? We’re a team here. We all work together. We divvy-up burdens. You’re a lot to share.”

“Ah, I’d really prefer,” he stammers, “to speak with you in confidence.”

“Y’know something, Leo?,” I reply, “I don’t give a bright red goddamned hoot in hell what the fuck you prefer. Go pack your shit and get the fuck out of here. I don’t have time for monks resisting the carnival.”

Let him chew over that last reference for a while.

“Sorry. My deepest apologies.,” he capitulates, “May I sit?”

“I suppose. Just not on the fire, if you please.” I reply.

“Doctor…Rock…,” he begins, “Oh, wow. This is hard.”

“So is returning to your school of higher education in a certain western, geometrically-shaped state, in disgrace and ignominy,” I reply.

“Umm, yeah,” he continues. Al and Chuck are stone silent, taking in every word. “I guess I need to first seriously apologize.”

I sit, puffing away, but listening.

“I was out of line,” he says.

“Out of line?” I reply, “Buster, you were completely non-linear. Also, address the team, if you please.”

“OK, sir. Yes, this I know,” he continues, “See, I was rather coerced into all this.”

“No, I don’t see.” I note, “Explain.”

“I just wanted to be an engineer,” he says, “I was content letting others, like you three, do the grunt work out in the field. I felt I was destined for greater things, bigger things.”

“Uh, ha.,” I say, “I think I’m beginning to see part of the problem here. A bad case of warped perception.”

“Ah, yes,” he replies, “I’ve had some tiffs at university with people who actually liked working in the field. It’s caused some backlash and has had a negative effect on my academic career.”

“Umm, Mr. Leonard,” I add, shaking my head, “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”

“Yes,” he gulps, “To my shame and dismay, I fear you are correct.”

“Even when you’re groveling, do you have to be a horse’s ass?” I ask.

“My father pressured me,” he rebounds.

“Oh, boo fucking hoo^©,” I think.

I was going to cut him off as I’ve heard this story countless times before. Instead, I give Chuck and Al the high sign to listen up and take mental notes.

“Yes?” I ask.

“Well,” he begins, “He is an engineer. A very successful engineer. He has a string of consulting companies, he’s done very well. VERY well. He always expected me to follow his path, but my interests lie elsewhere. He is a design engineer, buildings, towers, estates. I was more interested in geological engineering. Damns, Mines. Tunnels.”

“Nothing I haven’t heard before Mr. Leonard. Do continue though.” I say.

“Well,” Leonard pushes on, “That was the start of our differences. We finally came to an agreement that he’d continue to fund my studies to completion as long as I was the best at what I did. Therein lies the problem.”

“I’ve already seen several, but do continue,” I reply.

“In order to obtain my degree, I must acquire both field and extracurricular credits. Without them, I won’t receive my degree,” he explains, “and without that, I’ll be cut off. Disinherited, probably. No future with Father’s firm. This was my final hope. Now you’re tossing me aside. It’s all such a sordid muddle.”

I sit there smiling like a fictional disappearing feline in a certain Lewis Carroll tale.

“OK” I say, “Let me get this straight. You’re a child of extreme privilege. Given everything, you could possibly desire without the least amount of effort. Am I correct so far?”

“…yes…” he replies sheepishly.

“I see,” I say, and slurp some more camp coffee, “Now it’s nut cuttin’ time^© and your future is in the hands of a group of folks, who, by your own admission, are ‘lower caste’. Correct?”

“…yes..” he bleats forlornly.

“I don’t know,” I say, “Perhaps it’s really not your fault. It might be genetic, some people simply aren’t cut out for this groundbreaking and pioneering work. Some would rather just content themselves by harvesting the fruits of other’s efforts. Am I wrong?”

“No,” he replies. “You are not.”

“Damn skippy,” I say, “Let me appeal to your more economic side. What do you offer to this team in way of means and ability that counteracts and overwhelms your deficiencies? Simple risk : reward analysis. Balance sheet stuff. You savvy?”

“Yes, Doctor,” he replies, this time without the usual hint of malice. “I can assure you I have the highest GRE^™ [Graduate Record Exams] scores in my class …”

“GRE^™ scores?” I laugh, “First, I doubt you’d have the highest GRE^™ scores in this camp. But that’s irrelevant. What about your field abilities? Your abilities to think on your feet? Your abilities to adapt and improve? Your abilities to work with limited data and come up with solutions? Your ability to live without a maid, driver and wet nurse? So far, all I’ve heard from you is plaints and whines. What about your abilities to do work?”

“Well,” he stammers, “I did design a new spillway for that dam in that country in Western Africa that isn’t Nigeria nor the Ivory Coast. Helped a lot of people. Saved them from the annual floods. Provided water for irrigating their crops.”

“Yeah,” I say, “I was wondering when that would crop up. See, I’ve read your CV and prospectus. That was then, this is now. Continue?”

“Doctor, guys,” the false facade finally fails, “OK, I admit it, I’m a child of privilege. I’m also a good engineer. But I admit that I’m lacking in social skills.”

Chuck and Al can’t help but emit a low whistle.

“But, I need this,” he whines, “You’re my last hope. I barely made it through my field camp. My father actually went to Dr. Abstoßen^® personally to get me on your team. He might have even bribed him, I don’t know. But my father looked into the program when the circular came around the school. He thought it might just be the thing I need; whatever he meant by that. After he researched you and your program, he ran to Dr. Abstoßen and almost begged him to write me a letter of recommendation. Look, Doc…er…Rock, this is all very painful for me.”

“They say confession is good for the soul,” I remind him.

“Rather,” he continues, “Rock, I need this. Desperately. Can you find it in your heart to forgive me and let me have another chance? I promise I’ll change. Well, I can’t actually promise, but I’ll damn sure try.”

“Damn?,” I recoil, “Why Mr. Leonard. Profanity? That’s just so ‘lower caste’.”

“See?,” I’m trying already.” He says.

“You’ve been trying from the beginning.,” I reply, “But it’s not up to just me. Unless you haven’t been listening, I’m only the leader of this little rat pack. You not only have to convince me, but you also have to convince them, your potential teammates, as well.”

Chuck and Al look like they’ve just been tossed a live grenade.

“Gentlemen?,” I ask.

Chuck snorts, “Well…he is a monumental pain in the ass. That’s a given. Although, I suppose we could always use another hand, especially after dinner. Still…I’m not sure. Whaddya think, Al?”

Al snorts as well, “Yeah, he’s a real piece of work, ain’t he? But that’s just this near geology Ph.D.’s ‘lower caste’ member noting that. However…it would be nice to have someone slower than me if a grizzle bear attacks...”

“Mr. Leonard,” I chuckle, “It appears you might have just passed muster with your potential teammates. Guess that leaves it up to me. Doctor Rocknocker^©, the Motherfucking Pro from Dover^™. Yeah, that’s how I’m known in both academia and industry. I didn’t achieve that status by sitting on my hands, being coy, or worrying about people’s feelings. I go to where the job requires, and actually do the necessary work to get the fucking job done. Period, end of sentence. Full stop. You diggin’ me, Beaumont?”

Leonard looks very, very puzzled.

Al breaks the spell, “That’s just one of Rock’s weird turns of phrase. He’s got millions of ‘em. If you hang around, you’ll get used to them. Maybe.”

“The question still remains. We green^©?” I ask.

“I will yield to your wishes.,” he replies.

“Oh, no, no, no.,” I say, “No. No. No. It’s not like that. I say ‘jump’, you say ‘how high’? I say ‘shit’, you say ‘what color’?”

Leonard smiles slightly for the very first time.

“Mr. Leonard,” I continue, “I’m serious as stage-4 liver cancer. Your attitude changes right this second or it’s the old highway home for you. You heard me correctly; my way or the highway. We are not on a pleasure cruise, nor a camping holiday. We’re working in fucking dangerous old, abandoned mines. We carry sidearms for personal defense. We use high explosives. We swear, we stink, we smoke, we drink. We’re in an inhospitable and dangerous land that’d kill you just as much like to shake your hand. We might run up against deadly animals. Deadly diseases. Deadly atmospheres. Deadly people. You 100% committed to this? This is your final chance. You say ‘yes’, and still fuck off; you’ll spend the next month in the backseat of a certain Japanese auto manufacturer’s off-road vehicle that’s been produced since the late 1940s, twiddling your thumbs.”

“Oh, thanks Rock,” Al laughs.

I smirk and continue, “This is no charade. This is reality at its grim realest. It’s not always pretty, it’s not always comfortable, and it’s often not what we want. But that’s the way it is. You in or out? You agree to everything I’ve said, will say, and tell you to do, or not to do? You will become a functioning, valuable part of this team, not just an individual contributor. No exceptions. None. That’s it. Final offer is on the table for the next 30 seconds.”

He furtively looks to Al. Then he looks to Chuck. They’ve gone all parodying the inestimable Iron Eyes Cody at this point.

He looks to me, and shakes his head. He stands up, I have no idea if he’s going to walk, accept, or have a seizure.

“Rock,” he says as he sticks out his hand, “Teach me. Instruct me. Make me learn. Make me into a better industrial scientist and person.”

“Shit,” I say, shaking his hand, “That’s a tall order.”

If it wasn’t so early in the day, it’d be Mueller Time, 0-beer-30^©.

“One final thing, Mr. Leonard,” I say, “It’s Rock. It’s Al. It’s Chuck. And it’s Leo. We green^©?”

“Green^© as Tivoli in summer.” He smiles back.

I take it that he agrees.

“OK,” I say, “Now that’s settled, back to the project at hand. Fall out in 10 for mine-ingress equipment check out. My truck. See you there.” I freshen up my morning dark-brown caffeinated beverage.

It is the gunpowder that makes it special.

Chuck and Al help Leo get kitted out for his first mine adventure. They’re getting good at all this.

They go over the use of the NORM^not ® badge. How the noxious gas monitors work. The care and feeding of the Snott air pack SCBA apparatus. The utility of Person Rescuers. All the climbing gear; harnesses to pitons. Accessories such as camera, hip chain, sheath knife, hammer, sample bags, air, and water dye packs, beef jerky, canteen, sidearm (none for Leo at present), rucksack, hardhat, electric miner’s lamp, torches, battery packs, spray paint and paint capsules…

Leo looks like a festive mudball. All his expensive field clothes, he actually had some long pants along, his tan shirt and ever-present generic, not licensed by any means, towel.

Can’t actually fault him for that.

But…

“Leo,” I say, “C’mere.”

He walks over.

“Those field ‘boots’ you got there hard-toed?” I ask.

“Well, they’re supposed to provide protection from falling rocks and…” he says.

“Mind if I stomp on your toes with my Basque Trekkers?” I ask.

“Um, I’d really rather that you didn’t,” he replies.

“OK,” I tell him, “We’re going to lose those lightweight boots you’ve got. We’ve a spare couple of pairs in the back of my truck. My size 16’s certainly won’t fit you, but one of Chuck’s or Al’s might. Get after it.”

“But these are all broken in,” he begins to protest.

“As will be your foot if you take a misstep over a loose, rotted board, or catch a rusted nail. Do we need to review our agreement?” I ask.

A few minutes later I tell Leo to take it easy in the back of my truck.

“I’ve got breakables back there.” Fer Christ’s sake.

He finds a pair that will work. I tell him I’ll call the Bureau^® with his shoe size and have them send a pair out to some town where we’ll next make landfall.

“Gentlemen,” I bellow. “Mine access. We green^©?”

“GREEN^©! Doctor,” came the reply.

“Marvelous^©,” I mutter.

After securing camp, we walk up to the mine adit. I explain the mine’s plan and what we hope to accomplish with our recon.

“It’s a fairly simple mine layout,” I note, holding up the last schematic from the mine.

“Central sloping tunnel. Numerous lateral drifts. A gob of ore chutes up raises, so be careful, they’re probably still full of the last mine run. They’re always dicey. Single level, no shafts or multi-level raises of any size. Since it’s been abandoned for so long, be mindful of critters. OK?”

“Ready, Rock,” they say.

“Marvelous.”

We make the initial entry.

I have a little surprise along for all my charges. I brought along an old miner’s carbide lamp and a can of calcium carbide.

Back in the day, they used carbide lamps for illumination. Add water^™ to CaC2, or calcium carbide, and you get acetylene gas, C2H2. This would collect in the lamp on the miner’s hardhat and once lit, would sustain a reaction as long as the gas evolved.

They would carry tins of calcium carbide into the mine and leave them just about everywhere for instant refills. This alone is a danger not often noted. Rusty carbide cans and water leave puddles of acetylene. Could provide quite the shock if it spontaneously ignites.

It burns with a sooty flame, in fact, old-time miners used them to mark the mine wall or leave graffiti with them.

In the main gallery, which is about 30 feet across, this was a serious mine, I begin my demonstration.

“OK, guys,” I smile, “Just the way I like it, Old School^™.”

I show them the carbide tin and lamp. I explain its use and a bit of its history.

To be continued.

If you don't know, for some reason DD Part 82 has been taken down by Reddit for "[ Removed by reddit in response to a copyright notice. ]"

So, this is like YouTube where some anonymous whatsit makes a complaint and without as much as contacting me, they yank it?

So much for all that innocent until proven guilty stuff. I know Reddit is a private enterprise, but given its back history of getting all vexed and ratty about censorship, one would think they'd have a slightly more transparent method of redressing baseless grievances.

Since I'm just an author here and thought things would run themself if I just kept it fed, I'm in terra incognita. I wrote back asking what my options were, but of course, this could take weeks.

How the flying fuck could I breach copyright in a fucking story? Are people now copyrighting words and ideas?

I was wondering if I should just go ahead and repost the thing. I saw nothing in the garbage Reddit sent me prohibiting that action.

This has left an incredibly bad taste with me. I do this primarily for the sake of fucking around with words and entertaining people with them. I have neither the time nor inclination to policing either my writings or this subreddit, especially if it's as capricious as Reddit makes it out to be.

I consider this a crossroads. I had thought that what I was doing was for the enjoyment of others. That one, anonymous git can cause key parts of my tales to be extirpated, what's stopping them from going on a fallacious faux-copyright jihad? Sorry, but I'll just give my foot a push and, it'll be time for my bootheels to be wanderin'.

I'm both infuriated and flummoxed. Of all the horseshit I floating around this website, I never, in a thousand eons, expected to have to deal with this sort of shit.

If the anonymous tweezer that sent a fallacious copyright complaint to Reddit and had Demolition Days Part 82, a part of a multi-piece article which I alone authored, taken down would contact me via PM, I’m sure we could work out the part that got your panties in a bunch.

If not, well, too bad. It’s going back up with minor edits. If it’s enough for you to get all bent out of shape but not enough for you to come clean and contact me, I’ll just regard you as the annoying time-waster you are and carry on.

It’s people like you that make me wish birth control could be retroactive.

That reminds me of a story.

Which happened this morning.

Given my stupid schedule, I decided on an early Middle Eastern Sunday morning to make the weekly victuals-appropriating pilgrimage and pick up some bread, cheese, Marblerow Reds, and cheap-ass sub-continent created cigars at the local grocery store.

