The Zero Hour

The antenna, which Grant had pointed at the crack between the bottom of the steel door and the concrete floor, was being bombarded by microwaves exceeding its preset threshold.

“Oh, shit-” Grant cried out.

The microwave detector was not just in force on the other side of the door. Microwaves were leaking under the door. If anyone moved even a few inches closer to the door, there was a risk the bomb would be set off.

“Freeze!” Payne shouted. “Everybody freeze!”

The beeping continued.

“All right,” Dr. Payne said in a quiet, steady voice. “The thing hasn’t exploded. That tells us something. But any further motion might set it off.”

“Jesus!” Grant whined. He was frozen in an awkward position, partially bent toward the floor, his extended right hand gripping the microwave sniffer’s antenna. It was pointed at the gap between floor and door, which was no bigger than a quarter of an inch. The antenna was approximately six inches from the floor. He shifted slightly.

“Don’t move a fucking muscle,” Payne hissed. “We’re picking up the microwaves that are coming through from under the door. The door is sealed tight against the doorframe everywhere except against the floor.”

“I can’t stay this way,” Sergeant Grant moaned.

“Goddammit,” Payne said, “don’t move a muscle or you might just kill us all.” He felt his body flood with panic.

Grant’s eyes widened. Except for the rapid beeping, the entire stairwell was silent. Thirty men were standing almost completely still. From a distance there were faint shouts, distant sirens; but here the only sound was the papery whisk of their windbreakers as the men shifted stance ever so slightly, and the mechanical beeping.

“Now, listen,” Payne said. “Everyone, look down at your feet.”

Obediently, everyone on the team did.

“Memorize that position. Keep your feet in exactly that position. Even a reflection of a body might be picked up through that gap. I don’t know why we haven’t set it off yet-maybe the sensor just switched on. But if you move your feet, you may cause it to detonate.”

“Oh, please, God,” someone said.

“If you have to move, move parallel to the door. You’re less likely to set it off that way. But if I were you, I wouldn’t move a fucking muscle.”

“I-can’t-” Grant gasped. A tiny, liquid noise came from near the sergeant’s feet, which Payne quickly realized was a trickle of urine. A long stain darkened his left pant leg. Payne, though as frightened as any man here, felt acutely embarrassed for Grant. No doubt Grant knew that this would be his last assignment with NEST.

Yet Payne could not help thinking, morbidly, that this might be his own last assignment as well.

One of the men-the one who had just said, “Oh, please, God”-was, in shrink jargon, decompensating. He was a scientist from DOE headquarters, a young man, in his early thirties, and he had begun to babble.

Payne ignored him, praying only that the young man wouldn’t move. If he did, at least he was one of the farthest from the door. Although he had broken out in a cold sweat, he knew he could not afford to divert his attention to this man, or to Sergeant Grant, who, despite his accident, at least had the self-control to remain frozen in position. Important decisions had to be made.

There is a concept you often hear among bomb-squad technicians: the bomb’s wa. A bomb’s wa is its overall state of being.

In order not to disturb a bomb’s wa, you have to understand and appreciate its wa, and Payne had not yet done that. He only knew that opening the steel door would likely disturb the wa.

Payne could feel his anal sphincter squeeze tight as his body grew increasingly tense. This was a phenomenon well known to bomb techs-“asshole-puckering,” they called it. The detector was beeping furiously, telling them that the wrong move would detonate the bomb. Yet you couldn’t see anything, couldn’t smell anything. What did the beep signify? How sensitive was the microwave field?

“Grant,” he said gently, “can you listen to me?”

“Sir,” Grant croaked.

“Grant, I want you to move that antenna upward by a few inches. Do you understand me? Slowly and steadily. Upward.”

“Yes, sir,” Grant said. With a trembling hand he inched the antenna up. As he did, it shook up and down.

“Steady, Grant.”

“Doing my best, sir.”

The beeping stopped.

Sergeant Grant had moved the antenna less than six inches up from the floor, and apparently it was now out of range of the microwave sensor. “That’s the safe line,” Payne whispered, more to himself than to the others. “The microwaves are not moving through the steel door.”