The Detonator
Vincent Zandri
The following is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in an entirely fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 by Vincent Zandri
Cover and jacket design by The Cover Collection
ISBN 978-1-943818-88-4
eISBN 978-1-943818-92-1
Library of Congress Control Number: tk
First hardcover edition February 2018 by Polis Books, LLC
1201 Hudson Street, #211S
Hoboken, NJ 07030
www.PolisBooks.com
The Detonator
“We are doomed! An implosion has taken place at the Earth’s core. A war between denizens of the abyss. Our structures have been destroyed, our foundations shaken.”
—Glauber Rocha, A Idade da Terra (The Age of the Earth)
“But the shameful thing has consumed the labor of our fathers since our youth, their flocks and their herds, their sons and their daughters.”
—Jeremiah 3:24
PROLOGUE:
October 23, 1999
Alphabet City
Lower Manhattan
New York, New York
The warehouse is wired to blow.
A siren indicating the final five-minute countdown has already sounded for what promises to be the spectacular three-stage implosion of a fifteen-story downtown pre-war building constructed of reinforced concrete and steel. The first two floors have been gutted of its piers and structural beams to ensure multiple failure points. The building’s interior has been cleared of useless debris—all bearing walls chopped out, all glass windows, bulbs, and panels shattered, the shards removed.
The piers on the remaining floors have been drilled with enough holes to make them look like Swiss cheese, the small, round, test tube–sized openings filled with more than seven hundred pounds of dynamite and linear-shaped, steel-slicing cyclotrimethylenetrinitramine, or what’s also known simply as RDX.
The explosives have been wrapped with protective chain link fencing while heavy black geotextile material hangs off the scaffolding-covered exterior walls on the buildings immediately flanking the warehouse—a defensive maneuver designed to prevent and/or minimize shrapnel discharge damage. Even the weather has been checked repeatedly, the cloud cover having remained at the optimum twenty-five hundred feet. Anything less, and the shockwave from the blast stands a chance of ricocheting off the clouds and slamming into innocent people, vehicles, and surrounding structures.
Since “Safety First and Last” is Master Blasters motto, the precautions don’t stop there. The surrounding blast area exclusion zone has been cleared, the window glass on nearby buildings taped over, the perimeter inspected and reinspected, the two-thousand-strong crowd of onlookers, gawkers, media pros, and just plain pyro and explosion junkies held at bay behind bright yellow barriers manned by a specially designated squad of NYPD in charge of maintaining order and security. More importantly, the explosive engineering blasting team has reinspected all electric charge strips and blasting caps, triple-checked the fuse and charge-to-explosive connections, double- and triple-checked powder factor calculations, and issued the final, yet always somewhat tentative, thumbs-up.
It’s time to rock the house.
Sounding over the loudspeakers now, some serious rock ’n’ roll. Throbbing bass, smashing drums, and buzzsaw guitar. The crowd gathered beyond the safety barriers are dancing, clapping, and singing along to the familiar classic rock refrain: BOOM BOOM, OUT GO THE LIGHTS!
This isn’t a demolition job. It’s a rock show. The Midnight Special played early in the day to a sell-out crowd of explosives junkies and groupies. A moment in time that will be etched on the brain of all those who witness it. Hear it. Feel its thunder. Smell its acrid explosive. Taste the fine dust that’s about to rain down from heaven.
You, as the CEO of Master Blaster, hold the yellow electronic control box in your thick, callus-covered hands, its solid heavy-duty plastic construction somehow alive, its innards beating like an overworked heart, the black “charge” and the red “fire” triggers it houses possessing both the power of God (good) and the devil (evil). The power to initiate total destruction, and the power to stop it if need be.
The chatter of voices comes to you from over the headset while your body remains tense and rigid under a blasting uniform of Bell hard hat, Carhartt work pants, steel-toed work boots, denim work shirt, and tan Carhartt jacket. Your hands are protected with Uline non-slip grip construction gloves, while your eyes are shielded by yellow-rimmed DeWalt safety goggles. You’ve borne witness to enough controlled implosions in your adult lifetime to know that the word control is, at best, misleading.
There is no such thing as ultimate control when it comes to explosives. Best you can hope for is as much control as possible when it comes to taking down a massive block of concrete with explosives. Sure, you went to college (where you majored in beer, chewing tobacco, and weight lifting), but when it comes to handling explosives, you are strictly blue-collar. Your academic institution was the school-of-hard-knocks and unstable explosives. The school of blasted granite, the acrid odor of exploded dynamite, and choking dust clouds. Even with the dawn of the twenty-first century right around the corner, there’s still no college degree for a master blaster. No special academic grade. No scholastic certification.
There is only on-the-job experience. You’ve been lucky thus far. You have all your limbs, all your fingers even. Thick biceps, barrel chest, shaved head, and dark goatee afford you the appearance of health, but also of a real badass. A man seemingly born for the job of crushing big buildings made of steel and concrete. And you’ve worked plenty hard at the job.