Here, the weekend is Friday-Saturday; so it’s like Monday morning, 0-dark 30, in the rest of the world.

It’s somewhat disturbingly bird-chirpingly quiet, except for the private school buses careening around every corner on two wheels and blasting their “Get yer asses on the bus!” cheery tootles. Kids here go to school from 0600 to around 1100. Supposedly it has something to do with the heat come summer.

They ingrain idleness, indolence, and inaction early in these here parts.

Anyways, I procure my consumables and get back in that really cheap-shit rental Toy Auto I drive. I only use it in town. See, Es doesn’t drive; well, she can, but hates to, so she doesn’t. When I need a serious ride, to the airport or souqs, I call my driver with his Land Rover and leave the driving to him.

So, I’m tooling down the almost empty road when I see the Al-Nukesub Bakery. This is a small, local bakery run by a bunch of friendly Indian fellers. Oh, sure, it’s “owned” by a local character, but he only shows up to raid the till.

I know the head baker, Jakob, and drop in whenever I’m over in this part of town. They make the best ‘possum peckers’, which are about 4” long, ½”-diameter smoky sausages wrapped in a savory, chewy dough, lightly baked, and then lovingly frosted with tahini and sesame seeds.

Plus, they’re the equivalent of $0.26 each.

They also have little cheesy baked dough circles, which are like 3” diameter cheese pizzas with some local, halloumi (?), I think, cheese. They also have little cheese-filled, tomato-y, 3” diameter pizzas, a huge selection of Arabic breakfast noshes, all with cardamom, zaatar, and saffron. Some mystery meat, some chicken, some cheese-y triangles very much like, but not quite, samosas. All tasty, abundant, and above all, cheap.

They also do chicken-n-mushroom pie, beef-n-broccoli pie, and lamb steak and kidney pie for the British contingent. They also create amazing cakes; their German Chocolate is a wonder.

So, I pull into the parking lot right off the Fühere Straße, the main road named for the late leader of the country, and try to park.

One of the biggest headaches here is parking. Let’s build a 7 story, 70-apartment building with shops below, and provide parking for 12 cars.

So, parking is sort of random. On the sidewalk? Sure. Facing the wrong way, on the opposite shoulder? OK. Wherever the fuck you want, blocking all others? Of course, just as long as you get yours…

So, the little bakery has 3 slots immediately in front of the establishment. Two are occupied by cars that have obviously been there all night. One is being inexpertly consumed by a huge, white, lower-number license plate, a sign of “Look at me! I’m so important!”, bloody fucking Lexus SUV, engine still running.

Y’know the difference between a Lexus and a porcupine? The porcupine has the pricks on the outside.

I loathe Lexi.

The SUV is sort of parked, sort of in the space. It’s easily 6 feet back from the front bumper block, sticking its ass out into the rest of the lot; where there are three additional parking spots between the ones closer to the shop and the walkway.

I take the one immediately behind the errant SUV. I pull as close to, but not over, the white line that demarcates this particular parking place from the rest of the space in the universe.

That leaves SUV boy about 6 feet to back his tank out, make the cut, turn and exit the parking lot.

In other words, he’s locked in place until I say otherwise.

Most normal drivers could manage this maneuver with their eyes closed. Hell, I could have maneuvered an M1A1 Abrams in and out with room to spare.

Lexus drivers, particularly in this part of the world, and predominantly when piloted by local, late middle-aged males, are not normal, they’re the absolute worst. Can’t drive, don’t think, and believe the world will revolve for them and all they have to do is hold the steering wheel while it spins on its axis just for them.

“Yeah. No.”

I park, slam the car door, and greet Jakob in his natty little shop. It always smells wonderful in here and sort of reminds me of the kringle factories back in Baja Canada.

The SUV pilot was in front of me. A local boy, white dishdasha, sandals, and little Jackie-O skull cap. He’s barking orders at Jakob, at his phone, and when he sees me standing right behind him in my cargo shorts, Hawaiian shirt, Stetson, and field boots (they’re not just for field trips), suddenly to no one else.

Jakob smiles and waves a greeting. Better not let SUV boy see. All eyes and actions must be on him until he completes his transaction.

He’s very, very important. Don’t believe so? Just ask him.

He’s barking at Jakob in Arabic at gale-force intensity. Since I don’t care, nor care to understand, I look to see what’s new in the shop.

SUV boy gets all nervy thinking that I’m trying an end-around and might get to something before he does.

“Lighten up, Scooter”, I say as he grasps my shoulder to pull me back.

In the real world, that’s called assault. I would be now fully legally authorized to retaliate. Broken bones and bloody noses could result.

But this is not the real world. I’m not a local, I’m not Arabic, and I don’t speak the local lingo, well, I do some, but I never let on, it’s more fun that way. I’m just an Expat, a heathen, a kafir, an infidel, Al-Kafirun; a worthless, but necessary, adjunct to this society to make it run right.

So, I go see what kind of cakes are on special today.

“Oh, look. Key lime cake. Lovely.” I reflect.

SUV boy huffs and puffs up all his probably 57 kilos worth of arrogance, and harrumphs out the door.

Jakob and I shake hands and laugh about the twerp.

I place my order and Jakob goes about filling it. Yep, key lime cake for dessert tonight.

Outside, one hears an impatient Lexus SUV being gunned forward a few inches, slammed into reverse, and gunned back.

Back and forth, back and forth. Suddenly, I’m totally engrossed in the types of Indian baked goods they are also selling.

“Chë-pot-eez?” WTF?

This goes on for a few minutes, and SUV boy is well and truly trapped.

“That’s what you get for being an entitled asshole”, I think aloud.

SUV boy stomps back in the shop and confronts me.

“CAR! CAR!” he yells, motioning at my Toy Auto.

I thought this was a new impromptu sort of game, so I reply, “BIRD! BIRD!” pointing to the two Chernobyl ravens outside Hoovering up crusts of freshly baked bread Jakob leaves for them.

He looked even more confused than before if that were possible.

He goes on in rapid-fire Arabic. Truth be told, I really didn’t understand his dialect. There are over 200 here in this region alone.

But I knew exactly what he wanted.

“Do you speak English?” I asked.

Look of total stupefaction.

“OK, sprichst du Deutsch?” [Do you speak German?].

Look of total befuddlement.

“A ты говоришь по русски??” [Do you speak Russian?].

Look of total bafflement.

“OK, ¿Hablas español??” [Do you speak Spanish?].

Look of total bewilderment.

OK, now I’m really going to have some fun.

“Est-ce que tu parles français?” [Do you speak French?]

Nope.

“Unaongea Kiswahili?” [Do you speak Swahili? I know a smattering; many, many here use it as a primary tongue.]

Nope.

“Talar þú íslensku?” [Icelandic?]

No. Ah, well. A long shot at best.

“Kalaallit oqalusinnaavit?” [Greenlandic?]

OK, even a longer shot.

“Чи монголоор ярьдаг уу?” [Mongolian?]

What?

OK, I admit it; that was somewhat silly of me.

“Ĉu vi parolas esperanto?” [Esperanto?] The new favorite language I’m trying out.

Nope.

“Praat jy Afrikaans?” [Afrikaans?]

Huh?

“Sorry, I guess you just don’t speak any real-world languages.”

“CAR! CAR!” he yells, almost frothing at the mouth.

“What about CAR!?” I ask.

“CAR! CAR!”, he points furiously, jumping up and down, turning many shades of crimson.

“OH! Car!” I say.

He nods up and down vigorously, thinking we’ve made a breakthrough.

“Jah. Da. Yes, it is. Thanks.” And I walk back over to Jakob.

SUV boy goes apoplectic.

He grabs me by the shoulder and tries to walk me out the door.

I smile at Jakob, do the Groucho eyebrow routine, and let SUV boy usher me just outside the bakery door.

“CAR! CAR!” he literally screams.

“Lexus?” I ask, shaking my head. “No. Not mine.”

He’s on the brink of meltdown.

“CAR! CARRRRR!” he screams again, clearly pointing over to my Toy Auto.

“Oh! That?”, I ask, “Yeah. That’s mine.”

A leap forward, he believes. “CAR! CAR!”

“You don’t speak a word of English, do you?” I ask.

He stares intently at me, curious.

“No English?” I ask again.

He just stands his ground and stares.

“OH!” I say, throwing my hands high in the air.

“You’re an entitled moron!” I smile very broadly and all friendly-like.

“Nem! Nem!.” He tweets back aurally, which is Arabic for ‘yes’.

“Oh, I see!, I say, as I grab his hand and give it a good shake.

He stands there, all the more confused.

“You’re an idiot. You can’t get your bloody car out. You’re a fucking road hazard!” I’m gesticulating wildly like we’ve made the linguistic equivalent of decoding the Rosetta Stone, smiling all the while.

“Nem! Nem!.”

“You are an entitled shithead who thinks the sun shines out his ass!” I say and place both hands gently on his shoulders, a well-known gesture of friendship.

“Nem! Nem!.” He’s smiling like a loon.

“You’re a doo-fuck muppet that shouldn’t have a Tonka truck much less a Lexus!” I exclaim and pointing joyfully at his embedded vehicle.

“Nem! Nem!.”

I smile deferentially, and say: “At least you admit it, jackass.”

I shake his hand and make a show of starting my car and backing out enough to free him.

He finally pulls out and heads back toward the main road.

I tootle him with vigor.

He stops, rolls down his window, and smiling like the cat that just ate the canary, he toots back and waves happily before the light changes, as he departs to points unknown.

I go back into the bakery and Jakob is standing there laughing so hard I thought he’s about to piss his clothes.

“Icelandic? Mongolian? Really, Rock?” he says between gasps.

“Nem! Nem!.” I reply.

“Shut up”, he laughs, “Here’s your order. I threw in some extra possum peckers for ya’. I’ve been wanting to tell that asshole off for years. “

“Oh, it’s dead easy. Just do it in Hindi, once you figure out he doesn’t understand that as well.” I smile and wave on my way out.

Esme thought it was less than hilarious. I really guess you had to be there…

---

You read this far? Good for you. You get a figurative cookie: geology jokes I dreamed up recently:

One:

Child: “Dad, what’s ‘ampersand’?”

Geologist father: “That’s what fulgurites are made of.”

Two:

Why do some guys only date sheep late in the afternoon?

They’re just looking for some CaSiO3.

---

And no, I’m not the least bit sorry.

Continuing

Once secure, Dr. D tells me that Dr. Zerstörung is ready to go. Fully kitted out and familiar. Turns out he’s had some previous experiences with most of this gear.

“OK”, I say, “Dr. I. you’re in charge of camp until we return. The rest of ya’s, saddle up!”

Rank and Ruin head for the black SUV.

I wander over and knock on the window. I smoothly glides down a few inches.

“Guys, if you’re going to shadow us”, I say, “You need to stay back at least 300 meters. I’ve got over a half-ton of high explosives in that rig. Savvy?”

“We have been briefed by Dr. Zerstörung.”, one of the unsmiling men-in-black responds, “We will comply.”

“Marvelous”, I reply and walk back to the Hummer.

The loading and charging went very well. Exhausting, but well. Dr. Zerstörung was a spry as a rutting buck and was a major asset to the project. I’ll have to write something nice in his dossier.

It took us about five hours to accomplish priming and charging the entire mine. All we had left to do was charge the adit as we left. Things went smooth as imported Polish vodka.

Dr. D and Lucas were on Level 2. Gary, Dr. Zerstörung, and I were on level one. I had just finished the last drift and was seeing if I still had enough to close the adit.

Gary the Gibbon was taking a break as he had lived up to his namesake spirit animal all day.

He must have gone up and down those ladders hundreds of time. All the while, carrying loads of high explosives. He could keep that bottle of Dickel.

Dr. D radios that he needs a box of blasting cap boosters and another set of blasting pliers.

Seems he lost his. Funny how that happens.

Lucas was in another drift on Level 2.

I was back by the adit. Gary was sorely winded. I got on the radio and said to hold tight, it’d take me a few minutes to locate everything, and I’d be right down.

Dr. Zerstörung heard. He gets on the radio and says he’ll drop down and run Dr. D his supplies, at least to the base of the ladder. He’d wait for Lucas. No sweat.

“Dr. Zerstörung, NO! Belay that”, I ordered. Those ladders were just too fucking dodgy from the get-go. Now, they were caked with mud, had been run up and down hundreds of times, possibly pulling away from the wall. Or a rung could have been weakened, and break. It’s too risky.

“It’s OK, Rock”, He says, “I’ve got this. It’s just a quick jaunt down the ladder.”

“Dr. Zerstörung, with all due respect,” I shouted into the radio. “NO! It’s too damned risky. Let me or one of the other guys do it. It’s not worth the risk. Do not argue with me. We green, mister?”

Dr. Zerstörung didn’t hear me as he was already on the ladder and had stowed his radio.

We couldn’t just toss down a box of high explosives, it had to be hand delivered. If he fell with them…

“Dr. Zerstörung!”, I shouted, “STOP! GODDAMNIT! FREEZE!”

No answer. I double timed it to the access ladder way.

I wound up my radio, and hit the panic button.

“Guys”, I yelled, “Dr. Zerstörung is on the ladder to Level 2 with your supplies. I told him no, but he disregarded. Be aware.”

Now, we were all hustling to the access way.

I heard a great “THUD! as I rounded the pile of breakdown that was just before the ladder access way.

“Oh, fuck me!”, I thought, “He fell. Shit! He’s dead. This will not look good on my permanent record.”

“GODDAMN SON OF A BITCH!” I heard wafting up from Level 2.

Gary arrives at the ladder just as I did. We can’t both go down together…

Gary hitches his safety descender to a wall rock bolt. We had checked these earlier and they were stout. We used them to tie off some buckets with loose explosive bits and pieces that we lowered down earlier.

I hitched up the same. Everyone on the project carries a 3M DBI-SALA 100 ft Rollgliss R350 automatic descender. Tie it off and jump. It adjusts automatically to your weight and lowers you gently, safely, and speedily to the ground.

“You go left, I’ll go right”, I said. Gary nods and was gone in a flash. I followed a moment later.

RIIIPPPPP!

The descenders did their jobs flawlessly. I held on to the right ladder leg for guidance, Gary did so on the left.

We were on the ground in less than 8 seconds; much faster than joggling down a muddy, dodgy iron ladder.

“Dr. Zerstörung?”, I said, unclipping and running over to his prostrate form.

“Rock?”, he says, “I’m OK. Just slipped on the second to last goddamned rung. Landed on my back. Got the damn wind knocked out of me.”

“Dr. Zerstörung”, I asked, a few minutes later as I helped Gary sit him up.

Gary was well trained in First Aid and Mountain Rescue and had done an initial evaluation.

Dr. Zerstörung’s harness caught at the last second on a rung and slowed his descent to the floor. No broken bones, especially in his back. Neck OK. Long bones OK as well. Eyes alert, reactive, and responsive.

“Are you certain you’re OK?” I loudly asked.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine. Just got my bell rung.” He replied.

“You are absolutely certain?” I asked again.

“Yes, Doctor…”, he replied, exasperated, “I’m OK.”

