gloomy interior.
“Yes, I have a requisition for the loan of a bulldozer and operator for a morning,” James announced just as an old man appeared from the depths.
“No problem with the bulldozer, it’s under cover outside the gate, but operators are non-existent. The last one left the site a year ago, no need for them anymore,” the old man said philosophically.
“How difficult are they to operate?” asked James, ever keen for adventure.
The old man shook his head. “'Haven’t a clue, but the unopened instruction-booklets are in a file here somewhere.” He started digging around in a metal filing cabinet. “Here we are, ‘Caterpillar model D8 operators manual.’ That’s a very big machine, son; you be careful.”
The fifty-page booklet included an index and lubrication instructions. ‘Very little to it,’ James thought. “Have the batteries been maintained?”
“Yes. It’s been on trickle-charge since the last operator left. Very meticulous Mr. Perreira, he serviced the whole machine before leaving. One never knows when one will have to use it again.”
“Excellent,” James agreed, taking the keys from the old man. “I’ll just stroll over and see what gives.”
He almost ran the two hundred yards; all his life he’d wanted to drive a bulldozer. As he got closer he became aware of exactly how huge the machine was. “Must have brought it here in pieces and assembled it on site,” he thought, looking up at the gleaming yellow monster.
He locked the gate behind him and, after disconnecting the charger cables and removing the heavy tarpaulin, ascended the ladder to the operator's platform. The cab door opened smoothly and James seated himself in the massive chair. Everything was on a large scale, the oil-pressure gauges, track control joystick, and throttles all made for giants. The steel floor of the cab was at least ten feet above the ground. James got comfortable and spent twenty minutes studying the manual.
Mechanically-minded James quickly figured out how the controls worked; a paddle operated transmission and track-control on the left and the blade/ripper joystick on the right seemed straight-forward. He thumbed the start button. The powerful starter motor drew tremendous current as it cranked the monster engine. Two grinding revolutions and it fired, belching dense clouds of black smoke.
James ran the engine for two minutes on three-quarter throttle to re-charge the batteries and get the fluids circulating.
By the time the engine was warm he’d studied the rest of the instructions and believed he could drive the beast.
He engaged the transmission but the powerful engine was revving too fast and the behemoth lunged forward violently, almost throwing him from the cab. Fortunately, it was pointed away from the fence and lumbered rapidly across the open ground toward the jungle. Before he could reduce speed it had effortlessly crossed a gully deep enough to bury a car. He throttled back using the push-button on the right wall and slewed left, in the direction of the airfield.
Setting its course, James leaned back smiling. “This is the life!” he cheered aloud to himself. He still had to practice operating the sixteen-foot blade used to push the soil. It was raised fully in front of the engine.
He was at the specified site in five minutes. He lowered the blade to the ground, aimed the machine, and powered forward, raising a five-ton pile of earth eight feet high in a matter of seconds.
He repeated the maneuver for almost an hour until he had created an earth embankment fifteen feet high and fifty yards long. He was having such fun he was reluctant to return but his boss had only allocated two hours to the security department. If he was late, he might re-assign the access-control job that gave him so much freedom and insight.
He raised the blade, engaged the tractors, and set the engine roaring at full throttle. The bulldozer seemed to love the freedom; the forty-ton machine trundled over the ground at nearly forty miles an hour, its momentum equivalent to four city buses. It was lunging so violently James only just managed to throttle back and avoid crashing through the fence.
The old man was standing in the yard shaking his head in wonder. “You operate that beast like a veteran!” he roared as James handed him the keys. “Are you sure you’ve never driven one before?”
“Yes, but it’s the best fun I’ve had in years,” James laughed, exhilarated.
He waved to the gate guards on the way back and they responded with an enthusiastic salute. “Must shout at them more often,” he thought.
He entered the security building expecting trouble but not a word was said. On a roll, he walked straight into John Gilmore's office, ignoring the corporal who was a little slow off the mark shouting, “Excuse me!” after James was already inside.
Gilmore jumped up, furious. “Don’t you ever barge in here again, mister!” he bellowed. That a ‘non-military’ man could be so forward annoyed him intensely.
“Relax, John,” James smiled disarmingly. “I’ve finished the back-wall for the range so we can commence training when you’re ready."
John Gilmore didn’t know how to handle this tall, confident man with obvious disregard for military protocol. The fact that his bellowing had no apparent effect confused him even more. He looked perplexed for a few seconds then sat down.
James took the initiative. “I must get back to work, see you at three then?” he said cheerfully, leaving without expecting a reply.
“OK, thanks,” replied the disconcerted ‘Commander’ Gilmore.
After spending four hours enhancing his turnstile-test-program, James left for the emergency training session. Only fourteen people turned up for the initial exercise which comprised two sections.
First, there was a one-hour orientation lecture describing signaling, action-stations, communication facilities, and weapons storage areas. It seemed that weapons were only going to be unlocked and issued once an enemy attack had commenced. “A little late,” James thought, hoping he had time to get his own SLR and still look after Shelly.
He found it strange that he automatically assumed he would take care of someone he hardly knew.
He’d assembled his rifle the night before and, after giving it a thorough clean and lube, stood it in the cupboard within easy reach. The need for immediate access outweighed the risk of theft or interference from security officials. No one ever came into his rooms anyway, so it was probably quite safe.
James also had a 9mm Browning service-pistol which, in the last few days, he’d started carrying under his shirt in a brushed-nylon shoulder harness. The pistol was issued before departure to Congo by EuroSpace to all staff who wanted one, as long as they had verifiable weapons experience and training.
James didn’t know who else owned personal weapons; he didn’t brandish his like some of the others did. He thought that one’s stature didn’t depend on weapons; they were simply tools like any others.
The second part of the afternoon was dedicated to rifle training. Everyone was issued a G3 and a magazine of twenty rounds. John Gilmore led the exercise with his favorite corporal Walls assisting.
The guards provided half an hour instruction on the operation, safety and maintenance of the weapon, as well as procedures for clearing ‘stoppages,’ a nasty situation where a live cartridge jams in the breech and has to be freed without detonating it and blowing a hole in one’s face.
After this, Corporal Walls led them to the berm James had constructed. Each trainee took a ‘number eleven’ target (a picture of the top half of a man with a mean face, dressed in camouflage clothes) and attached it to a stake in the ground.
After they’d each fired ten shots from the ‘one-hundred-yard firing point’ they ‘made safe’ (a term for unloading the weapon), walked to the back-wall, collected new targets, and replaced the used ones. James proudly displayed his effort to the corporal, who was impressed with