Chapter 4
The gulls complained. Major Amos Burke sympathized. It was a fucking cold day; not fit for shovels.
His eyes swiveled. The VIPs had finally gathered. Black or navy coats were congressmen, he guessed. They stood with the bureaucrats in tweed. Birds of a feather. Some top brass in olive, too.
Today, VIPs didn't matter to Major Burke. He was just here to observe "the demonstration." The science boys had a new shebang. They called it cyclonite. It looked like a half pound of gray lard wrapped in butcher's paper ... if your butcher was a very evil man.
Burke was a listener. He wanted to get the details right. The sergeant saw he had a good audience, so he turned a bit toward the major.
"Cyclonite," he said; Burke nodded calm encouragement. "Also known as Nobel 808. Brits came up with it." Burke involuntarily snuffed, which the sergeant mistook as contempt for English bloodthirstiness. "Yeah," he said low, for Burke's hearing alone. "You wouldn't think they had it in them." Burke nodded companionably once more.
But he knew full well, Americans had that wrong.
Maybe it's the toff accent throws them off. The Brits were damn-well adept at slaughter. Dainty folk don't run empires, you know. Being of Irish parents who'd fled to Boston, Burke of course had no problem imagining the Brits as total pricks. He'd heard about that aspect all his life.
The sergeant was none too gentle handling the cyclonite. And he saw worry flit over Burke's face. They were pals now. The sergeant rushed to reassure: "That's the beauty of cyclonite, Major: safe to handle. You can mold it like window putty." His hands did some taffy pulling. "Shape it around things. Locks and hinges. Keeps good, too; nice and stable. Won't sweat nitroglycerin like dynamite." The sergeant made a hand gesture. "Now there's a nasty habit." Burke's raised eyebrows....