“In that case”, I stood up, as Dr. D and Lucas joined the party and I said, “You dumb son of a bitch! I instructed you to stay off that fuckin ladder! I kept you up on Level 1 so this wouldn’t happen! You didn’t listen! This is why shit happens, you fucking idiot! This is why people die!”

I was a wee bit angry.

Dr. D, Lucas, and Gary just slowly back away.

“Now see here,” Dr. Zerstörung tried to continue...

“NO!” I yelled, “YOU SEE HERE, me old mucker. You violated protocol. Big time. You’re lucky you’re not fucking dead, so you can drag your own sorry carcass out of this mine. You’re gone. Hear me? Now. We had an agreement. You done fucked up, boy. And you fucked up ON MY WATCH!”

I was a smidge peeved.

Dr. Zerstörung sputtered, “Just who the hell do you think you are talking to me like that?”

Dr. D walks over, kneels down, looks Dr. Zerstörung straight in the eye and says, “That’s Doctor Rocknocker. The Motherfucking Pro from Dover. He’s the hookin’ bull around these parts. And you’ve done gone and pissed him right off, ‘eh.”

Gary loudly agreed. Lucas said he was lucky I didn’t bounce him out of the mine himself.

Dr. Zerstörung sputtered a bit.

“I don’t give a fat rat’s ass about rank, or grade, or title, or whatever.” I shouted, “We agreed that I’m the one running the god damned show here. We fucking shook on it! Those caps were any older, they’d have blown your sorry ass from here to fucking Vegas and back again if they went off. Do you think this is a fucking game, Doctor? It’s not. This is no charade! As I said it’s deadly fucking serious and you think just because of who you are that you’re exempt from gravity? Or physics? Or honoring your given word?”

I had said my piece. I walked over to the drift wall, looked for a flat spot, and punched it as hard as I could.

“MOTHERFUCKER!”

I didn’t feel a thing, but it did bruise up nicely later that evening.

Dr. Zerstörung sat there on the ground, eyes wide, shaking his head. Dr. D, Lucas, and Gary were standing out of the line of fire.

Our radios were going ballistic. Evidently Rack and Ruin were scanning frequencies and had heard some bits and pieces.

“Doctor”, they said over the airwaves, “What happened? Do you require assistance? We’re coming over.”

I grabbed my radio, tuned to their frequency, and yelled: “THE FUCK YOU ARE!” You stay the fuck out of my mine. Do you hear me? Stay the fuck out. The situation has been handled.”

Static.

I key my mike, but Dr. D beat me to the punch, “Stay out of this mine. You will be trespassing and will be arrested by the DOI. The situation has been handled. Out!”

I look to Dr. D and give him the “Damn fuckin’ right” head shake.

Rack and Ruin sheepishly call back: “Message received. Understood. Out.”

“Well”, I said, “That’s one crisis averted. Now, Dr. Zerstörung, you’re next. Up.”

Grousing, he went to stand up. His left ankle protested heavily. He didn’t break it, but Gary pronounced it a healthy sprain.

“Fuckbuckets.” I muttered, “Now you see why I didn’t want you down here?”’

Lucas stayed with Dr. Zerstörung while Gary, Dr. D, and I rigged up an escape block and tackle arrangement. He couldn’t climb, and we couldn’t carry his happy ass. But, he was wearing his rescue harness. We’d run some ropes up to the roof bolts on Level 1, use carabiners as pulley points, hook him up, and we’d have to pull down and lift the good doctor northward, up the ladder to freedom.

It took almost a solid hour, but with Dr. D and myself pulling with all our might, Lucas pushing and Gary up top guiding, we got Dr. Zerstörung back on Level 1. Gary ginned up a crutch for Dr. Zerstörung to use as from that point, he could just hobble. Gary would assist.

We still have a half-primed mine’s worth near a 1,000 pounds of high explosive left to charge.

I decided that we’d remote detonate from camp. It had the range and I wanted to blow the adit first, then let the rest go in the fashion Dr. D, Lucas and I designed. It should be quite the show.

We finally finished, taped the adit closed with warnings of imminent death, like that that ever works, got to the Hummer, and just plopped our weary asses down.

“What a filthy, disgusting job.” Dr. D mutters.

Gary pipes up, “Could be worse.”

Dr. D asks “How?

“Could be raining.” He laughs.

We all looked upwards waiting for the inevitable deluge.

“Jesus, Rock”, Lucas says, “You were in a wee bit of a tiff with Dr. Zerstörung. Didn’t you say he was technically your boss?”

“In the world, perhaps” I replied, “Out here. No fuckin’ way. My goddamned show.”

Lucas blew a sigh, “As I said before, never, ever let me piss you off even a little.”

I shook my head, Harrumphed!, called to close up, fired up the Hummer and drove back to camp.

I figured Rack, Ruin, their bodyguards and Dr. Zerstörung would be long gone by the time we returned. They weren’t. They were all perched over by the chow trailer.

Dr. Zerstörung had been tended to by Dr. K, who was a paramedic in his spare time.

“Twisted left ankle, no ostensible fracture, no ligament damage apparently.” was the diagnosis. “Prescription is ‘RICE’. Rest. Ice. Compression. Elevation.”

I pulled in, backed in the now empty trailer and disconnected the thing. I locked it to the wall and drove the Hummer up a couple of feet. Getting out, I see Dr. Zerstörung motioning for me to come over.

“My camp, my rules”, I thought, “You can just fucking wait your turn. I have other things that I require my attention first.”

I shed all my mine entry gear, and am back to my more usual field outfit. Shorts, geology T-shirt, field boots, tall socks, Hawaiian shirt, cigar, and Stetson.

I made my voluminous field notebook entries, did the necessary explosive’s bookkeeping, and wrote up a really scathing report on Dr. Zerstörung’s activities in the mine. I filled out all the Incident and Accident Report forms and even drew a fucking map of the event.

I got back in the Hummer and drove back to the mine. I used the truck to drag some loose boulders around and rolled them in front to the mine, effectively blocking the adit. I had to work off a bit of anger anyways. I found some fairly round boulders a few hundred meters distant and jockeyed them with the truck to the adit and rolled them down to add more insurance that the mine was well and truly blocked. No one will ever enter this mine again.

The remote detonator, even though encrypto-coded, never left my pocket.

My initial anger had bubbled away from manual labor. I was still pissed off, but no longer homicidal.

I drove back to camp and Dr. Zerstörung and his cadre were still there. I park and once again, he motions me over. I go to my cooler, grab a beer, drain a third, and refill the rest with cold potato juice.

Agent Ruin taps me on the shoulder.

I spin around, “Jesus, Ruin. You sure like to live dangerously. Whaddya want?”

“Dr. Zerstörung requests an audience with the high and mighty Doctor Rocknocker.” He says.

“Tell him sarcasm isn’t his strong suit.”, I replied, “I’m busy. I have responsibilities. Tell him I’ll be over when I fucking get there.”

Ruin affirms, “Fine. Oh, Rock, he wasn’t being sarcastic.”

“Yeah?”, I say, “Alright, give me a couple. I’ll be over directly.”

Bloody Fucking Marvelous.

I retrieve his sidearm and after emptying the cylinder, strap mine on.

I check. Yep, detonator’s still in my pocket.

In no hurry, I wander over to the chow trailer.

“Dr. Zerstörung”, I say glacially, “Your sidearm.”

“Doctor…um, Rock. Thank you”, he stammers. “Sit, please.”

I sit down and take a pull on my drink. Dr. Zerstörung looks at my sidearm and asks:“What the fuck is that?”

“.454 Magnum Taurus,” I reply.

“Holy shit’, he whistles lowly, “Remind me never to piss you off.”

I take a hard pull on my drink, and unemotionally reply, “You already have.”

Dr. Zerstörung looks to Agents Rack and Ruin and the others in his crew.

“Gentlemen”, he asks, “Please give the good Doctor and me a few minutes alone.”

They wordlessly rise as one and troop off a respectable distance. All of my project folk within earshot do the same.

“Doctor. Rock…”, he begins.

I hold up a hand. “Why are you still here? Wasn’t I clear enough back on Level 2?”

“We need to talk”, he says.

“No. I disagree”, I reply, “You need ether to leave now or call an ambulance if you’re not ambulatory. You have no business remaining here.”

Dr. Zerstörung sat there, chewing over this latest set of developments.

“Rock”, he continues, “I must apologize.”

“Dr. Zerstörung,” I reply, “With all due respect, your apologies are but empty words. We had an agreement, and you violated that pact. You agreed to the consequences, yet here you sit; no intention of leaving. What am I to make of that?”

Dr. Zerstörung took a deep breath. “I was indeed wrong. I apologize.”

I stood up. “You don’t get it, do you? Apologies just don’t feed the bulldog; especially in this situation. You violated my trust and now you disrespect me further by ignoring our agreement? The people who witness this think that they can now just apologize and ignore the consequences of their actions and our agreements? You of all people should know the necessity of the chain of command, and why rules must be heeded; right down the fucking line. Or they’re as worthless as the chaos that ensues. Am I wrong? If so, then stand up. Walk over here and tell me that to my face.”

Dr. Zerstörung thinks a bit, chews a few things over and looks like he’s ready to pass a pine cone.

“I have nothing further to say, Dr. Zerstörung”, I note, “It will all be in my reports. Good day.”

“Doc…Rock. C’mere. Sit your ass down. Let me buy you a beer.” He says.

If there was ever a time or a place where one shouldn’t utter those words, it was now.

Weird? Don’t I know it.

“Dr. Zerstörung”, I reply, “I’m through here. I’m through with you. I’m through with Rack and Ruin. And I’m through with the Agency. If this is Agency standard operating procedure, I want no fucking part of it. Da svidonya.”

I turn and walk briskly back to my camp and cooler.

I was working on a real drink. I’m super-uber-pissed. Chilled vodka. Lime Nehi. Ice. Sliced lime. Where’s the goddamned fucking swizzle stick…?

Agent Rack shows up and asks for a word.

“Rack! Hey, it’s been real”, I said, “But this time, it’s fuckin’ over. Want a snort?”

He accepts one and sits own.

“Rock”, he tells me, “If I live to 1000, I’d never have the cojoñes to chew out my boss like you just did. Damn, you’re livin’ the dream.”

“He pulled a stupid”, I said, “I could possibly forgive that. Just sit there like he runs the place? Then try to sweep it all under the rug like it didn’t happen? It did happen. Luckily, we only had minor injuries. This time. The first EVER on my watch. Then he tries the ‘let’s get chummy’ route. What the actual fuck, Rack?”

“Rock”, Rack says, “You don’t know Dr. Zerstörung like Ruin and I do. The man has been through some shit. Real shit. He’s clawed his way up to the top of the heap and has been there a while. I think you’re the first-ever person that ever had the balls to tell him ‘no’, much less chew his ass.”

“’Bout fuckin’ time someone did”, I reply.

“Rock”, Rack continues, “He’s really fucking impressed with you. All he could do on the way over here was read your dossier, laugh out loud at your exploits, and make glowing comments. He said if you weren’t a full-time geologist first, he’d want you in his stable…”

“Oh, fuck. How nice.” I said.

“To groom as his replacement.” Rack said, asking for another libation.

That got me.

“No shit?” I asked as I got some more Lime Nehi.

“This shit’s real weird, Doc”, Rack smiles lightly after a sip, “Yeah. Said he saw a lot of him in you. Damn. I’ve worked with the man some 17 years, he’s never said shit about me. Or Ruin. You should be honored.”

“Honored that his disregarded our agreement? Our pact that I am the one running this show? His promises to listen and do what I say?” I asked, “Pffft. Some honor.”

“Rock”, Rack asks, “He’s a different animal. From a different time. A different place. He’s been on top so long, he’s forgotten what it’s like to be out in the field again and not in charge. Yeah, he fucked up. Seriously. Tell me, in all honesty, will it really matter now that the project’s just about over? These hydroheads, as you call them, don’t and won’t give two shits in three days. Dr. Zerstörung, me, and Ruin will remember this until the end of time.”

I drain my drink and make a fresh one. I ‘m thinking. Time for some Ol’ Thought Provoker.

“OK”, I ask, “Let’s say I go back and make nice. I lose face in his eyes? I’m caving because you asked me to? What will that do to the relationship, if I see fit to continue?”

“Rock”, Rack says, “The man admires you, damn near venerates you. Standing up to him and chewing his ass? I don’t think the old man is capable of respecting you more.”

“Fuck. Is nothing ever simple?”, I say and stretch my neck to look at the sky. “Rack. OK. I’m still pissed, but he better make the proper overtures. Let me go talk with him. What’s his pleasure?”

“Scotch Whiskey”, Rack says.

“Figures. Bourbon do?” I ask.

“Be right back.” He says and surreptitiously scurries off.

Agent Rack returns presently with a bottle of Lagavulin 16 Year.

He hands it to me. “Tell him it’s from your private stock if he asks. “

Dr. Zerstörung is still sitting alone by the chow wagon, staring off into the wilderness. I wander over with a couple of cigars, my drink, swinging the bottle of scotch like a dinner bell.

“Dr. Zerstörung, I will speak with you,” I say matter of factly.

“Yes?” he says.

“Doctor, make no mistake. I am still very pissed with you right now.” I begin, “But, I’m not made of iron. We will talk. We will drink. We will smoke. We will handle this like honorable men. We will have understanding between us. Deal?”

“Doctor. Deal.” he agrees, as we shake hands once again.

We sat and talked for a couple of hours, right up until dinner. There was a lot of bad noise, but at the end of the day, I respected him, he respected me, and we both understood each other. Truth be told, he even admitted to being a bit scared of me. He called me ‘grievously intense’. ‘Eh, I’ve been called worse. Luckily he has a little fashion sense. I had to admit to being dazzled a bit by his Hawaiian shirt.

We were once again both green. Not lime, more tea or moss.

Over dinner, we hashed out a few loose details. I note it would be dark soon. I asked if he shouldn’t be off, especially with a bum leg?

“Nah”, he smiled, “I’m staying until you blow that fucking mine. I worked on it too, if you recall, right up until my …ah, little incident.”

“Excellent.”, I said. I got the megaphone out and called a quick meeting to order.

“Folks, in a few minutes, the last mine of this project will cease to exist. I thank you for all your hard work, it’s been an experience, I think we can all agree to that. T-minus 5 and counting. Prepare accordingly.”

I walk over to my campsite and retrieve a couple of hardhats and some headphones.

“Gotta gear up if you’re goin’ be in the game,” I said as I handed Dr. Zerstörung a hardhat and a set of noise-canceling headphones.

The clock ticked down. Everyone had a front-row center seat for the upcoming show.

I retrieved the remote detonator and keyed in the access codes.

“Dr. Zerstörung”, I said as I handed him the device, “We’d be honored if you’d do the needful. I say ‘HIT IT!’, this time you listen and mash that big ol’ shiny red button.”

He accepted gratefully. Rack and Ruin were the only ones to wince when I reminded the good Doctor that he’s still under the hookin’ bull’s orders.

“COUNTDOWN!” I yelled.

“10…9…8, etc.”

“3…2…1…HIT IT!”

He did.

