Now Bronsky unceremoniously unlocked the assembly, confirmed that the bowl area was empty, then jammed the circuit closed. The explosions were tidy, tests of control rather than yield, but nonetheless an entertaining sight. The boys who’d snuck their heads out from behind trees and rocks enjoyed eight bursts of light bringing eight bangs of noise, rushes of dust and smoke from the perimeter of the bowl, debris tossed in eight directions.
The crewmen cheered, Monroe yelled, “Hell yeah,” but Charlie hung his head. Two piles had not gone off. A gray cloud rose, leaving a chalky taste to the air.
Bronsky marched down the hill to loom over one of the duds, eyeing it from every angle, then swept with his hand as if to dismiss the entire situation. Charlie stumbled down the slope, stopping at the concrete’s edge.
“Next time Fishk, you leave assembly in truck until all else is connected. Yes?”
Charlie scanned the bowl: eight scars on the concrete, two mysteries. “Yes, sir.”
“Disconnect these two,” Bronsky said, pointing, though Charlie had already squatted by one of them, removing the feckless wires. “And please to throw in trash.”
Only one thing could repair Charlie’s spirits after a debacle like that, and when he returned to the barracks after dinner, that exact thing was waiting on his bed.
Dear Charlie,
I took your advice, or followed your example anyhow, and at the urging of my girlfriends, last Saturday I went to a dance.
Feeling a flash of insecurity, he glanced up to see that the barracks were nearly empty. A few boys napping at the far end. The gap in days between Brenda’s last letter and this one was the longest since they had parted in the Great Hall of Union Station. Each day now, Charlie saw how much destruction could take place in a fraction of a second. With the expanse of time since their last kiss, any imaginable thing could happen. He swallowed hard before bending back to the page.
You would have loved it. There was a clarinet player with perfect embouchure, brilliant tone, and a clever idea every three seconds. Also his repertoire was limitless. People could call out any old tune, and half a minute later he’d be playing it. He kept us dancing till midnight. I only went out on the floor for a few numbers, but they were good fun, and I thought of you and all your square dancing.
The best gossip of the night is that Greta may have landed herself a fella, though I haven’t had a chance to squeeze all the juicy details out of her. I saw them smooching during a slow song, so I hope he doesn’t have to go off in the service anytime soon.
On she prattled, news and chatter, and it did Charlie’s heart good. More than anything the letter said, its mere existence was a balm. She was thinking of him. She took the time to write.
“Before you, Charlie Fish,” Giles said, sauntering down the barracks aisle, “no one had ever detonated six devices on one assembly. Eight is a fine achievement.”
“Tell that to the man who wanted ten.” Charlie lowered the letter. “But wait. You guys in Electronics heard already?”
“My friend, the minute you succeed, we will have to build feeder wiring for long-distance initiation. Your progress is our workload.”
“No one tells me anything.”
“I told you: compartmentalization. But I have worse news.”
“And so far today you’ve been nothing but rainbows and unicorns.”
Giles laughed. “That’s funny, Charlie. You just made an actual joke.”
“It was an accident. What’s the worse news?”
“My division is developing electronics equipment for twenty-four detonators.”
Charlie drew back like a trout doubting a lure. “But they want the firing to be simultaneous. How can you do that with two dozen terminals?”
“It’s madness. My only question is whether they want you to be juggling knives or fire sticks while you perform this feat of magic.”
Charlie grimaced. “Machetes, I believe.”
“That’s why God gave you ten toes. Any mishaps, you’ll still have some spares.”
“Seriously, though.” Charlie put the letter aside. “If the goal is twenty-four, why would Bronsky have me work on ten?”
Giles sat on the bed beside Charlie. “I am untrained in Russian inscrutability. Maybe if he said twenty-four at the outset, you’d have replied that it is impossible.”
“Well, it is. A basic short circuit would involve testing six hundred connections. Or is it six hundred squared?”
“All clears.” Giles nodded at the letter. “Rainbows from your girl?”
Charlie smiled. “And unicorns.”
“Have you informed the young lady yet of your plan to make a hundred babies with her, or die trying?”
“Get out of here.”
“The things you utter in your sleep, Fish. The whole barracks knows.” Giles shook his head. “Poor girl has no idea.”
“Quit it,” Charlie said, grinning and flushed.
The barracks’ back door slammed, two boys entering with a rage of setting sun behind them. The forward one had a familiar stagger.
“Monroe, you infamous chemist and drunkard,” Giles hailed him. “What mischief are you committing this fine evening?”
Monroe navigated to the nearest bunk, holding it for balance. “Celebration.”
“You seem further gone than usual,” Charlie said. “Are you all right?”
“Great, Mister Charlie. Better than eight out of ten.”
“Ouch,” Giles laughed.
“I’ve done something, though. Take a gander.” Monroe lifted his shirt, and sticks of red dynamite were inked in a stack on his ribs, with orange sparks coming off its lit blue fuse. The whole area was ringed by angry skin. “Done it today in Santa Fe.”
“What in the world?” Charlie asked.
“Of course.” Giles threw up his hands. “A tattoo.”
“Souvenir of our mission here.” Monroe fingertipped the red area. “Tender as a new lamb though.”
“Monroe,” Charlie was incredulous. “You do know that we’re working with TNT here, right? And not dynamite?”
Giles burst out laughing.
Monroe shrugged. “No one seeing this’ll know the difference.”
“It’s scarification, regardless,” said the person who’d entered behind Monroe, stepping into the light. “Ugly and permanent. Hello, Fish.”
Charlie found that he had stood. “Richard Mather.”
The mathematician from Chicago made a small bow. “I’m surprised to see you here. I didn’t think your uncle had that much clout.”
“I did it on my own,” Charlie replied. “Or halfway, anyway.”
“Please,” Mather scoffed. “You aren’t nearly intelligent enough.”
“None of us must be very smart,” Giles observed, “to be living in this bedlam.”
Mather checked his fingernails. “At the moment I prefer it to both Belgium and Bataan.”
“No argument there,” Giles answered. “But, Monroe? Lots of argument with you. What have you done?”
“Become irresistible,” he preened. “Handsome as a banty rooster now. Tell them ladies to line right up.”