Dead Sea

The fog was still thick, it never really thinned much, but sometimes it was more transparent than at other times. In the glow of the fog and what passed for daylight in that place, George and Menhaus and Cushing quickly unpacked the crates of satchel charges. They went about it in a very business-like manner, trying not to think about Gosling or Marx though feeling them everywhere in the C-130 like maybe their ghosts had chosen this spot to haunt until time itself ground to a withering halt. Inside the crates there were thirty cases of satchel charges with two satchels per case, giving them a grand total of sixty charges.

“Hot damn,” George said. “This is going to be fireworks like you’ve never seen before.”

He told Cushing, out of range of Greenberg’s ears, that this much explosive… and he planned on using it all… would not only blow those drums of waste wide open and spit their poison for a mile in every direction, but it would probably turn that freighter into matchsticks at the same time.

When it was loaded, they ventured first to the Ptolemy where Greenberg had extra fuel. They filled the cigarette boat’s 100 gallon tank up and siphoned off another thirty gallons into plastic tanks. By that time, there was very little room to sit or stand in the cigarette boat.

Next stop, the freighter.

As they brought the cases of satchel charges up the boarding ladder, George was struck by a queasy feeling in his stomach. Part of it was that ship, he knew, and everything that had happened there. Even without it, that derelict was like a floating tomb. But it was more than just the ship or any of that.

And you know what it is, he told himself. You know damn well what it is. Things are going too smoothly here. Everything’s fitting into place like it’s pre-arranged and you’re just waiting for the bottom to drop. Because in this goddamn place, the bottom always drops sooner or later.

But he tried not to think.

Thinking was not a luxury he could afford at that moment. Night was coming soon and there was a lot to be done before the light faded. So he did not think of the Mara Corday and the positively bizarre chain of events that led him to this place on this day, because if he had… he figured he might burst out crying or start laughing. Maybe both at the same time.

“That’s the works,” Menhaus said. “Let’s rock and roll.”

They unpacked the individual satchel charges and respective priming assemblies. Then they got down to work. The satchel charges – M183 demolition charges, in army-speak – each contained some 16 blocks of C4 and five feet of det cord. The real work was breaking open the orange plastic crates that contained the drums of radioactive waste. That was a job unto itself. An hour later, they had some sixteen containers opened, thirty-two neon-yellow barrels ready. George and Menhaus went about arming the satchels, wiring them with primercord and blasting caps. When they had all sixty satchels ready, they attached them to the barrels using duct tape and rope, something the freighter had no lack of. After that, George connected six-inches of time fuse to each of the priming assemblies, leaving the time fuse and fuse igniters hanging outside the satchels. They they wired all the fuse igniters together with wire and tied a rope to that.

When Greenberg was ready, all he would have to do is pull the rope

… that would fire all the igniters simultaneously.

“And scratch one Fog-Devil,” George said. “Hopefully.”

“And one old man, too,” Cushing said.

“Try not to think about it, man.”

But Cushing was thinking about it. They were all thinking about it and trying not to, trying to turn their hearts very hard because how else were you going to get through something like that? How would you live with yourself later?

George went over it all one more time. It had been a few years since he’d wired any C4, but it looked right. The satchel charges were designed that so just about any idiot could make them go boom. So he went over all his connections once and then twice to be sure.

About the time he finished, a figure stepped out from behind one of the skids. Bent over with a shotgun in their hands, there was no mistaking who it was.

“Saks,” George said and that single word was like a knife in his belly.

Saks. Yeah, he was plenty to contend with just about any time, but now, well, he was just a little worse. He stood there, his face pale and blotchy, one eye narrowed to a slit and the other wide and glistening like a peeled grape. The front of his shirt was brown and crusty with dried blood. He was grinning and that grin was all teeth like something from a storybook that ate children.

“Having a little party, eh?” Saks said. “A little going away party? Fireworks and everything? Well, don’t that beat all? Don’t it. .. just… fucking… beat… all?”

George swallowed, but there was no spit in his mouth. “Saks… Jesus, you’re still alive.”