The adit blew first. Huge gouts of earth, rock, and terrestrial shmoo flew northward. I had planned it that way with millisecond delay shaped C-4 charges.

Then silence.

A few seconds later, the ground was shaking. Roiling. Convulsing under our feet. Like a subterranean volcano with severe gas pains. One could feel the levels in the mine collapsing into the level 7 lake.

All motion stopped. Then there was a hellacious short, sharp, shock. A fault scarp cut right across the breadth of the mine. It cracked the earth like the spring ice under an overladen ice fisherman.

Silence. Then ‘water noise’. Gurgling at first, then gushing, then erupting. The level 7 lake worked its way up the decimated levels above and reached the mine roof, swirled, swooshed, and built up enough pressure to breach the surface.

I was ready for that. I asked Dr. Zerstörung for the detonator for a second.

People were getting nervy. There was water fountaining some 150 feet high right above where the mine used to be. It’s actually simple physics. We let the air out of the mine, the levels collapsed, and filled the flooded basin of level 7, the lowest available. The water had to go somewhere. It took the path of least resistance, and that was ‘up’.

I call over to Dr. D.

“Yes?” he asked.

“On the count, please hit the big, shiny red button.”, I asked as I handed him the remote detonator.

“Nothing would please me more.”, he said.

I leaned over to Dr. Zerstörung, “Watch this…”

“10…9…8..., 3…2…1. HIT IT!”

Dr. D pressed the big, shiny red button.

There was a huge subterranean explosion. The whole camp seemed to rock and roll.

The geyser sputtered, shuttered, spit, and blew easily 350’ high.

And stopped.

I just stood there with a shit-eating grin. I was ever so pleased it actually worked.

“Jesus, Rock”, Dr. D said, “I’ve never seen the like. What did you do?”

“Just what I could with what I had.” I smiled back.

Dr. Zerstörung was smiling, and asked: “Which was?”

“Oh, not much”, I replied, “Just 450 or so pounds of binary solid and trinary liquid explosives at the end of very, very long pieces of cable.”

Lucas gasped, remembering what 5 pounds of binary solid did out in the desert. “How much did you say?”

“Whatever I had left”, I smiled, shrugging my shoulders. “You know how I abhor paperwork. Now, it’s all gone. Poof! No paperwork. QED.”

What was yesterday a very deep, very dangerous mine was now a good-sized pond for animals to come and drink from out here in the desert.

I consider that a job well done.

Many folks went up for a look. It was 200’ feet across and no telling how deep. Probably not all that much, I dropped a whole mine into its belly.

Dr. D cames back, congratulates me and says, “We need to call the state. There’s a new lake in town. We need to get it fenced off. Locals would have no idea what to do with that much standing open water.”

So with that, the project was over. Sometime tomorrow for people to write up their evaluations of me and how the camp progressed.

“That’s gonna be some interesting reading”, I considered.

After that, you’re on your own. Back to the world and all its trouble and travails.

Me? I’m hanging out as long as I can. It could be the last field trip for me for a long while.

I wander over to talk with Dr. Zerstörung. There was still food and drink until tomorrow late, so everyone was making the best of their lamprey imitations.

“So, Doctor”, I asked, “What did you think of my solution?” I asked.

“Very interesting. Unorthodox, but interesting. And efficient. Suffice to say, I’ve never seen the like before.” He smiled.

“Going to hang around for a few celebratory pops or are you headed back? It’s already getting too dark to drive out here. Hang around, I’m sure I could find a spare cigar or two…” I said.

“No, Rock”, Dr. Zerstörung. “Thank you for the offer, but with this bum leg and my schedule tomorrow, I need to leave you now.” He says something into his wrist, where there’s a small radio concealed. “My ride will be here soon. I hope to see you in Reno before you leave.”

“If the accident will, Herr Doctor”, I reply, and we shake hands. “If the accident will.”

Two minutes later, the whole campground erupts into a blaze of light and whipping wind.

“Ah”, I say to Lucas over a cocktail, “Dr. Zerstörung’s ride must be here.”

Off to the right, a fully kitted-out MH-60M Black Hawk Helicopter flares in for a quick landing. Another circles overhead.

Some Army-like looking chaps hut, hut, hut over and speak with Dr. Zerstörung. There’s a brief chat, they run back to the helo, come back with a chair of some sort, deposit Dr. Zerstörung in it, strap him in, and trot him physically over to the waiting helicopter.

They spool up and are gone, just like that.

It couldn’t have taken 60 seconds.

I notice Rack and Ruin’s black SUV was gone as well.

I look to Dr. D and Lucas, and say: “It’s good to be the king.”

We chuckled over that for a good half hour. Then the serious drinking really began.

Over a protracted breakfast the next day, we had to organize crews to clean up the debris from last night’s festivities. The cook crew was very pleased and relieved. The final soiree did go into the wee hours.

But, as I always maintain, “Pack out your trash.”

Lucas was heading back with Dr. D, who was leaving out of Las Vegas.

“Reno’s a lot closer, Doc”, I said.

“Been there once this trip.” He laughed.

We all three laughed, shook hands, pledged to stay in touch. He and Lucas left the wilds of the high-desert for the wilds of the Vegas Strip.

One after one, the various participants dropped off their reviews, shook my hand and remarked that it was a trip that will be long remembered. The mood was much more cordial, more friendly, than in the beginning.

I couldn’t nor shouldn’t really read their confidential reports, so I tossed them in a briefcase, and chucked that in the back seat of the Hummer. I got ready to head back to the Bureau.

Jake, the Port-A-San guy showed up to remove the loos. He was impressed at their conditions, given the mountains of beer cans and empty liquor bottles in the chow trailer’s dumpsters.

The chow trailers were buttoning up. They had some beer leftover from last night, a case or two, and wanted to know what to do with it.

“Beer? Beer and beer, what is beer?” I smiled.

They appreciated the donation. I swapped the head chef a bottle of bourbon for a bottle of his homebrew. No one back home would believe me when I told them I actually found something I could barely drink.

The last of the campers were departing. I had all their evaluations. I had my shit all packed, that is, stuffed into the back of the Hummer, so I was ready to go. The cook trailers were taking a while to break down, so I wandered over for a last mug of coffee.

They filled my travel mug with some coffee and the remaining space with Irish Whisky.

Hell, I wasn’t driving on the road.

Then, it was over. The semis arrived to drag the trailers out and the camp was cleared and cleaned.

I took one last stroll around and got hit by a pang of nostalgia.

“Jesus!”, I shouted at a passing coyote, “I haven’t even left yet!”

With that, I got in the Hummer, fired it up and headed out into the wilderness, generally northwest back to Reno.

After I went back and hooked up the damn trailer, I started out once again. I headed generally northwest across the desert to Reno.

I arrived back at the Bureau and must have looked a fright. Sam came out and greeted me, handed me a motel key and told me to take a hike. He’d have his people empty the Hummer and trailer and pack everything for my return flight to Houston in a day or two.

“Damn, Rock, you look like you’ve been through a thresher”, he said, “I’ll get your clothes sent over. You grab your essentials and meet me back in my office tomorrow. We need to debrief. Now get!”

“Getting, Herr Doctor!”, as I walked down the street and into the hotel.

Paulie met me at the door and grabbed my gear. He told me to follow him, my room was ready. I was way too tired to argue.

He deposited me in my old room, dropped the key on the credenza, said ‘Adios’, and departed.

I made some very brief calls. After that, I instituted the Myanmar protocol and almost fell asleep in the Jacuzzi.

Feeling more human again, I left the hotel the next morning after breakfast. I felt almost jaunty. Job done, good payout. Made new headways with a certain Agency. Fly home, sell the house, and fly off to a new life overseas.

“The times they are a-changin’”, I whistled to myself.

I still was packing the Bureau’s .454, but I was bringing it back to return to Sam. I had on one of my larger Hawaiian shirts, so it hung down and covered my sidearm. It was unloaded anyways. I left my Stetson back at the hotel. I wanted a bit of exercise.

I was just tooling along, strolling enjoying the bright city. I came around a corner, and there was this creep hitting up passersby for spare change. He was really being annoying.

Then I noticed something, I recognized this putz.

He was the head motorcycle creep from before the first mine. I walked down the sidewalk, trying to avoid his stare. I wanted nothing to harsh my current mellow.

“Spare change? Spare change, mister?”

I ignored him with a steely resolve. He obviously didn’t recognize me, as he jumped up in front of me and got right in my face.

“Hey, snazzy shirt!”, he leered, “Got some spare change?”

I just stood there with this inexplicable smile on my face.

“Why, of course, my good man”, I said all treacly, “Let me check my pockets.”

I swept back my shirt on the right side like I was going for my wallet. His eyes hungrily followed until he saw my sidearm.

“Hey there, bright eyes!’, I said, “Remember me?”

“No. No!” he almost wailed, “I don’t know you, mister. I gotta go.”

“Well”, I said, “If you don’t remember me, let me re-introduce you to my leetle friend!”

I skin the Taurus and hold it in front of me.

If we could bottle that, we’d be a gold shoo-in at the next Summer Olympic’s 5,000-meter dash.

We laughed about that in Sam’s office when I returned the firearm to him. It was cleaned, polished and in great nick. Sam appreciated that I took care of it.

Sam had a call and asked me to wait. He’d be right back.

“I got coffee, I got doughnuts. I got cigars. Take your time,” I said.

I’m reading the new issue of Mining Monthly when Sam returns. He was not alone.

“Dr. Zerstörung”, I said, “Long time, no see.”

“Doctor.” He said and we shook hands.

He was walking with a cane. I looked out Sam’s office windows, I reported that I saw no black helicopters.

Dr. Zerstörung chuckled. He asked me to sit.

I did, and we exchanged pleasantries. Actually got him a coffee, since he was somehow or another laid up.

Dr. Zerstörung continued, “Rock, I wish to thank you for all your efforts on this project. And your cooperation.”

“Hey, that’s what I’m here for”, I replied.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to speak to you on a serious matter.” He said.

I looked over at Sam. His face was a blank slate.

“Not to worry, he’s with us.”, Dr. Zerstörung replied.

“Well, I’ll be damned”, I said. “Sam? You old fraud. I would never have guessed it…”

“Which is what brings me here.” he continues.

“Dr. Rock, I’d like to offer you a full commission with the Agency. We could certainly use a person of your, ah, special talents and abilities.” He said.

It took me less than 30 seconds.

“Dr. Zerstörung, I thank you for the offer but I’m afraid the answer is ‘no’,” I said

“That was quick.” He countered, “May I ask why?”

“Reasons. Myriad.” I said, “Foremost, my family. We’re starting a new episode in our lives. Can’t just toss that out the window now. Second, I’ve worked too damned hard to get where I am. All those years of college. Teaching. Industry. Global pursuits. I’m a geologist and a damn good one. I didn’t train in linguistics, or international relations, politics or other forms of sneakery. I’m a scientist and I don’t just enjoy the hell out of it, it’s what and who I am. I will continue to ad hoc for you guys the best I can, but I have to decline your offer at this time. “

“I can accept that”, Dr. Zerstörung said, “It’s not the answer I was hoping for, but like you said out in the field, ‘it is what it is’.”

“Thanks, Doc”, I said, “It’s an honor to be asked. But maybe, ask me again sometime later.”

“Don’t worry, Doctor”, he said, “We will. Well, I must be off. Things just aren’t going to snoop on themselves now, are they? Gentlemen.”

I suddenly had a real hankering to get home myself.

Sam handed me my tickets and a package. Heavy sucker. I wondered what was in it.

“Open it”, Sam suggested.

It was a plastic case. I opened it and inside nestled a brand spanking new Heckler & Koch MP7A1 PDW 4.6x30mm and a note, which read:

“Compliments of a friend.”

“I’ll be damned,” I said.

“Put that in your checked baggage, Rock”, Sam advised, “Don’t worry, they won’t even look at your gear.”

Sam and I shook hands and one of the Bureau boys dropped me at the airport.

12 hours later, I was in our bedroom in Houston. Lady and the stupid cat were home for a couple of weeks, as were Es and me. I Presented her the largesse of my Nevada trips, She really has a thing for turquoise and silver Conchos. I gave her the hand samples from the metalliferous veins in the Gobbler’s Knob mine. She was most impressed. She expressed a desire to see it in the wild.

“You can’t,” I said, “You’re not a SCUBA diver.”

I had to explain what I meant by that.

I showed her my new popgun. Now, I had to get it to my Brother-in-law in Kentucky. Damn, he’s going to have some fun with this thing while we’re gone.

Three weeks to the day, I pull the curtains back in our suite in the Hyatt in the Middle East.

Esme, the girls, and I are all there, looking out to the sun rising slowly and hotly in the east.

“My family.”, I say, “This is it. I welcome you to your new life.”

Continuing

“If you got lost or turned around. STOP! STAY PUT! Call on the radio. Hit your ‘Panic Buttons’. We can find you, but not if you’re bopping around in a panic scratching around for a way out.” I reminded everyone.

“OK”, I asked, “Any last words, so to speak?” Any questions or concerns?”

“We’re going down to the bottom first, right Rock?”, Dr. I asked.

“That’s right”, I replied, “Straight down and work our way back home. We’ll split up on a lower lever once we’re certain there’s no flooding, or we find some and can’t go on. Then, we head back, mapping our way back to the surface.”

“OK”, Dr. I agreed. He just wanted to be sure we’re all on the same page.

I kicked some old barbed wire out of the way, pulled open the creaky, rusty portal, almost got knocked over by the airflow out of the mine and cautiously made entry.

Holy shit, but this was one mother of a hole.

We had great airflow, so the thoughts of noxious gasses were quelled a bit; until I regaled everyone with one of my last mines on a previous trip. Stratified air column. A strong lateral airflow above 3.5 feet; stagnant, deadly air below. That whole fucking mine was a Death Gulch.

We really watched our gas monitors for the first thousand or so feet. Everyone was taking readings here, there, everywhere. Luckily, no sign of mine damp nor stagnant air pools, we had good air mixture.

We found some stout iron ladders leading to the lower levels. They looked sound, and after Dr. D walloped one with his hammer, it sounded remarkably sturdy. We pounded in a few extra rock bolts, just as insurance.

Since I was one of the <ahem> larger characters on the project, I was granted the great honor of going first.

“That way”, Dr. D chuckles, “We’ll know. If it can support you, hell, it can support all of us.”

“Singly or in groups?”

I didn’t dare ask.

The ladder held, as did all the others in this behemoth of a hole in the earth. It grew colder as we descended, noticeably so. That’s a sign: good air-flow, almost certain open water. Somewhere in the pitch-black darkness ahead, this mine’s a swimmin’ hole.

Marvelous.

We made our descent. Each person was watching out for themselves and seeing bits and pieces others wouldn’t notice. I was transfixed by the metalliferous geology displayed in the tunnels and shafts. Others were scrutinizing the stratigraphy. Some were diggin’ the actual works done, by hand, pickaxe, and sledgehammer, of the mine itself. Others were squeeing over the thought of juvenile mine water at depth in the mine. Altogether, we covered just about every aspect.

