“I always thought it would be Nazis who came to America,” Nonna said. “Turns out it was Russians, but we’re ready for them.” She slapped a large black book onto the table.
The room went quiet.
Leo’s jaw sagged open. Anton swore, something he rarely did in front of their grandmother (which earned him a slap on the back of the head). Dal squinted at the book as though he couldn’t register what he was seeing. Everyone else looked equal parts shocked and confused.
The large black book had bold white letters marching across it. It read: The Anarchist’s Cookbook.
Lena was the first to recover. She beamed at Nonna. “Where did you get that?”
“Like I said, I always thought it would be Nazis who’d attack America.” Nonna shrugged. “I made sure your parents and I prepared for it.”
“Is that legal?” Dal asked, unable to take his eyes form the book.
“Of course it’s legal,” Nonna replied. “Just because you have to use a little creativity to get your hands on a copy doesn’t mean it’s not legal.
“We are going to blow up some Russians.” Tate cracked his knuckles, nodding in approval. “I thought you were being metaphorical.”
“I don’t believe in metaphors,” Nonna said. “Metaphors don’t save you from evil.”
“I’ve always wanted one of these.” Jim picked up the book, reverently opening it. He gasped. “Oh, my God. This is a first edition from 1971. This is the real deal.”
Tate leaned over the book with his brother. “This is going to make Craig fireballs look like kitten’s play.”
“Will someone please tell me what the big deal is?” Jennifer said at last. “Why is everyone so freaked out over a book? And how is a cookbook supposed to help us make bombs? It’s not like we can turn rice into explosives.”
“First of all, it’s not just a book.” Tate frowned at Jennifer, like she’d said something offensive. “This is the cookbook.” He took the book out of his bother’s hands and flipped through the pages. He found what he was looking for and plopped it down on the table in front of her.
“This,” Tate said, “is a recipe for black powder. Also known as gun powder.” He flipped to another page. “And this is a recipe for nitroglycerin. Another explosive.”
“What ...?” Jennifer’s eyes bugged. “That’s not a cookbook!” she spluttered.
“It’s a cookbook for bombs,” Leo clarified, finally having recovered himself. He could hardly reconcile his tiny, wrinkled grandmother to the book on the table.
“Look at this,” Anton said. “It even has instructions on how to blow up a bridge. Oh, my God.”
“Let me see that.” Bruce grabbed the book. “Holy shit, guys. This not only has info on how to blow up bridges, but it’s broken down by bridge type. I didn’t even know they had this many different kinds of bridges—ow!” He rubbed the back of his head as Nonna smacked him.
“Language,” Nonna said with a glare.
“Sorry,” Bruce said, still rubbing his head.
“Time to get cooking.” Nonna wrapped on the tabletop with her wooden spoon. “We are making bombs. You will take them into Bastopol and rain hellfire on the Russians while Dal and Lena make the broadcast. Everyone understand?”
“Yes, Nonna,” everyone murmured.
Under Nonna’s direction, the guys hefted the big burlap sacks onto the counter. It turned out they contained ordinary farm products, sulfur and potassium nitrate—which were also ingredients in black powder.
“You mean we were sitting on bomb ingredients at the farm and never knew it?” Anton asked.
Nonna gave him a feral smile. “You’d be surprised how household products can be transformed with the proper recipe.”
Leo leaned in for a better look at the gun powder recipe. Or, to be more precise, recipes. There were no less that eleven different explosive recipes contained in the book. Many of the ingredients were common in crop management. Who knew he could have been mixing bombs all these years?
“We must be precise in our work. No shortcuts,” Nonna said. “Leo, you and Anton are in charge of measuring and mixing. Move over to the kitchen counter so you’re not in the way. Jim and Tate, you’re in charge of measuring and cutting the fuse wire.” Nonna surprised the hell out of Leo by producing a spool of wire. “This is fuse wire. One day I’ll tell you what it took to acquire this, but not today. Cut them three inches long. There’s a ruler and wire cutters in the bottom left drawer of the kitchen. It’s important that you be precise. Two inches of the wire will go into the powder. The one inch that sticks out will give you exactly ten seconds to light the fuse and throw it.”
Tate and Jim beelined to the kitchen, taking the fuse wire with them.
“What about me?” Bruce asked.
“You’re with me and the ladies. You too, Dal.” Nonna grabbed a long roll of oil cloth that had been leaning against the wall. Leo hadn’t noticed it until now. It was the same red-and-white checkered material she used to make tablecloths.
Nonna rolled the cloth out on the kitchen table. “The black powder has to go into water proof casing,” she explained. “We’re going to be cutting eight-inch squares. Then we’ll measure out the powder and tie them up in little bundles with the fuses.”
“Dynamite sachets,” Lena exclaimed.
“Correct,” Nonna said. “Now let’s get to work. There’s no time to waste. You ride out tonight to Bastopol. Lives depend on us.”
Chapter 33Apology
LEO LAY IN THE TOP bunk, his mind whirling. His blood hummed with anticipation, like it used to before a big game.
It was well past ten o’clock. They planned to leave at midnight for their mission into Bastopol. They’d spent the rest of the afternoon making explosive sachets, as Lena liked to call them.
Nonna had sent them all to bed after an early dinner, ordering them to get a few hours of sleep before their mission. There was
