Dean and Junior looked at each other with raised eyebrows, apparently wondering what the hell a detonator looked like. I'd received basic instructions on the use of high-energy explosives, but I wasn't nearly as expert in their use as Ed. I looked upon Ed as a warrior's warrior. The man accepted the dangers of battle and had trained to be lethal in any situation. Having him as a close friend had pulled us through many deadly confrontations in the past ten years.
The sky clouded over as we drove past the armory and continued to roam the facility. The buildings ended and the road we were on skirted rough ground that looked like it might have been used for training operators on heavy equipment.
To our left, a tank farm sat. Five tanks of various sizes were of interest to me. On our right, several hundred yards off, many pieces of tracked and rubber-tired earth moving equipment still sat in a staging area. A large number of the rubber tires were flat and all the equipment had begun to rust. We entered a wooded area and continued following the asphalt road.
Ed continued past a sign that read Keep Out - Authorized Personal Only. A quarter mile farther, we passed over a hill and on the other side saw huge dirt bunkers. A tall chain-link fence surrounded the six bunkers. The bunkers were at least a hundred yards from each other. I assumed Ed had found the heavy ordnance storage. The drive-through gates were locked; two chains and padlocks secured the gate sections at high and low levels. A large, heavy duty bolt cutter finally pinched through the large chain links after much effort and swearing on Ed's part.
We drove in and stopped at the nearest bunker. An hour and a half later we'd been through the first two storage units and saw nothing but artillery shells. The third bunker made Ed smile. We found cases of PETN explosives and detonators in large quantities. We packed twelve cases of the material outside and loaded it and detonators in the back of my trailer.
Ed said, "I want to look through those last two bunkers so I know what else is here. Do you and Junior want to hang around or go check out the fuel tanks?"
"We'll go to the tanks and wait for you there. Then we'll go to the armory together."
Junior and I left and drove back the way we'd come. A light mist began to show on the windshield as we reached the tank farm.
Two tanks were clearly labeled as containing water. One was Potable Drinking Water, and the other was labeled Fire System. A spherical tank held propane. The mist changed to a light drizzle as we walked toward the end of the tank area.
The last two tanks were painted black and had white numbers painted on the walls. We approached valves on pipes projecting out from the wall of the nearest tank. Gasoline was stenciled above the valves. I pointed at a valve in a concrete box sat below grade. Water Draw was stenciled above it in barely visible lettering.
"Junior, slowly open that valve and see if there's any fuel left. You should get water first, if it's not empty. The tanks are designed to breathe as the temperature makes the liquid expand and contract. Moist air is drawn inside, and it condenses to water."
The valve was stuck tight from sitting closed for many years. Junior struggled to open it with his hands, but it didn't give. A rusty valve wrench lay atop another valve handle a few feet away. I handed it to Junior, and in a minute, smelly water gushed in the box and out a drain line. After several minutes gasoline poured from the drain line, and Junior quickly closed the valve. We'd found a supply of gasoline. On a future trip we'd need to find a way to gauge the tank to determine how much fuel was left.
We jogged to the next tank and learned it held diesel fuel. It too had accumulated water on the bottom. After several minutes of slowly draining water, diesel suddenly flowed into the drain box and splashed up the sides. Judging by the pressure behind the flow there was a lot of liquid in the tank. We'd done good and had found a large supply of both fuels.
As we worked, the drizzle increased to a light rain. We ran to the truck and settled in to wait for Ed and Dean.
I had just tossed a refilled plastic bottle of water to Junior when a huge shock wave rocked the truck. The sound of a loud explosion followed. In the side mirror, a huge fireball filled the glass. A sick feeling clawed at the pit of my stomach. Junior said, "What the hell was that? Do you think. . . . ?" His wide-eyed stare met mine until I turned away.
I started the engine, turned the rig around and drove back toward the bunkers. There was no need to rush. As we crested the hill above the site, the devastation was frightful. Where the fence hadn't been blown down, debris was embedded in and against it. A one hundred foot wide crater looked to be about fifteen feet deep. Chunks of dirt and concrete were scattered for hundreds of yards around the blast site. Ed's truck and trailer were a mass of scrap metal sitting yards from where it had been parked. The aluminum skin on the trailer had shredded and sections were melted. Everything in it was destroyed.
There was no way Ed and Dean could have survived; they had likely been at the center of the blast and