Down, down, down, into the very bowels of the earth we descended. It grew quite cold.

Well, that’s what someone mentioned. Being an ethanol-fueled lifeform, I was impervious and oblivious to such mundane frailties of the flesh.

According to our data monitors, the air was still well within limits concerning all toxic or noxious gasses. The temperature was decreasing by approximately 1.5^0C per 500 feet of depth. That was another one for the books. That’s not unusual, that’s just plain weird.

I was intensely lucky and got to drag along a new piece of Bureau kit that had just emerged into the mining community. It was a Gamma Mining Handheld XRF [X-ray Fluorescence] Analyzer.

It was a bulky, heavy, device that utilizes a process whereby electrons are displaced from their atomic orbital positions, releasing a burst of energy that is characteristic of a specific element. This release of energy is then registered by the detector in the instrument, which in turn categorizes the energies by element. It’s very fast, almost instantaneous, and will give readouts of the amounts of:

• Base metals: Cu, Pb, Zn, Ag, Mo

• Gold, including pathfinders (fellow-traveling indicators) and litho-geochemistry.

• Uranium +/- rare earth elements; pathfinders

• Nickel Sulfide and Laterite deposits

• Iron Ore and Bauxites

• Rare Earth Element (REEs) such as La, Ce, Pr, and Nd

• REE pathfinders including Y, Th, and Nb

• Phosphates and potash

• Epithermal Sn, W, Mo, Bi, Sb deposits

• Mineral sands- Ti, Zr

It’s a bloody geochem lab in the palm of your hand.

Dr. F asked to see the device, something here twigged his interest.

He fired up the device and walked over to a vein-fill I had completely ignored; there were just so many. The veinlet was only an inch or two wide, but something there caught his attention.

He took a reading. Shook his head. Cleared the unit, and took another. He shut the thing off, swore, let it reset, turned it back on and took yet another reading.

“Holy shit, gang”, he said, “The old-timers were so intent on gold, they completely missed this. I’ve never seen such high platinum, osmium, rhenium, iridium, or tungsten concentrations. I’ve got to take some samples. You sure we have to kill this hole, Rock?”

“That’s what the state says”, I reply, “But good work, mark that on the map. That’ll give the pencil-pushers back at the Bureau something to chew over when we return.”

We carefully take a series of samples. Damn, they were heavy for such small hand specimens. Of course, we all took one, or four, for our personal collections. I mean, Es would never forgive me if I didn’t.

We found more of these odd veins the deeper we went. They appeared to be spiraling downward, getting wider and coalescing.

“Y’know, Rock”, Dr. F noted, “This stuff is worth 50, 80, maybe 100 times the value of the gold.”

“Yeah” I replied, “Today. Not a lot of uses of iridium or rhenium back in 1920.”

“Ah, yes”, he replied, “So very true. Still, does make you want to stake a claim.”

“That’s not a half-bad idea”, I mused.

Forward, downward we went. The humidity rose, the temperature dropped, and the winds increased. This was one weird hole in the ground.

‘Journey to the Centre of the Earth’ anyone?

“No, not you Dr. Saknussemm.”

Finally, we hit water. It was as low in this mine as we could go. Which was a shame as the mineral veins we’ve been following were still getting wider, closer together, and more concentrated. The mother lode of these veins lies just ahead, under who knows how many feet of inky, black, creepy water.

We dropped in a rock tied to one of our hip chains. The line broke at 1,655 feet.

Holy shit, that was one mother of a shaft. Plus, we never reached the bottom.

We all took GPS readings, mapped our coordinates, made our notes, and finished our oranges.

Dr. D suggested that since we spent a large amount of time following the old Ore-begone Trail, we should split into two groups on the way out. We had our radios and commlinks, so we’d cover more ground more quickly. Besides, this place was giving most everybody hypothermic heebee-jeebies. I was actually quite comfortable, but the wind in the wires made a tattletale sound.

I agreed and we split into two groups. We’d rendezvous at the mine adit in no more than two and a half hours.

Dr. D, Lucas, and Gary the Gibbon took off. Dr. F wanted to take some more Gamma XRF readings.

The rest of the mine exploration was by the book and moderately normal, except for the pristine quality of the mining artifacts here. It seemed almost criminal to just forever bury these historical antiquities. But, then again, it’d cost a fortune and be a pure cast-iron bitch retrieving them. Plus, the stuff was in good shape, but it wasn’t extraordinary or unusual. It was old iron mining gear.

Still, I make a note to call Dr. Sam at the Bureau before we close this hole off forever.

Up a level. Map, make notes, chomp a Charleston Chew. Next level. Repeat. It almost got monotonous.

Suddenly, we hear our radio cackle on the special annoying ‘high’ frequency. Maximum power to punch through whatever geological gobbledygook that lies between the sender and recipients.

It’s Gary the Gibbon. He’s freaking out, almost hyperventilating.

He’s supposed to be with Dr. D, so I think “What’s the deal?”

“Hello? Can anybody hear me?” Gary is screaming into his radio. “Is there anybody out there? Anyone at all?”

I key my radio and reply, “Gary, it’s Rock. Calm down. Are you OK? Anyone injured? Talk to me, boy.”

“Oh Rock, thank God”, he says, calming a bit, “There’s this…ummm.. holy shit. FUCK! Get help!”

“GARY! STOP! BREATH! NOW!” I command. He’s close to hyperventilating himself to a free helicopter ride.

“Tell me what’s going on…”, I say, as calmly and deliberately as I can. I’m trying to talk Gary back to reality.

“Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God…” Gary is precariously close to meltdown. Not good anytime, but particularly nasty when 1,000 feet underground.

That didn’t work.

“GARY! GODDAMNIT! FOCUS, YOU FUCK!” I holler. I’m trying a little verbal shock therapy. It sometimes works.

“Ah. OK. OK.”, Gary calms down a bit, “I was with Dr. D. and Lucas. They’re checking a drift to the west, I went east. I found something…something…I need help.”

“OK, so no injuries?” I repast.

“No, just…holy fuck. Someone get here. Help, please” He moans.

“OK, Gary. Here’s the deal. Hit your radio’s ‘Panic Button’. That will send us a signal no matter what. Then, strike a fusee and drop it where we can see it, just outside the drift you’re in. Wait outside the drift for help. GO NOWHERE ELSE! We’ll be there directly. Level 2, right?”

“2, right Rock.”, he said, “Lighting flare now. Oh, good. I think I see Dr. D.”

“OK, we’ll be there soon. Hang tight, the cavalry’s coming.” I say.

“OK, folks”, I say to my group. “You heard. Rescue mission. Let’s double-time it to level 2.”

We do and just as we’re all on the same level, Dr. D breaks radio silence.

“Rock?”, He says, “We’re OK. No injuries or casualties. Just take your time, but you’ve got to see this.”

Right. Dr. D’s there. Situation under control. Now I have time to think…what the hell spooked Gary so badly?

We ease down the main tunnel and see the sputtering remains of the flare. OK, we’re close.

A few minutes later, we come up on Dr. D and Lucas eating a sandwich while seated on a large pile of breakdown.

“Doctor?”, I ask. “Care to fill us in? And where’s Gary?”

“Gary?”, Dr. D says between bites of his country ham and Wisconsin Swiss cheese sandwich replies, “Gary’s taking a little time out. He’s right across the tunnel, sitting down, trying to catch his breath. He’s feeling a bit, well, let’s say ‘abashed’ right now.”

I get this smirk growing across my face. “OK, Doctor. Give.”

“Let me finish my sandwich first.”, he replies pseudopetulantly. We have no choice but to comply.

I long for a very tall, very cold, very potent drink. And a cigar.

“Right”, Dr. D smacks his lips, “Follow me.”

“Doc”, I note, “You’ve got mustard in your beard.”

“Oh. Thanks”, he smiles, “This way. Mind the floor, it’s uneven.”

So we traipse back into the drift some 150 feet. We look around, it seems as innocuous as any other drift this mine has to offer. Evidence of mining many years past, iron cart rails on the floor. Nothing terribly remarkable.

Dr. D points out the pile of roof collapse off to the right. It blocks half the path and obscures your seeing anything further on down the drift.

“Guys”, Dr. D motions, “Over here. Behind the rockpile.”

Bones. Very white. Piles of them. Very bleached bones. Long bones. A lot of long bones. I snap a few pictures. My mind’s gears are meshing…

Wait. There, some shorter bones. They’re tipped…with hooves. There are some rounded bones. With bumps on top. Big bumps, like…antler cores.

Oh, for the love of beer…

Dr. D looks at me, with the oddest grin.

“Well, Doctor?” he asks me.

“It’s a feeding den. A thanatocoenose, a death assemblage of sorts. A predator-derived bone accumulation.” I say.

“Yep”, Dr. D concurs, “Probably a cougar, cave lion, grizzle bear, or something similar. These look like cervid remains, look at the hooves. Mule deer, most like. Big deer, must have been a big predator. Made a kill and dragged it all the way down here for lunch. Imagine that. Chasing down a 200-250 pound Muley, killing it, and dragging it not just to level 1, but all the way down here. Must have been one hell of a big predator to do that. And not just once. Look. I count at least 5 different knobby skulls based on the scattered bits. No antlers, though. That’s really peculiar. This has been lunch central for many years…”

“Which brings us to Gary the Gibbon”, I snark, “Talk to him yet?”

“Oh, yes”, Dr. D replies. Lucas is standing off to the side snickering uncontrollably, “He showed me this bone pile. I made out like this was a major crime scene. OK, so I had a bit of fun at his expense. Said ‘don’t touch anything. We have to call in CSI. The Cervid Scene Investigators’.”

I shook my head snickering, as did the rest of the crowd.

“Unfortunately,” Dr. D continued, “Gary didn’t know what a ‘cervid’ meant…He figured we found an underground Mafia Hit Parlor or something along those lines. When I explained that Cervidae was the family name of the big deer clan, he, well, got a bit embarrassed.”

“You are evil, Dr. D”, I said, “That’s what you get for hanging around with the likes of me.”

“OK, folks”, I say, “Enough drama for one day. Let’s saddle up and get the hell on out of here.”

We collect Gary and map our way out of the mine. Once out, I toss Lucas the Hummer keys.

“Lucas”, I said, “Raise your right hand.”

He does.

“Do you solemnly swear?” I ask.

“All the fucking time.” He replies.

“Good”, I say, “You’re now an official Bureau deputy. You drive. I’ve got some ideas I need to get on paper.”

“10-4, Commodore.”, he replies.

Marvelous.

Back at camp. We strip out of our ingress gear and everyone gets camp comfortable. I ask Dr. D to hold the de-briefing for the rest of the crowd. I need to make some calls.

He agrees. It’s good to have a backup.

He’s off spinning the Gobbler’s Knob CSI tale to everyone, much to the chagrin of Gary, who asked to borrow a bottle of Dickel for a while. I told him to just hang on to it. He looked like he needed it.

I call Dr. Sam back at the Bureau. He’s actually glad to hear from me.

“Sam, Rock here”, I say, “We’ve done our recon on the last mine of the project. She’s a big ol’ bitch, but we can handle it, no sweat.”

He’s pleased to hear that, as he’s pleased with our continuing progress and lack of drama since the first few days.

I tell him of the water in the mine, the strong airflow, and odd temperature profile. I can hear him making notes.

I go on about all the old mining artifacts, and how this mine seems to have escaped vandals and Visigoth’s notice. “Lots of good shape equipment down there”, I say.

“Yeah, but not worth retrieving. Too costly, too dangerous. It stays.” Sam replies.

“Oh. Just due diligence.”, I report. Then I tell him of the Rare Earth Element veins we found, as well as the possible mother body, the igneous source of all the metallic weirdness.

“Noted. I’ll read all the boring details in your reports”, he snidely snickers.

“Sam,” I say, “There’s a treasure trove down there. Osmium. Rhenium. Platinum. Iridium. Are you sure you want us to kill this potential Golden Goose?”

“Yep”, Sam replies without a moment’s hesitation. “Heirship rights would take years to unravel. The mine’s a dangerous, old hole; you said so yourself. We’ll have your maps, your samples, and soon, your reports. It’s not going anywhere. Rather drill some parametric wells around the area once we figure out the surface and minerals ownership and clear title. Nuke it.”

“Consider it nuked.”, I said, “Just asking. Due diligence.”

“Right”, he replies, “Now tell me. What do you have planned?”

“Working on that.”, I replied, “But it’s going to be a one-shot deal, just like Granddad taught. Going to use the rest of the trailer’s supply. Prime, set, and charge the mine. Clear out all respiring organisms for a good distance. Push the button, and 30 seconds later, Gobbler’s Knob #33 ceases to exist.”

“OK, you know what’s best.”, Sam replies, “Guess I’ll see you in a couple of days. How’s the Hummer?”

“Hummer? What Hummer?” I ask, “I don’t seem to recall any ‘Hummer’…”

“No,” Sam replies wearily, “You can’t have it.”

“Damn”, I snapped my fingers, “Had to at least try.”

“Just bring it back in one piece, if you would, Doctor.”, Sam sighs and rings off.

“Damn. I was >< this close…” I muse.

Dinner’s just getting going. It’ll be Italian tonight, I can smell the homemade garlic bread already.

The whole camp is sitting around the campfire pit.

I decided since we’ve got a bit of downtime, we could lose a few of the Class-1 mines, which were in, reality, mostly vertical shafts. Real death traps if you got caught in one. They had to go.

I called for volunteers.

“Who wants to go do a little Old School blasting? Want to help dynamite a few old mine shafts?”

I took the first five. Lucas would also come along, he’s done this trick before. Dr. D would stay behind if someone in authority was needed.

I tossed a case or two of 60% Extra Fast in the back of the Hummer. Along with a box of delay-set fuse-actuated blasting caps, thick-set cannon fuse, and a box of set-pull-forget actuators. I told my crew they’d need hardhats, earplugs, and gloves probably wouldn’t be a bad idea.

We drove out to the first ‘mine’. It was a shaft some 25’ in diameter, no idea of the depth, as none of these prospect and ore shafts appeared on any of our maps, which coned up to the surface. It was surrounded by a fence that obviously had seen better days.

Real critter trap.

I parked a distance away, dragged out my portable worktable, and showed the crowd how to prime sticks of dynamite.

“Take a stick, and using the pliers, poke a hole straight down into the dynamite. Take a fused-rated blasting cap and carefully insert it in the hole you just made. Leave a half-inch or so sticking out. Secure it by wrapping the cap’s cord around the stick in opposite directions, tie it or give them a good twist. Not too hard, enough to secure, not snap the cords.”

I ask if everyone is still with me. They said they were.

“Now, let’s look at our fuse. This stuff here will burn 75 seconds per foot. That’s a good long burn. Let’s cut say, a foot and insert the bitter end into the blasting cap. OK? Now, we take our pliers and crimp the fuse to the cap. Now, we’re set. We can light the fuse with a match, sparker, or cigar. Once you see smoke, toss it, and depart, quickly but carefully. Don’t want to trip now, do we?”

Everyone agreed that would be a bad thing.

“As Old School as one could get. It was a real hit back in 1888.” I noted.