In the case of Master Blasters, Inc., your job experience isn’t learned from a school book. It is entirely self-taught. The same holds true for your little boy, Henry. Or so you still hold out hope. The sickly little scruffy-haired, round-faced kid might be afflicted with progeria, one of those one-in-ten-million-births-affected genetic diseases that causes premature if not rapid aging. But you pray that a cure is on the way. Henry won’t require college when it comes time to fill your boots, but he will require an education all the same. Which is why at four years old, the boy now stands by your side watching the show with anxious eyes (what little boy, sick or not, doesn’t like to watch stuff blow up?). He will have grown up with the business, experiencing it firsthand, learning the ropes like he would a language or a religion. But always in the back of your mind, you know he has to live. He must survive if he is to become a Master Blaster.
Your partner, Brian Darling, co-owner and president of Master Blasters, Inc. couldn’t agree more. He too insists on his one and only child accompanying him to the show. His child isn’t a boy, but a nine-year-old girl. The sooner the short, stocky Darling can show his tall, skinny, happy-go-lucky, sandy-haired girl the ropes, the sooner the next generation of demolition experts will be prepared to take on even more challenging blasts, such as the coveted true implosion, a timed explosion that will cause a tower to collapse inward onto its own footprint.
“Knock knock,” his jokester daughter barks.
“Who’s there?” replies Brian.
“Dino.”
“Dino who?”
“Dino Myte.”
Master Blasters, Inc. knows how to unleash hell with their explosive demolition. But they are also one big happy family. Or so it appears, on the outside at least. The partners do have one thing in common, more than anything else: the fulfillment
of the true implosion.
Only a handful of true implosions have been attempted in the history of timed demolition and nothing over twenty stories. You, along with the thirty-five-year-old Darling, had hoped that one day, Master Blasters would be the outfit that attempted the first thirty- or forty-story true implosion.
But Brian has been bombarded with some bad luck as of late. With a failed marriage sucking the life’s blood out of him, along with what has become a daily fifth of vodka, it’s been all you can do not to insist he stand down, take some time off, separate himself from all blast sites until the divorce is over.
“It’s too dangerous,” you’ve insisted. “Your head’s not in the game and when your head’s not in the game, Bri, you know what happens. Innocent people die.”
But Brian has insisted to the point of tears, “Master Blasters is all I’ve got now. Don’t take that away from me, Ike.”
Brian is almost like a brother to you. The brother you never had. With reluctance and a heavy heart, you’ve acquiesced, given in to his need to work and stay busy. But not without serious reservations. After all, timed implosions are all about control. And once you’ve lost that control, you’re finished. You might as well strap a suit of TNT to your chest like some whacked out terrorist and depress the detonator. Because what blasting a building to Kingdom Come comes down to is this: Once the detonator is triggered and the charged blasting caps begin to blow like a series of dominoes falling one on top of the other, you are no longer in control. The explosive charge is God now. Once it starts, there’s no stopping it. All you can do is stand back and hope that hundreds of thousands of tons of blasted concrete and steel drop where it’s supposed to, and not on top of the heads of so many innocent bystanders.
The siren sounds again.
One minute.
Your hands tremble. Even after all these years, your cold hard hands sweat and shake inside their gloves as you await the final go-ahead. With the countdown now reduced to the final sixty seconds, you take hold of your binoculars for one final review of the structure. Bringing them to your eyes, you start at the top and scan the building’s exterior, moving downward slowly so you are sure to spot anything that should not be there.
Something two-legged. Human. Alive.
You’ve been lucky thus far. In the thirteen years since you and Brian started in the demolition business, not so much as a stray cat has been caught up in one of the spectacular implosions. Your bonding company loves you for that, and in turn, they’ve issued you the highest rating possible. Something that hasn’t gone unnoticed among the New York developers. Something that has only bolstered your reputation among your peers. Something that’s allowed you to seek out top dollar. Something that’s even landed you an episode on the Discovery Channel’s hit reality show, The Detonators.
But none of that matters right now as the clock whittles down to thirty seconds. The point of no return is fast approaching. The time when the electric charges are initiated and the timed blasts commence.
“Dad,” your boy speaks up suddenly, yanking on your sleeve. “Where’s Uncle Brian?”
You pull the binoculars from your eyes, look down upon the boy. A little boy you love with every muscle fiber in your heart, but also a boy who breaks your heart.
“He’s where he’s supposed to be, Henry. I just heard him joking with Alison.”
“I don’t think so, Dad. I don’t see Uncle Brian anywhere.”
You glance over your shoulder, eye the spot where your partner is expected to be standing some thirty feet away along the safety perimeter. But all you spot is his little girl. She’s wearing a fluorescent-Tonka-Truck-yellow Master Blasters hard hat and protective eyewear while standing as stiff as a steel beam, her eyes locked on the warehouse.
Under normal circumstances, she might be rattling off her made-up knock-knock jokes to the many workers who surround her. But right now, she appears to be closed-mouthed and anxious. Rather, more anxious than usual only mere moments prior to a shooting of this magnitude, this importance, inside the most important city in the world.
Reaching for your collar-mounted radio, you bark, “Brian, come in…Brian, you hearing me, brother? Over.”
But the hip-mounted speaker only produces static.
