“How come?” asked Leo, “It’s the best yellow dye we got.”
“Supposed to be too dangerous. Damn near as bad as TNT, extremely toxic, and inhalable,” said the Assistant Director.
“OK, I’ll take care of it.” Click.
Leo, a World War II vet who had shot a lot of TNT and had b een shot at by a lot of weapons ranging from 8 to 88 mm, did not hear the Assistant
Director start to say that the Chemist would come out and take charge. Instead, Leo walked over to the cabinet, took the little brown bottle of picric
acid, dumped the remaining 41 grams slowly into the toilet, and flushed the crystals into the septic tank.
His thoughts flew back to the early 50'swhen he and some other young refuge biologists had trapped and dyed the plump drake canvasbacks on their
communal “headquarters ponds” on the Saskatchewan breeding grounds, and then followed and recorded the movements of the yellow-backed birds for
science. He had used it by the kilogram, but that was decades ago. He even dimly recalled buying small bottles of the acid at the local drugstore when
he and the other 6th graders sprinkled it on their combs to dye their hair as a school prank.
“H-h-h-he w-w-w-what?” said Ken the Chemist, trembling as he fondled a copy of the recent Emergency Safety Order (EMS) that had been entrusted to
him by the Assistant Director. The EMS outlined with terrible forebodings all the horrible prop- erties of picric acid. “My God, he could easily
have been killed! Now I have to try and decontaminate the place.”
“Do your best,” said the Assistant Director, his voice suitably grave.
“Yes sir. By the way, I changed the locks on the chemistry laboratory again. Did you know the terrorists have orders to steal any chemical that can
be potentially useful to their cause?”
“No, but you could be right,” said the Assistant Director, rolling his eyes and already enjoying the thought of telling the Director about the
latest terrorist plot that threatened the Federal Service out here in Bumshart, Nebrahoma.
“Evacuate the laboratory,” said the Chemist. “Leo, I want you to put on this smoke mask and face shield and this bunker gear that I got on loan
from the Fire Department. Put your back to the toilet and flush it 50 times.”
“Fuck you,” laughed Leo, his eyes twinkling in mirth. “The dye is gone, you dumb shit. You want me to dig open the septic tank so you can
snorkel for any undissolved crystals? I’ve got some fusees in my truck that you can use to light up the bottom.”
Sensing a lack of cooperation and blatant disregard for the strict protocols used to handle Class AAA Schedule 3.7.9.2 hyperexplosive compounds, the
Chemist had to settle for five minutes by himself in the toilet with a leaky garden hose. But he took pleasure in the fact that he could now report
that his concern for the safety of his fellow workers had forced him to tackle the ticklish job singlehandedly.
The next day was even worse. Another 14 grams of the deadly stuff had been found in a small metal tin in another building. But this time the
Chemist’s worst fears were realized.. . container corrosion! He carefully approached the container again, making sure he did not touch it. Yes,
there it was, a telltale rust spot near the lid. The Chemist immediately locked the door of the building and flagged it all around with police tape. A
quick phone call to the Assistant Director started the process. The AD immediately called the Director, explained the fearsome situation and got
approval. He called the State Bomb Squad.
The heavy truck rolled out of the outskirts of the State Capitol. Fred, Leader of the Bomb Disposal Unit, and Charlie, the Assistant Unit Leader, had
never dealt with picric acid before. In fact, this was only their third call to duty. The first had been out in the oil fields, where a rancher had
found what remained of the wrapper of a quarter pound of RDX after the prairie dogs had chewed it up. The small charge had been rendered useless five
years ago by the wheels of a seismic crew truck. The other inci- dent was the disposal of five 2-inch firecrackers that had been found in the glove
compartment of a car full of teenagers last Fourth of July. But, after talking with the Chemist, Fred and Charlie were apprehensive.
“Got it!” said Fred as he spoke in hushed tones into his specially grounded lapel microphone that relayed the message to Charlie outside the
building and also recorded it for later analysis by the Bomb Research Division. Despite the clumsy gloves, Fred manipulated the remotely-controlled
tongs and set the deadly canister into the steel mesh bag on the radio-controlled cart.
“Ready with Sandy?” “Yup.” said Charlie, standing alongside the 5-ton bomb container with walls of sand that would receive the canister and
its sinister contents.
Everything worked with precision. Fred drove the cart out to the truck, then used the special tongs to pick up the canister and deftly set it on the
bottom of Sandy. Charlie peered through the bullet-proof window of the truck as he manipulated the controls and gently lowered the ponderous lid and
closed Sandy for the trip ahead.
The Chemist got on the phone and told Maintenance that the coast was clear and they could tear down the police tape and tell the employees to go back
to work.
“Now what shall we do with it?” said Fred.
“Best to not let it leave Federal property,” said the Chemist. “Liability in case of an accident.”
“Then let’s do it in the pit at the dumpground.” said Charlie.
“Great idea, Charlie, but what about the media?” said the Assistant Director. “This is certainly worth a story.”
“Yeah, give them a call.” said the Director.
“You got State Radio on the line, Charlie?”
“Yup.”
Because of the heavy bomb suit and lead boots, Fred almost fell over the piles of slightly used typewriters, computers, microscopes, and other
laboratory equipment that lay at the bottom of the pit, awaiting burial.
He gingerly placed the canister on the back of an old Hasselblad camera that lay lens down in the mud at the bottom of the pit.
“OK, place the charge.” said Fred. Now it was Charlie’s turn. He carefully placed the capped, one- ounce charge of C4 next to the little can and
delicately poured sand over both items. Then, ever so gently, he ran the 10-ft. length of dynamite fuse up to the top of the pit where Fred weighted
the end down with a rock. .
“Fire in the hole!” cried Fred as he pulled the ignitor ring and the bickford fuse bubbled to life.
What seemed like hours was only 51 minutes to the Unit crew, the Chemist, the Assistant Director, the reporter, and his crew from KSMA-TV, as they
watched from the top of a hill about 600 yards away from ground zero. With a SPLUT sound the charge detonated and the TV crew caught the top of the
tiny puff of black smoke as it briefly rose from the
pit. Fred missed it with the 1000 mm lens on his armored Nikon, but the Assistant Director thought he might have got it with his handheld wide-angle.
“Wasn’t very loud.” said the Assistant Director.
“Hey, these guys know what they’re doing.” said the Chemist. “They had it perfect barricaded.”
“Did you get all our names?” said the Director to the reporter.
On the long drive back to the Capitol, Fred said, “Always feels good to save lives, don’t it Charlie?” “Yup,” said Charlie, as he chest
heaved with pride. KSMA aired the disposal project during a special feature called “The Environment.. . to Protect and Serve” that was picked up
and played on some other stations, some out-of-state. Several stations saved the story and were able to tie it into their anti-fireworks material
scheduled to be aired during the upcoming Fourth of July.
The Chemist appreciated the $500 Special Achievement Award he received for his herculean efforts, but absolutely cherished the framed Certificate of
Special Achievement that now hung above his desk. His chances for promotion or lateral transfer to a position of higher authority were now greatly
enhanced.
The Director and Assistant Director chortled over the incident and the good publicity.
“Sure it cost $17,457, but it was worth every penny,” said the Director. “Really put us on the map.” “Damn right,” said the Assistant
Director. “No trouble justifying our new budget request now!”
- HORST KNALLKORPER |