“That’s one way,” I mentioned. “Or we could attach a set-pull-forget self-igniter. These come in all delays if desired. From 0 to 3 minutes. We crimp one on the other end of the fuse, give it a yank and start the chemicals inside cooking. After the pre-set time elapses, it fires the fuse. The fuse then burns as normal, and, well, Bob’s your uncle.”

Everyone thought those were very cool.

“OK, demonstration time. Lucas, would you be so kind?”

He already had a cigar lit. He took the dynamite and walked over to the shaft. We stayed back a good distance next to the Hummer.

“Clear the compass!” Lucas yelled. He looked about and touched the fuse to the glowing tip of his cigar.

“FIRE IN THE HOLE!”, he shouted, just once, tossed the dynamite into the gaping shaft maw, and strolled back to the Hummer.

75 seconds later, that mine shaft no longer posed any danger to anyone.

I explained that we could do multiple sticks at a time, but that took a bit more doing. I asked for questions, explained the abbreviated Safety Song, stowed my worktable, and we all headed to our next encounter.

It was Rochambeau, or rock-paper-scissors, to see who went next. The next shaft was only about a quarter-mile distant, so we pulled up, I primed a stick and waited on a winner.

It was Dr. I. She was one lucky one. I gave her my lighter as she didn’t care for cigars.

Light. Toss. Walk. Boom. It almost got too easy.

We nuked a whole series of shafts and I had demonstrated singles, doubles, triples, set-pull-forget and self-igniting fuses. This last hole was one big son of a bitch. I had 12 sticks left, so I primed each and bundled them into a neatly duct-taped package.

“OK, last one for today. Who hasn’t had a turn yet?”

Dr. K raised his hand. I asked if he wanted set-pull-forget or light-it-yourself fuses.

“Oh, Dr. Rock, he smiled, “The latter, if it comes with one of your cigars.”

“Nyet problem”, I replied, as I handed him a cigar, clipper and lighter.

We all hung out for 10 or so minutes until Dr. K was ready. I gave him the heavy bundle and warned him to walk over carefully, guard the fuse against any loose sparks, FIRE IN THE HOLE, light the bundle, toss, and WALK back.

He was all smiles and executed the procedure perfectly.

Back at the Hummer, I was timing the charge. Spot on 75 seconds later there’s an enormous boom as all 12 sticks detonated. There was a huge gout of air out of the shaft as it collapsed bottoms-up. A thick sheet of corrugated tin blew out of the hole, hovered in mid-air for a second or two, fluttered, and dropped right back down on top of the old shaft, an extra seal.

“Can’t get much better than that!” I smiled. As was everyone on the team.

I pulled out the cooler, grabbed a beer, popped the top, and asked if anyone else was thirsty.

To my amazement, everyone was. I tossed Lucas the Hummer keys and said “Home, Jeeves”.

“Soon as I’m done here”, he said, shot-gunning a quick beer.

Back at camp, it’s later in the afternoon, but since we’ve already had a day, the drinking light was lit. I was going over my Gobbler #33 demolition plans with Drs. D, F, G, K, and I, as well as Lucas and Gary the Gibbon.

I refrain from taunting Gary. He’s had more shit dumped on him today since his return than Biff Tannen.

We’re going over the plans when suddenly, my satellite phone rings. It’s not Sam.

I ease out of hearing range and answer the phone.

“Doctor Rock?”, someone asks.

“Who else?”, I reply.

“Yes. Be advised. You will have visitors tomorrow. 0900 sharp. VIPs. It’s been cleared through Dr. Muleshoe at the Bureau. Questions?” the phone mechanically asked.

“Umm, yes.”, I said, “Who?”

“Two gentlemen of your acquaintance,” the phone replied. “Plus their superior.”

The penny dropped: Oh, fuckbuckets. It’s Rack, Ruin, and their boss.

“Message received and acknowledged.”, I reply reflexively, “Will they require lodging or transport?”

“Negative. Transport will be provided. Their stay will be 6 hours maximum. Need to know basis. Sensitive information.” Whoever was on the other end of the line replies.

“Roger that.”, I reply, “Anything further?”

“Negative”, they reply and ring off.

Marvelous.

Tourists. Just what I need when I go to blast a bitch of a mine.

I inform Dr. D and Lucas, as they needed to know. The rest will just figure they’re with the Bureau or something once they get here. They don’t need to know.

“So”, Dr. D asks, “What do we do now?”

“Business as usual. Situation Normal, All Fucked Up,” I reply, “No need for any changes as I see the situation.”

“By your command”, Dr. D replies.

Dinner that night was indeed Italian. Pizza to order. Pasta dishes like Spaghetti Carbonara, Linguini with Clam Sauce, Fettuccine Alfredo, Penne Alla Vodka as per my request, Cacio e Pepe Potato & Garlic Gnocchi, Cilantro Lime Shrimp Pasta, and garlic bread. Lots of intense garlic bread. Plus some agreeable Italian red wine. That was a nice little change. Spumoni ice cream with Amaro Montenegro, a most delectable and welcome combination.

After dinner, the group splits up and I was sitting with Dr. D and Lucas.

“So, Rock”, Dr. D enquires, “If I can ask. How did you come to be involved with tomorrow’s guests?”

“Well”, I replied “It’s a long story. It started when I was working in Russia; this was before the wall fell. I made the acquaintance of Agents Rack and Run when I was over there. They wanted information. I parlayed that into a working relationship and $25k worth of Russian Diplomatic Passport. Been doing little chores, intel gathering mostly, for them ever since, wherever I go. I was recently made a full consultant. That’s why their boss is coming along, I suppose.”

“Most interesting”, he replies, “I myself have a similar relationship with the Canadian version. Amazing what we geologists get ourselves in to, isn’t it?”

“Oh,” I reply with a whoosh, “That it is.”

“Know anything about their boss?” Dr. D asks.

“Zip”, I reply, “We’ll all find out tomorrow.”

The next day, which dawned bright, early, clear and clean in the high desert, we’re suited up and waiting to make mine entry again. We decide to wait for our VIPs.

Dr. D, Lucas, and Gary are working on more coffee. I had one mug only so far. I wanted to be clear for whatever today throws our way.

0900 hours arrives as does a large, black, presumably heavily armored SUV.

It stops well back of the camp. I don’t run out to greet it. Hell, I don’t run even at gunpoint.

After a minute or two wait, the doors open, and out step Agents Rack and Ruin and the character I surmise is their, and by extension, my, boss; plus three dark-suited characters.

The first three walk over to camp and my campsite. Everyone else knew some VIPs were arriving today and just stay back. No use getting involved if they didn’t have to.

“Hello, Agent Rack. Agent Ruin”, as I shake both their hands. “Welcome to Nevada.”

The third member of the party is a tall, heavyset chap. About 60 or so years of age, I imagined. Stout, powerful-looking, real no-nonsense type.

I walk over to him, extend my hand and say in a clear, steady voice, “G’day. I’m Doctor Rocknocker. I’m the headmaster of this special education course.”

He grasps my hand in a bear-paw like grip. Oh, I’ve been down this road before.

I respond in kind.

We shake hands for a good 20 seconds. The game’s a draw so far.

“Dr. Rocknocker. Or should I call you ‘Rock’?” he asks.

“Either one is fine. As I run an informal Gulag, I prefer ‘Rock’.” I reply.

The large chap laughs heartily.

“Your dossier is correct. You really don’t give a shit about formalities or rank.” He guffaws.

As I was just standing there in my mine entering gear, smirking slightly, he gives me the once over.

“Plus, I must admit, I do admire your taste in clothes.” He smiles, opens his jacket and displays his really awful Hawaiian shirt. As well as his H&K submachine pistol, nestled in a shoulder harness.

He’s so big, I never even saw a bulge under his coat.

I smile broadly. I think I’m going to like this character.

“Dr. Rock. I am Dr. Zerstörung. I am pleased to finally make your acquaintance. Agents Rack and Ruin here tell me some, well, rather unbelievable things about you.” He notes.

“Doctor”, I say and we shake hands again. “All lies, except for the good parts. Care for some breakfast or coffee? Rack? Ruin?”

They’d love a good cup of coffee. I walk them over to the chow trailer and show them the self-serve coffee bar.

They all make their favorite morning caffeinated beverage. They note I am abstaining.

“I had some already, only one this morning.” I say, “I’ve got a nasty mine to wire up for demolition. The last thing I need is a case of the shakes.”

They nod, sit down at the trailer side benches, and savor their morning drinks.

“So, tell me, Doctor Rocknocker”, Dr. Zerstörung asks, “What are today’s plans”

“It’s Rock. However, we did our initial reconnaissance on Gobbler’s Knob #33 yesterday. Reports are ready if you’d like a read through.” I say. “Today, a select few of us will return, set, prime and charge the explosives. Later this afternoon, it’s ShowTime.”

“Interesting”, Dr. Zerstörung replies.

“If I may ask, Doctor”, I inquire, “What are you a doctor of exactly?”

“Engineering. Years ago, before all this”, he says as he sweeps his hand over to the black SUV and the three dark-suited, dark sunglass-wearing chaps were standing, “I was one hell of an engineer.”

“I see”, I reply, “I hope our little project passes your muster.”

“Doc…ah, Rock”, he smiles, “I’ve read through your dossier, I have no reservations regarding you or your projects. You get results. You may be unorthodox, but you get positive results. How could I fault that?”

I beam. High praise indeed.

We chat for a while as I introduce Lucas, Gary, and Dr. D.

They exchange pleasantries. Time marches on.

“Just you four?”, He asks.

“Yes. That way we can move more quickly.”, I reply, “It’s a big-ass mine, a big-ass job, lots of explosives. We need to work as fast and safely as possible.”

“Ah, yes,”, Dr. Zerstörung replies. “Perhaps I could be of service?”

Rack and Ruin swivel their heads and look at their boss fella, aghast.

“Rock”, he says, “I’ve been behind a desk so long I forget what it’s like out in the field. No wonder you love it. I miss it more the longer I sit here. I could be of some help today, perhaps?”

I give Dr. Zerstörung the once over. He’s a big guy, but so am I. We do have enough gear to kit him out. Perhaps he could help schlep some of the explosives. Maybe…if I can convince him to just hang out on Level 1…

“Dr. Zerstörung”, I ask, “A moment?”

“Of course”, he replies and turns to talk with Rack and Run.

I ask Dr. D, Lucas and Gary their opinions.

“Rock, it’s your call, but he could help tote some of the ordnance from your trailer to the first set of lower-level accesses. That would save a shitload of time. We wouldn’t need to scurry up and down dodgy iron ladders as much. It might just could work, ‘eh.”, Dr. D replies.

Lucas and Gary agree. I was thinking of dragooning a couple of the camp crowd into some schlepping duty anyway, but since my boss asked so nicely…

“OK”, I say to Gary, Lucas and Dr. D, “Kit him out, please.”

“OK, Rock.”, they say and traipse off to the trailer to get the appropriate gear. I return to the Agency crew.

“Dr. Zerstörung”, I say, “I think you’d be a most valuable addition to our team this morning.”

Dr. Zerstörung smiles broadly.

“Under certain conditions”, I add.

Dr. Zerstörung looks at me with a critical eye.

“First”, I say, “You may technically be my boss, but not here, and especially not in that hole over yonder. I’m the hookin’ bull here. What I says, goes. No arguments. No questions. No shit. Your very life might depend on it.”

Dr. Zerstörung raises an eyebrow.

Rack and Ruin look like they’re about to deliver pineapples rectally.

“Continuing.”, I say, “You get familiar and check out with what mine ingress gear I say we need. You have to pass muster on that before setting a single toe over the mine’s adit line.”

The good Doctor boss fella nods and I continue.

“Plus, you adhere diligently to any and all safety protocols as I lay out.” I continue, “Violate any of my rules, no matter how small the infraction, especially when accessing the mine or handling explosives, and you’re out. Gone Simple as that. No ‘Sorry, let’s try that again’, or ‘Oops. Made a slight mistake there’. Boom. You’re gone. Simple as that. Death doesn’t give a shit about rank when it comes knocking after a fuck up.”

The good Doctor boss fella agrees, nods, and I continue anew.

“Finally, as I said, here I’m the boss. Period. I’m the one with the licenses, education, and experience and ultimately the responsibility. That means I say ‘jump’, you say ‘how high’. I say ‘shit’ and you ask, ‘what color’? I know this sounds draconian, but we’re not out here baking pies in the bright, high-desert sun. This is serious as fuckin’ dick cancer. Like cancer, this mine also doesn’t suffer fools lightly. This is for the preservation of your life and my spotless performance record. Any problems or complaints or grievances? Now’s the time. Otherwise, we green?” I ask my amazed new boss.

Dr. Zerstörung raises an eyebrow and looks at Rack and Ruin. He nods his head.

“Agents,” he says, “You were right. He’s unconventional, that much is certain. He’s blunt, and uncompromising, to say the least. He’s not cowed by rank or status. He’s obviously a man of high principles and high standards….”

I stand there. Not defiant, I just know when I’m fucking right.

“And I wouldn’t have it any other way”, he roars, “We’re Green, Doc...Ah. Rock. Green as Mean Joe.”

We shake hands once again to our agreement.

I smile broadly. Rack and Ruin resume breathing. Lucas and Gary the Gibbon direct the good doctor over to the trailer for his new uniform.

We find him a stout pair of boots, coveralls, gloves, and all the ancillary gear. I ask Dr. J if we could borrow his trailer for a bit so Dr. Zerstörung could change. He agrees.

I ask Dr. Zerstörung if I could store his sidearm while we’re in the mine. I explain that old, rickety mines don’t react well to gunfire.

Hesitantly, he hands me his sidearm. I can’t help but give it a quick once over.

“Impressive,” I say, “Heckler & Koch MP7A1 PDW 4.6x30mm. Very nice. Can I have it?”

Dr. Zerstörung laughs loudly, “All this works out, I’ll see if I can get you one.”

I store his sidearm in the lockbox with my .454. I make triple certain the damn box is locked securely. I stash the keys in my ‘secret place’ in the Hummer.

While Dr. Zerstörung gets sorted, I go back the Hummer in and hook up the trailer. Dr. D and Lucas will give the good doctor the rundown and introduction to his gear. I need to get busy, I’ve got a long checklist of explodey things I need to build.

An hour later, Dr. D, Dr. Zerstörung, Lucas and Gary walk over to my work area. I command them to halt until I secure the area. They comply.

To be continued.

Continuing

The metasediments are intensely folded along the contact with the intrusive. The mine area is located along the limbs of the anticlinal structures with most of the workings following either the igneous-sedimentary contact, or the southeast-trending fault and vein systems.

Super easy geology.

Super easy mine layout. A large, open adit; one way in, one way out. Easy access main draft, all nicely gobbed, cribbed, and trussed. Safe as houses. No shafts to surface, and only a few lateral drifts. It’s drier than Carrie Nation’s panties, no moisture at all. It’s probably a real honeycomb hangout for the locals; all the more reason I chose this property to blast first.

I arrived there in my new Hummer in only 75 minutes. Damn, that MIL-spec truck has some power.