“Twenty seconds,” your chief foreman shouts. “Clear the way!”
“Brian,” you repeat. “Brian, come in, man. Speak up.”
But there’s no answer.
Heart beating. Pulse pounding. Reaching for the binoculars once more, you scan the building’s third floor, peer into the glassless windows. That’s when you spot him. He’s seated on the floor, his back pressed up against one of the I-beams rigged to explode.
“Stand down!” you shout into your headset. Reaching for the bullhorn, you press it against your mouth. “Stand down! Abort! Stand down!”
“Dammit,” you curse under your breath. “I should have known something like this would happen. It’s all my fault.”
Turning to your boy, you press your hand on his shoulder.
“Stay right here, Henry. You understand me? Stay right here. Don’t you move an inch.”
Henry nods, but his eyes do a strange kind of roll inside their abnormally small sockets. The child is only four, but already he’s showing signs of getting older. Not by the year, but seemingly by the day. You and your wife, Ellen, have taken the necessary steps, had him poked, prodded, and MRI’d by the best doctors money can buy. But all they can come up with is that his disease is degenerative in nature, and by the time he’s twenty, he will be the equivalent of a ninety-year-old man. That is, if he’s still alive at all. Because all the doctors have concurred: statistically speaking, Henry has almost zero chance of seeing his twentieth birthday.
Statistically speaking…
But your son is not a statistic. He is your blood. Your flesh. He is you and he is Ellen.
You jump down from the small podium, begin sprinting toward the warehouse. You feel the collective gasp coming from the onlookers as much as you hear it. Blood races through your veins. Pulse soars. Mouth goes dry. The building you are about to enter is wrapped in enough lethal explosive to evaporate your flesh and bone should it spontaneously detonate. But you can’t think about that right now. Right this very second you can think only about rescuing Brian. Rescuing Brian from himself. From his despair.
Barreling through the wide open entrance, you race up the stairwell to the second floor. You spot him seated on the floor of the empty space.
“Brian, for God’s sakes. What the hell is happening here!?”
Your old friend and partner turns, looks up at you with his round mustached face, smiles. He’s gripping a pint-sized bottle of vodka in his right hand. In his left, he’s holding a sheath of papers.
You go to him, drop down onto one knee, grab hold of his arm.
“Well, hello there, partner,” he says, slurring his words. “Shouldn’t you be working right now?”
“We’re about to shoot this place, Bri,” you say, yanking on his arm. “Did you think I wasn’t going to spot you before I hit the triggers? You should know me better than that by now. Jesus, how long we been shooting together? We gotta get the hell out of here. Then we can talk about it.”
“Talk about it? What’s to talk about? She’s already filed for divorce, Singer. Don’t you get it? She doesn’t love me anymore. She’s in love with another. That’s the way it’s always going to be.”
His words strike you with more explosive power than the TNT stuck to the beams.
“Then let her go, Bri,” you say, yanking on the arm once more. “You’ve got so much to live for. You’ve got Alison. Your sweet little girl. Let’s just get out of here before we both go up with the place.”
“But that’s the point, isn’t it? To go out in a blaze of glory. I can’t think of any other way to go, can you, my partner and my lifelong friend?�
��
Brian brings the bottle to his mouth, proceeds to take a long, deep drink. So deep, some of the crystal clear booze runs over the sides of his mouth, down his cheeks, down his neck.
“You don’t want to die, Bri. You’re just upset. You’re the best blaster on earth. You’ve got a gift. This will pass, trust me.”
Brian smiles, his eyes glassy, tears rolling down his cheeks.
“I trust you, Singer,” he says. “Or, trusted you anyway. Once upon a long time ago. But the question is: Should you trust me now?”
He reaches into his jacket pocket, pulls something out. It’s a second electronic control box. It appears to be wired to the main detonation line that runs throughout the entire structure.
Your insides slide south. Your steel-toed, engineer-booted feet don’t feel like they’re touching the concrete floor.
Brian looks up at you, smiles. “I know it was you, pal. I know it was you who bedded down my wife, made her fall in love with you. I…know…it…was…you. And the hell of it is, I should have seen it coming a long, long time ago.”
The warehouse is still standing, but you feel it shifting. As if the bedrock beneath it is sliding dramatically. A severe seismic event. Your world…your personal world…turning upside down.
“Brian…don’t.”
“Goodbye, partner,” he says, his fingers coming down on both the black and red triggers. “Figured in the end, there’s no one I’d rather see hell with than you.” He grins coldly. Then, “Oh, and fire in the hole.”
The first blasting cap detonates, setting off a second and a third, the short sharp blasts powerful enough to rattle the structure and knock you off your feet.
You jump up, heart in your throat, the deafening blasts invading your ear and rattling your brain, echoing like a big brass bell inside a tower.
“Brian!” you shout, but he can’t hear the words exiting your mouth.
You can’t hear your own words. You can’t hear Brian’s words when you squat, grab hold of his jacket collar, attempt to pull him up off the floor. You only see his mouth open and close as he slaps your hand away, then shatters the bottle, creating a jagged knifelike edge he won’t hesitate to thrust into your flesh should you touch him once more.
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