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Authors: Mike Cooper
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other, and various pipework and scaffolding seemed to run everywhere.
At five points around the base, crude platforms had been set up: a pallet on a pair of sawhorses, two fifty-five-gallon drums placed together, a stack of wooden crates. On one a man stood precariously, swinging a sledgehammer to drive a long pipe into the heart of the furnace.
“Yo, Dave.”
“Hey, man.”
The guy with the sledge hammered the pipe end flush with the brick. Holes had been drilled above each platform, and the others had their pipe already installed. He admired his work, then hopped down, hammer on one shoulder like John Henry. His Tractor Supply boots slipped a bit on the damp ground.
“That’s it. Ready to go.” He had two missing teeth in front but long mutton chops to make up for it.
“All right then.”
“Where’s the dynamite?”
Dynamite?
So here’s how their mad plan was going to work. The furnace was full of slag and waste, topped off from decades of use. Even a month after the last steel had been poured, the huge thermal mass of the tower kept the heat trapped—as much as five hundred degrees at the core. If they knocked the tower down in a conventional way, the white hot remnants would scatter everywhere, damaging equipment and injuring workers.
Explosive demolition, done professionally, could handle it: set charges, establish a perimeter, get the right paperwork and inspections done, on and on. But that would cost more money than FerroCorp wanted to spend.
Instead, Dave’s friends had offered a simple alternative. They put a stick of dynamite in each pipe, sticking halfway out. Five guys were going to take position, standing on the platforms with sledgehammers ready. On the count of three, they’d slam the dynamite into the core, drop the hammers and run like hell. A few moments later heat would detonate the charges, the base would blow out and the furnace would come down.
“That’s insane.” I couldn’t believe they were serious. “What if somebody trips or something? What if the dynamite goes off two seconds early?”
“Naw, we done it before.” The evident leader had several inches and maybe fifty pounds on me. “OSHA ain’t in favor, but hell, this is how the flatheads been doing it for a hundred years.”
“Blowing up furnaces?”
“Clearing the scrag inside.”
I didn’t think anyone even used actual dynamite anymore. Water-gel explosives like Tovex are easier, less toxic and so much safer that only a moron would do so.
The U.S. military gave me as thorough an education in small explosives as you can get anywhere, and we never
once
detonated a stick of dynamite.
This argument met with complete indifference. “You got a hammer?” the chief asked Dave.
“Two.”
“Two? Don’t sound like he’s interested.” Looking at me. “But that’s all right, we’re good.”
Dave shrugged, an odd expression on his face. Embarrassment? I felt an unfamiliar emotion ripple through me.
It took a moment: I was letting him down.
“Sorry,” I said. “I’ve never seen anything like this before.”
“No problem. Brendt, we ready?”
They were like a bunch of third-graders.
“Don’t you fuck up and hit it
early
.”
“Yo, Brendt, on three or five?”
“Three. Can you count that high?”
“Who’s got the video?”
I backed away, not taking my time. Out in the parking lot seemed like a minimum safe distance. A sixth guy, who I hadn’t noticed before, stood behind a slag car on one of the railroad sidings, holding a camera at ready, and he called as I passed.
“You can stand here. Best view.”
I looked over. “That’s not even two hundred yards. Wouldn’t you be happier farther away?”
“Better shot from here. We’re gonna put it on YouTube.”
The slag car had a massive, bell-shaped iron tureen suspended between two pivots. It probably weighed several tons. Maybe the videographer was more cautious than I thought.
Still.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but we
At five points around the base, crude platforms had been set up: a pallet on a pair of sawhorses, two fifty-five-gallon drums placed together, a stack of wooden crates. On one a man stood precariously, swinging a sledgehammer to drive a long pipe into the heart of the furnace.
“Yo, Dave.”
“Hey, man.”
The guy with the sledge hammered the pipe end flush with the brick. Holes had been drilled above each platform, and the others had their pipe already installed. He admired his work, then hopped down, hammer on one shoulder like John Henry. His Tractor Supply boots slipped a bit on the damp ground.
“That’s it. Ready to go.” He had two missing teeth in front but long mutton chops to make up for it.
“All right then.”
“Where’s the dynamite?”
Dynamite?
So here’s how their mad plan was going to work. The furnace was full of slag and waste, topped off from decades of use. Even a month after the last steel had been poured, the huge thermal mass of the tower kept the heat trapped—as much as five hundred degrees at the core. If they knocked the tower down in a conventional way, the white hot remnants would scatter everywhere, damaging equipment and injuring workers.
Explosive demolition, done professionally, could handle it: set charges, establish a perimeter, get the right paperwork and inspections done, on and on. But that would cost more money than FerroCorp wanted to spend.
Instead, Dave’s friends had offered a simple alternative. They put a stick of dynamite in each pipe, sticking halfway out. Five guys were going to take position, standing on the platforms with sledgehammers ready. On the count of three, they’d slam the dynamite into the core, drop the hammers and run like hell. A few moments later heat would detonate the charges, the base would blow out and the furnace would come down.
“That’s insane.” I couldn’t believe they were serious. “What if somebody trips or something? What if the dynamite goes off two seconds early?”
“Naw, we done it before.” The evident leader had several inches and maybe fifty pounds on me. “OSHA ain’t in favor, but hell, this is how the flatheads been doing it for a hundred years.”
“Blowing up furnaces?”
“Clearing the scrag inside.”
I didn’t think anyone even used actual dynamite anymore. Water-gel explosives like Tovex are easier, less toxic and so much safer that only a moron would do so.
The U.S. military gave me as thorough an education in small explosives as you can get anywhere, and we never
once
detonated a stick of dynamite.
This argument met with complete indifference. “You got a hammer?” the chief asked Dave.
“Two.”
“Two? Don’t sound like he’s interested.” Looking at me. “But that’s all right, we’re good.”
Dave shrugged, an odd expression on his face. Embarrassment? I felt an unfamiliar emotion ripple through me.
It took a moment: I was letting him down.
“Sorry,” I said. “I’ve never seen anything like this before.”
“No problem. Brendt, we ready?”
They were like a bunch of third-graders.
“Don’t you fuck up and hit it
early
.”
“Yo, Brendt, on three or five?”
“Three. Can you count that high?”
“Who’s got the video?”
I backed away, not taking my time. Out in the parking lot seemed like a minimum safe distance. A sixth guy, who I hadn’t noticed before, stood behind a slag car on one of the railroad sidings, holding a camera at ready, and he called as I passed.
“You can stand here. Best view.”
I looked over. “That’s not even two hundred yards. Wouldn’t you be happier farther away?”
“Better shot from here. We’re gonna put it on YouTube.”
The slag car had a massive, bell-shaped iron tureen suspended between two pivots. It probably weighed several tons. Maybe the videographer was more cautious than I thought.
Still.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but we
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