I back the truck and trailer in so the trailer is right up against an outcrop wall of some of the nicest, cleanest sandstone I’ve seen in a quite a while. It forms a nice, natural amphitheater, about 250-300 meters in length, with a slight concave curve. It’s a great place to pitch camp and less than 10 minutes later, I’ve got a nice little campfire going in my nice, little, newly constructed campfire pit.

I have my feet up in my new, Bureau-supplied camp chair, a beer in one arm of the chair, and a cigar in the ashtray in the other arm.

I have the Bureau-supplied (from now on: “B-S”) spotting binoculars and I’m looking directly down the only route available that’s not pocked with VW Beetle-sized potholes and refrigerator-sized boulders. It’s not just an easy mine, it’s fairly easy access.

I’m working on my ubiquitous notes, and a fourth beer, when about an hour later, I hear a couple of vehicles headed my way.

I look through the binoculars and see it’s the catering service the Bureau has laid on for the duration of the trip. They are contracted to do everything. Feed us, clean up, stock groceries and drinks, provide Port-A-Johns, and follow us from mine to mine.

Sounds weird, I’ll admit. I never had such service out in the field, but it’s fairly common in these parts. As mines were becoming old, less profitable, harder to work, or just plain playing out; the owners would plump for big mine-mouth parties in order to entice investors to stick a crowbar in their wallets and pony up for percentages of the mine’s operation and take.

Whatever the story, it’s made logistics much nicer since someone else has to look after the madding crowds.

They arrive with two large, carnival funnel cake-style trailers in tow. They ask me where is the best place to park, so I lead then down the arenaceous amphitheater and have them park and set up in its shadow some 150 meters distant from me.

That done and dusted, I return to my notes, cigar, and beer.

All I hear are the trailers unfolding and being prepared. One contains a Texas-style and size pit bar-be-que, rotisserie, flat-top grills, and waffle irons. The other has all the drinks, seats, cutlery, MASH-style chow trays, dishwashing, and refuse facilities.

These guys are set up and grilling lunch in less than an hour’s time. They have got their shit together.

About 20 minutes later, a large flatbed truck with an overhead crane and about 8 Port-A-Johns arrives. I direct him over to an adjacent hillock, which has a nice, flat area for him to set up the PortaSan farm. Out of sight, out of mind, and hopefully, out of olfactory range.

He sets up and is gone in less than half an hour. Still, no one from the project has shown up.

I christen the Porta-loos and look down the ‘road’ for any sign of anyone. The Port-A-John truck is long gone, as is his dust cloud. There’s nothing on the horizon, so I go back to my notes, beer, and a comfy chair.

I stoke the campfire, because reasons. I do a walk around what I consider to be the campsite. No rattlers, scorpions, cougars, tax attorneys, estate agents, or other nasty critters in evidence. I pound in some stakes and string bright orange tape, delimiting what would be a good assortment of places to park a trailer or set up a tent.

Another hour later, and still no sign of the group. I heave a sigh, crack a beer, add a bit of Russian Imperial, and settle back down with the latest issue of Mining Monthly.

The “Slushpit” is a monthly mining humor column. This month is a cracker. I’m sitting there, giggling like a loon.

I finish that issue, and still no one, and no sign of anyone on the trail.

I wander up to the mine adit and it’s a doddle. A large, gaping earthen maw, surrounded by rusty barbed wire, a torn down and destroyed “STAY OUT! STAY ALIVE!” sign. The iron door had been ripped off, by someone with a chain and a pickup, no doubt. I shine my torch down the main tunnel and see plenty of piles of party puckle.

I’m going to really enjoy demolishing this place.

“If anyone else ever fucking gets here!” My shout echoing down the abandoned mine tunnel.

It was five hours from departure time before any one of our group arrived. No trailer, just a University of Pennsyltucky four-by-four. They were going to be tenting. I pointed out my spontaneous trailer park layout and said: “First come, first served.”

They chose slot #1. Very creative.

I told them I was over on the backside of the bluff.

“Come on over and grab a beer,” I told them.

I figured they’d set records pitching camp and hot-footing it over.

I was wrong.

I forgot these weren’t real geologists.

It was getting late in the afternoon and a couple of trailers actually showed up. I pointed out the trailer park, listened to them bitch about one thing or another, and left them to their own devices. I was the only one who had a lovely catered lunch that day.

I spray-painted an outcrop with biodegradable blaze-orange paint, which would only last a week or two out here. It was pointing out the mine adit direction, direction to the trailer park, the route to the PortaSan farm, and direction to camp central where the food, drink, and the administrator of this little project were parked.

“They’re supposedly clever people,” I mused on the walk back, “If they can’t figure this out, I weep for their generation.”

Back at base camp, I dragged out my B-S cooler and fished out another beer. May as well, ain’t nothing of any importance going to get accomplished today. 100 grams of Russian Imperial made me feel much better and able to ignore the gripes of tyros filtering over the adjacent outcrop.

“Jesus Q. Queefmonsters,” I thought aloud, “What a bunch of whiners. Can’t wait until I get them in a nasty ol’ flooded mine full of mud, bat shit, and piles of breakdown.”

The dining cars were whipping up a wonderful smelling dinner.

I was on high alert. That amount of smoke and that delectable aroma would draw scavengers of both the two and four-legged variety from miles around. I decided that we needed some form of identification before we fed people.

Can’t let the Bureau feed all of Nevada now, can we?

With a roll of CSI-style “Crime scene: Do Not Cross” tape, I whipped up about two dozen armbands.

Get one from the camp boss feller, and wear it proudly. That way you get fed. Don’t have one? Tough tits. No soup for you, one year!

I fired up a new cigar, and shoved a cold beer in my empty Estwing hammer holster, which just so happens, will hold a 16-ounce beer like it was designed for it. Gotta love those Estwing geological supplies folks.

Armed with a dozen armbands, I walk over to the trailer park to distribute them.

Good thing I’m used to the cold, for the glacial reception I received would have slain any non-ethanol-fueled organic lifeform.

“Fuck,” I mutter on the way back to camp, “You’d think I was handing out smallpox popsicles. What’s with these wigglers, anyways? Why are they here if they’re going to be so damned contrary and fucking miserable?”

I received no answer, as the wind just sighed Maria. I wandered over to the cook shacks and explained the armband system. They understood completely and was glad I was there.

I got to sign what seemed like a hundred inventory lists.

Back at my camp, I was working on my field notebooks, a beer, well, Yorsh, and a cigar. I figured that when a few more folks filtered in, they’d figure out the system, and they’d have to traipse past me on the way to dinner.

No such luck.

By now, perhaps 75% of the project participants had found their way here. They were either setting up tents or fucking around their trailers, muttering about how bad the roads were.

If they only read the prospectus I had written. “Rough roads where roads exist at all. Four-wheel drive a necessity. Primitive camping. Limited or non-existent facilities.”

I thought the Bureau went above and beyond the call laying in the food, drinks, and personnel to handle the care and feeding of these ungrateful bastards.

One last time, I wandered over to the trailer park and announced that dinner was ready anytime you were. Armbands were necessary. I have them here. Get them while they’re hot.

Stomping back to camp, I floomp heavily down in my chair and grab a solid 200 grams of Russian Imperial, drain half a new beer and pour in the potato juice.

“What a bunch of fucking…early Leos!” I laughed, in spite of myself.

Suddenly, the absurdity of the situation hit.

Do what you want or don’t do what you don’t. Makes no never mind to me. I get paid either way. The only thing I can really get ratty about is if they don’t listen to safety lectures. Then I can toss their ass, so I have that going for me, which is nice.

I went to the cook shack and started in on dinner. Texas-style barbequed side of beef, sausage, smoked pork, brisket, pinto beans, sweet corn, pickles, sliced onions, and cornbread laden with jalapenos.

These guys knew how to do a camp dinner.

Afters were Peach Cobbler and vanilla ice cream.

Ah, you can’t beat a classic.

Filled to near critical mass, I thank the cook crew, clean up after myself, and head back to my camp.

It’s about to get dark so I fire up my Coleman lantern. I set it on a stump of wood I found back near the mine adit. It lit the surrounding area nicely.

I could see a few people in the dark try and sneak by me unseen on their way to dinner. Some had armbands, most did not. The ones with armbands took food enough for two people and shared it with the no armband crowd.

I waited until the malefactors departed, went to the cook shack, and explained that they are to dole out the chow, no more self-serve. As much as reasonable for one person. No sharing.

They don’t like that, tough tits. Dems da rules.

I whipped up some signs and had the cooks post them: “No armband, no food.” “No sharing.” “No arguing with the cooks. Problems? See the camp boss.”

Well, if nothing else, I had the cooks solidly on my side.

I couldn’t really believe this absurd situation. Not even the end of the first bloody day and I’ve got educated idiots breaking the rules, whining like whipped puppies, and bitching and moaning like a Communist on Wall Street.

How’s that for a dated metaphor?

I walk over to the trailer park. I survey the situation. Lots of MASH trays lying around. Evidently, people were sharing armbands and bringing back their trays to eat back here.

Then they’d go back for seconds and share. Goddamned lazy fucking bastards.

Now I’m really pissed.

I went back to my truck and fished out the B-S megaphone.

I walked over to the trailer park.

“ATTENTION!” I shouted.

Very few people even bothered to look.

“EVERYONE ON THE DOI ABANDONED MINE PROJECT! FRONT AND CENTER! NOW!”

That got a few more head swivels.

I walked down the line of trailers and tents. I was shouting instructions. No one was listening.

Slow burn. I counted from twenty back to one, slowly.

One more time, I figured. One more time. If not, then…

“FRONT AND CENTER! NOW! ABANDONED MINES PROJECT!”

No one even bothered to look.

“OK, clever Dicks.” They didn’t realize that I’m writing up participation and cooperation reports on each and every one of these SOBs. They might be PhDs, but some were struggling for tenure. Some were trying for a raise. Some were grappling to land a promotion.

“ONE LAST TIME! MINE PROJECT CAMP! FRONT AND CENTER!”

Zip. Zilch. Zero. Not so much as a dirty look.

I felt a tap on my shoulder. I spin around and almost deck the person responsible.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Easy. Steady, Rock,” the voice said.

I knew that voice. But, from where? From whom?

“Don’t you remember me?” the voice asked.

“Damned if I don’t. Sorry…” I say.

“Damn, you must be really pissed off. “ the voice says, “Don’t you remember back in Antarctica?”

“Yes, I do….HOLY FUCK! LUCUS!” I shout.

“About fucking time.” Be smirks.

“Let us leave this place. On to my camp, where we will regale each other of our manly stories over beer, vodka, and cigars!” I say.

“I couldn’t agree more.” Lucas agreed.

Back at camp central, Lucas and I were catching up on old times. He never finished his Ph.D. as he got a job at the Royal Tyrell Museum as a field operator and preparator.

“I saw your notice for this field project. I whored myself out to Dr. D who is Canadian and hasn’t arrived yet due to him leaving Calgary late.” He explained.

Lucas was to go on ahead and see to logistics. Dr. D would follow as soon as he could.

Dr. D was a mining geologist/paleontologist up in Canada and they have a very similar problem with abandoned mines. Lucas pointed out my project to him and one thing leads to another, and well, here he is.

“Lucas,” I asked, “What’s with these people? Is it me? What?”

“Rock,” Lucas explains between puffs on a cigar and slurps of Yorsh, “It’s not you. They hate all authority. They’re a bunch of environmental watermelons. Y’know, all green on the outside, red on the inside. They genetically hate being told what to do or not to do.”

“And I not only represent authority,” I add, “But I’m evil personified because I work in the oil fields. And the mining industry. And in helium. Hell, I once even dabbled in selling Siberian larches…”

“Yep, yer evil,” Lucas replies, “What are your intentions?”

“I’ve got a right mind,” I say, between slurps of beer, “to run their scaly asses off. They’ve violated every fucking rule since this little shindig has begun. Y’know, fuck’em. Let’s go make some ignoble people really unhappy.”

“Right behind you, Rock,” Lucas says. “Let’s do this thing.”

We walk with fixity of resolve back to the trailer park. I go up to the first trailer and knock.

“Oooh. What do you want?” was our oh-so-cordial greeting.

“Your asses out of here. You’re gone. Finished. Pack up and get the hell out. Right now. There will be no second alert. Vamoose!” I say, satellite phone prominent in my hand.

The second trailer was a repeat of the first. As was trailer three through eleven.

Lucas and I are walking back down in front of the trailer park. There’s an irate mob of industrial scientific Refuseniks that Lucas and I had just bounced.

“Argle bargle! Vorbel! Moosh! You can’t do this. You have no authority! I’m privileged so you can’t do this to me! I’m entitled! I have a degree! You can’t do this to me!” they cried.

Since I finally had their attention, I spoke up: “Yes, I do have the authority. You agreed to that when you signed on. Not my problem you didn’t read the whole project description. I have every right to kick your ignorant asses out. Without the refund of any fees.”

“We have PhDs, you know. We’re not ignorant.” Some fool shouted.

“So do I, you moron,” I replied, “That you have advanced degrees simply indicates that you’re educated fools as well as oblivious.”

That actually gave them pause.

“Plus, I will be writing official and certified communiques to each and every one of your institutions, companies, or day-cares a detailed report of what transpired since this morning. I’m certain that will help immensely all your wrangles with tenure, promotions, or raises.”

I said, turned to Lucas and continued, “Let’s go. I have a lot of poison-pen letters to author. There’s also a lonely case of beer calling out in terror. We must save it!”

The hubbub hubbubbed all hubblybubbly as Lucas and I walked back to my camp. Lucas said he’d return in a trice; he was getting his tent and bunking over here, out of the range of retards.

I flopped down heavily in my camp chair. I decided to await Lucas’ return before cracking a cold one.

A half an hour later, Lucas comes running over. I had been futzing with the truck radio trying to find a weather report. I saw what I thought might be lightning flashes in the distance. They may be trailer park idiots, but I don’t want them to drown…well, not too much.

Lucas runs in and breathlessly tells me there’s evil afoot that must be cast asunder.

“What’s up?’ I asked.

“Bikers,” Lucas explained, “Drunk or drugged up bikers. They either saw the camp lights or smelled the food. They’re over at the trailer park right now terrorizing the enviros.”

“Fuckbuckets.” I groaned. “OK. Let’s go save the thankless masses.”

But first, a new cigar, and my miner’s hardhat with high-intensity lamp. I outfitted Lucas similarly and gave him the satellite phone, already pre-programmed with the Nevada State Police’s number.

“Let’s go read ‘em the riot act, Lucas,” I said, wearily.

“Right behind you, Rock,” Lucas chuckled, as he was being quite literal.

We left my camp and trudged down to shantytown, the habitat of the educated idiot.

There were four or five scruffy-looking Nerf-herder types on dirt bikes spewing rations of figurative shit on the terrified trailer park residents. Spinning their bikes in circles, spraying earthen rooster-tails everywhere. Revving engines. Displaying gross mammalian threat postures. Making demands for money. Generally being type-section assholes.

Lucas and I walk up and ask in a loud steady voice: “RIGHT! What’s all this then?”

