What does ergonomic mean? - Definitions.net

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