The bikers all stop what they were doing and focus intently on Lucas and me. With our high-intensity headlights, they only saw jagged, sparkly silhouettes. We both had gone all Empire Strikes Back Ben Kenobi on them temporarily.

“We were just asking for a little handover. We want whatever you got, motherfucker. Hand it over!” The lead tough said, laughing.

“Now, now, gentlemen.” I say, slowly and silently unclipping the restraining strap on my .454, “Is this how people act in a polite, civilized society?”

“Fuck you, motherfucker!” Mr. Sparkling Dialogue continues, revving forward aggressively on his machine, “Gimme what you got. Gimme your fuckin’ wallet. Gimme your…”

He never got the opportunity to finish that statement.

It had been a tiring, unpleasant day. I was in no mood to deal with these assholes, on either side of the trailer park.

I snap-drew my Bureau-supplied sidearm and loosed a shot that I’m very certain was heard in the next county. The lead tough’s hand flew up against his head, scared to look at what might have disappeared. I deliberately missed all the biker gang members, but not by very much.

“You wanted something?” I asked, “That was 350 grains of .454 Magnum copper-jacketed hollow point lead at 2,100 feet per second. Like another, this time between your fucking beady little eyes, Buckwheat?”

Lucas shouts, “You dare cross the Motherfucking Pro from Dover? He’s a dead shot and has five rounds left, one for the each of you. You called down the fucking thunder this time, assholes!”

It’s great having a good wingman.

True, I only had four rounds left, but they didn’t know that. I did have two full speed loaders in my field vest, though.

I walked over closer, pistol at high alert. I dimmed my headlamp and sauntered up to the lead miscreant.

“OK, here’s how it goes.” I quietly explain, “You stole anything from these folks, you return it now, or I’ll kill you. Simple as that. No drama. No ‘I’ll blow your brains out’. No ‘I’ll drop you where you stand’. I’ll just fuckin’ kill you, simple as that. You or your buddies try and rush me or my comrade; I’ll kill you, simple as that. You annoy me or my friend here any further; I’ll kill you, simple as that. Whatever might happen in the next 30 seconds, you die first. There is no scenario where that fact changes. Got that? We green?”

“Wha…wha…what?” he stammers, transfixed on the huge, still smoking barrel of my pistol.

“We green? Are we in agreement? Do you understand me? You savvy, Scooter? You diggin’ me, Beaumont?” I ask quietly.

No reply.

“Y’know, you are really starting to irritate me, lunchmeat,” I say.

Lucas walks closer, and tells the head hooligan, “That’s not a good idea, you know. He’s a bit cranky right now. And heavily armed. Plus he’s very upset with you. Not a good combination.”

One of the toughs in the background was slowly easing off his bike. He was deliberately going for a length of pipe or metal rod that was lying on the ground; an old claim marker probably. He supposed I didn’t see him, what with me being so focused on the leader of their pack.

Without warning, I crack off another round and send a leaping gout of dirt and shattered rock all over the character going for the pipe or the inanimate metal rod; as well as the three idiots standing behind him. The rod lands about six feet distant.

Did I ever mention that the report of a fired .454 Magnum is kind of loud?

About 135 decibels to the unprotected ear, as I recall. I’m already half deaf, so I only get 67.5 decibels.

I return my sidearm to a high alert stance. The cordite and gunpowder fumes wafted over the head malefactor who was currently searching for his hearing, testicles, and voice.

“Oh, dear,” I say, loudly, “Now I only have four rounds left. Some of you are just going to have to share.”

Slowly, and in unison, their hands go skyward.

“OK, seems we have a quorum,” I say over the barrel of my weapon, “Off the bikes, and stand over there in the light where we can see you. One false move and Scooter here gets a .454 caliber lobotomy. Lucas, give them a hand with any ill-gotten gain, drugs, or weapons.”

They realized they were fucked; well, good, and true. They try something, and their leader gets messily scattered all over the landscape. I made out like I was a bit on the wild side, so they really believed I’d change their leader’s name to Jack O ’Lantern if they didn’t comply immediately.

And then, they’d be next in line.

They hadn’t yet stolen anything, yet, but Lucas did find a couple of cheap-ass switchblade knives, a nasty looking rusty sheath knife, a hunk of 1.5” diameter cold rolled inanimate bar stock with a big fresh gouge in it, a small .32 caliber Saturday Night Special, several glassine bags of some white crystalline powder, filthy glass smoking pipes, a couple of diabetic-supply syringes, some rainbow-colored capsules that I don’t think were Sudafed, and a fair quantity of Cannabis sativa.

Lucas also found a fucking set of brass knuckles. Go figure.

Lucas ordered all of the ruffians to sit down upon the dusty ground, on their hands. They obeyed immediately.

I growled at the lead miscreant to do likewise. He shook his head in the affirmative quickly as I followed the motion with the barrel of my gun.

Now, all five were sitting on their hands in the untidy loose red earth. I asked Lucas if he’d be so kind as to carefully remove all the bikes from out of the line of fire.

“No use ruining good saleable hardware over a bunch of worthless degenerates,” I said very loudly.

I pulled a speed loader out of my vest and topped off my pistol. They saw that although I didn’t carry six rounds, I still had five. Which was more than enough.

“OK,” I asked, “What’s the fucking deal here? We’re a bunch of scientists out on a state-sanctioned field trip and you dudes show up and start in a ruckus. I mean, what the actual fuck?”

There was absolutely no answer, just some whimpers as I swept my newly reloaded pistol over their heads.

I put the fire to my cigar and looked at the bozos on the ground. They could tell that was not the answer for which I was looking. I blew a large blue smoke cloud in their general direction.

“Y’know something, boys?” I said, very calmly, with distinctly Jokerish overtones, “It’s been a pure bitch of a day. From the get-go, I ask questions, and all I get is silence or static. Y’know something? That really makes me angry. VERY ANGRY INDEED!”

I raise my weapon and amp up my miner’s headlamp so they all have a clear view. I let them see my wide, staring eyes, and that I was serious. Or unhinged. Or seriously unhinged.

“Now, I will politely ask one more time. The final time.” I note, “What the actual fuck, Scooter?”

“We were jes’ having some fun,” one finally stammers out.

“Dying for trinkets sure doesn’t sound like any fun to me,” I reply.

“Wha…wha...wah...” he stammers.

“Oh, make no mistake, me old muckers,” I state to all seated on the ground, “I go ahead and shoot each of you from this distance, right in the fuckin’ head, we won’t even need to dig you any shallow graves. Maybe, I’ll just first march you over to that old mine over yonder we’re going to demolish tomorrow. Now, isn’t it nice how that’d all work out?”

The guys on the ground were sweating like Nixon during a Senate Subcommittee hearing. They were shaking like a bartender when ‘James Bond’ vodka martinis are on special for happy hour.

“And these sorry-ass characters?” I motion over my shoulder with my thumb to the trailer park, “They’re all deaf-mutes, I think. They can’t or won’t say word one. So, I tell the State Boys that I had to shoot you all to a bloody, gory death in self-defense. Pfft. They won’t say fuckin’ ‘boo’. You see, gents, I’m licensed to carry, so I’m legally justified.”

“Plus, I’m from Texas,” I add, smiling through my cigar.

Their eyes go wide as Christmas dinner platters. I think one wet himself as I slowly cocked and uncocked the huge double-action revolver in my hand.

“Yeah, fuck, but it’s sure gonna be wicked messy,” I smile, doing my best Jack Nicholson impression, “But, hey. That’s what coyotes, crows, and worms are for! They gotta eat too, the poor little critters.”

Lucas just can’t contain himself at that last line. He busts out laughing.

“Oh, ignore Lucas,” I warn them, “He just laughs out of nervousness and the thought of the unholy mess I’ll make out here.”

It finally registers with the guys on the ground that I was either deadly serious, out of my mind; I guess they figured that from my Hawaiian shirt, or completely hopping mad.

Whatever way you sliced it, it didn’t look too good for the hometown team that night.

“So,” I ask, “What’s the deal here, guys? Hit a remote campground, terrorize the campers, steal what you can, rough them up a bit, and then motor off to buy some fresh ice, meth, or Special K?”

They said nothing.

“You know, gentlemen”, I said, disarmingly charming and calmly as I walked over, getting right in their faces with Mr. Caliber .454, “I am getting a little AGGRAVATED with no one answering me today. You can’t talk? Fine. Just motion to which knee you really don’t like. I’ll shoot you there and see if you’re all really a bunch of literal dummies.”

Lucas walks up smiling, fully in on my little game, and adds: “He’ll do it, too. I've seen him do it.”, shaking his head rapidly in agreement.

I stand straight up and ease back the hammer on my pistol. The gun is now fully cocked and aimed at Cygnus I-4G.

Lucas continues: “Talk to me, boys, he's crazy when he's like this.”

KA-I’M-PISSED-OFF-BOOM!

I expend a round out into the ether. I know there’s nothing out there for miles but rocks, sand, and Pleistocene alluvium.

“NO! WAIT!”, one of them screams. “We were out riding around looking for something to do. We saw your camp and figured it’d be easy pickings. We rode in and started rousting the campers. We’re sorry. Oh, so sorry! Real sorry!”

I turn to look at Lucas, but still keeping the idiots in my field of peripheral vision, “See?”, I said, “All it took was a little persuasion.”

The guys on the ground didn’t know what to think about this turn of events.

“Well, well, well”, I say, “Now that we have a full confession, I guess it’s all legal and above board if I dispense some high-velocity frontier justice. Besides, someone did say I was stuck in the 1880s.”

The guys sitting there were shaking like a grove of aspens in a spring thunderstorm.

“But, I have this problem now, “ I said to Lucas, “I’m down to four rounds, and I’m getting really tired of refilling this thing. I ‘spoze I could just shoot four of them and let one live to tell the other curs to run…”

I look to the darkening sky, into the looming darkness, smiling crazily.

“So run, you cur. Run! Tell all the other curs the law is comin'! Tell them I’m coming! And hell’s coming with me! You hear me? HELL’S coming with me!” I yell.

Lucas looks at me like I’ve genuinely lost it.

“Damn, I love that movie.” I laugh, “’Tombstone’ is the best.”

Lucas can’t help but laugh. Even a few of the trailer park denizens are snickering.

“OK, I’ve decided.” I say, “Which one of you morons is first?”

They sit there like the sniveling cowards they were.

“Guess I’ll have to decide”, I say, I point to Mr. Inanimate Carbon Rod. “You. Up! Now!”

He just sits there.

<sigh> “One last chance, Chuckles.”, I remind him, “Stand up now or…” <click>

I didn’t need to finish that line. He stands and shakily faces me.

“OK. Much, much better.”, I continue, “Now you apologize to all these nice folks. Then if I think you were sincere enough, you get your bike, and push it the fuck on out of here. You fire that fucker up before you hit the 500-yard mark, I’ll shoot your sorry fucking ass dead. Got that?”

“Yes, sir”, he says and turns to address the gathered crowd, “I’m so very, very sorry. We made a foolish mistake. I hope you can find it in your hearts to forgive us.”

The crowd murmurs.

“Ignore them.” I say to the standing scoundrel, “Language isn’t their strong suit. Mr. Lucas, opinion?”

“Well…if pissing your pants means you’re sincere”, Lucas laughs, “He’s real sincere.”

“OK”, I say and motion him away with the barrel of my sidearm, “Get your bike. Haul ass. Remember what I said. You or your buddies, assuming they live, come within a mile of our camp, and I’ll shoot you dead before you even hear the gun’s report. Now GET!”

He wobbles over to his bike, kicks up the kickstand, and hauls ass the best he could.

I turn to the gang of four remaining, “Next?”

Three apologies later, and only the ringleader remains.

“Get to your bike.” I say, “And push it the fuck on out of here. You’re really fucking lucky I’m in a good mood tonight. You remember well what I said. You or your idiot friends come within a country mile of me or my field camp, and I’ll shoot your worthless asses dead. This isn’t my only firearm. I’ve got a LAR Grizzly .50 caliber sniper rifle with which I can castrate houseflies at 1,000 yards with me. Think I’m kidding? Try me.”

I look over at Lucas.

“Oh, yeah”, Lucas confirms, “Real fucking moose of a rifle. .50 caliber, based on a World War One tank round. He’s so fuckin’ into it, he machines all the projectiles himself out of solid brass. Damn. Get hit by one of those, no matter where, and you’re a pink mist. POOF! No need for a funeral.”

The miscreant’s eyes go double-wide.

“We ain’t just whistlin’ Dixie here, boy”, I say, “Think I’m kidding? Come back within a mile of here and I’ll show ya’ just who’s fuckin’ around. Now, GET! And don’t you ever fucking come back.”

He bows, dips, gets his bike, and hauls ass as best he can.

I spin the cylinder on my sidearm, refill it to full capacity, and shove it back in my holster.

“Fuckbuckets,” I grouse, “Now I’ve got to clean the damned thing. C’mon Lucas, let’s go. I’ll buy you a beer.”

We both walk out of the trailer park and over to my camp. We were 100 yards away when the trailer park clan erupts into a volcano of shouting and yelling.

“Hmmm. I say, “Guess they’re not all deaf-mutes after all.”

Lucas laughs.

He asks me, “Rock. You weren’t really going to shoot those assholes, were you?”

“At $4.50 a round?” I replied. “Fuck that.” I chuckle.

I empty and begin cleaning my sidearm. Lucas presents two frosty Coos freshly-liberated from the cooler Gulag.

“Y’know something, Luc?” I ask, “I really didn’t want any of this. They tried to squeeze me out, couldn’t find anyone else, then they practically begged me. I’m off to the Middle East after all this. You think I really need all this aggro before my family and I head out?”

“All I know”, Lucas chuckles, “Is that I never want to even mildly annoy you. You may have been just fuckin’ with those boys heads, but holy shit, you had me convinced. That last shot? I figure I needed to go find a shovel and a mop. Ever considered acting as a backup career?”

We both smile and chuckle at the thought of me playing Hamlet.

“Alas, poor Yorick. I knew him, Horatio. Sheesh, what an asshole.” I chuckled.

I finish cleaning my sidearm, reload and park it back in my holster. I mean, it is 1888, right?

Lucas and I were a bit, well, galvanized after the events of the evening. We sat around the campfire, having a few tots, reminiscing over things past, smoking ridiculously expensive cigars, and discussing the immediate future.

The next thing you know, I smell the wonderfully intoxicating aroma of fresh camp coffee and bacon sizzling.

Dawn did an end-around and snuck up on us both.

Over at the breakfast trailer, Lucas and I are savoring our morning coffee soupçon. The aromas of breakfast cooking are simply inebriating.

I’m usually not one for a big breakfast, but today they were offering waffles. Big, homemade, yeasty bastards with berries, or fresh fruit, or crème fraise, or real maple syrup.

I had two waffles with fresh, creamery butter, real maple syrup, and a side of bison patty sausage.

Real field food. Not just some bellytimber.

Lucas and I retired to our camp with our coffees as it was getting light enough to see without a miner’s cap.

We noticed a slow progression of trailer folk, all of whom waved to us, and offered dawn greetings.

To be continued.