“I’m honored,” the chief supply clerk shot back.

“Well,” Stoner added quickly, “if it makes you feel any better, I’ll take it back there myself and unload it. I know where it goes.”

Stoner’s offer was greeted with smiles all around. The men and women who normally would have been left the task to unload the boxes off Stoner’s cart onto their own and then haul them into the main storage area, all turned to stare at their boss who sat at his cluttered desk, considering Stoner’s offer. With the heightened state of alert that every April 19 brought to every Federal facility having passed without a single incident, the chief supply clerk saw no harm in sidestepping proper procedures, again. Stoner’s quiet blue eyes, framed by a bland, clean, expressionless face, didn’t look anything like one of those crazed maniacs. He could be trusted. After all, he had done this sort of thing before.

Quickly altering his scowl into as decent a smile as he could manage this late on a Friday afternoon, the chief supply clerk waved Stoner on. “Well, sure. If you’re willin’ to put that stuff away, I’m willin’ to let you do it.”

With sighs of relief, the other supply clerks went about finishing up the last bit of work they would need to clear before they left. With a free rein and an open door, Dale Stoner gave his heavy load one mighty heave in order to get it moving again. By the time he had disappeared into the main storage area, the busy Federal employees replaced any thought of him or his cargo with other, more pressing concerns such as home, family, and what was for dinner.

Stoner hadn’t bothered to study architectural engineering or common construction techniques. Nor had he made complex calculations as to size and shape of his charges. Instead he was content to rely on simple guesswork, common sense, and years of training and practical experience. Only in his choice of explosives had he taken his time. Trained as a combat engineer, Stoner took pride in his skills and found great enjoyment in solving the technical problems he faced. From the beginning, he had ruled out a fuel oil and fertilizer bomb like that used in Oklahoma City. It would be, he figured, too bulky and difficult to move about in pieces. Besides, law enforcement agencies were tracking the sales of large quantities of ammonium nitrate and dynamite too closely. No, he told himself when he recalled the image of the room full of pillars. What he needed were explosives that were precise, yet portable.

His original idea of using C-4 and det cord was not at all practical. To obtain that sort of thing would have meant stealing from the military. Anxious to avoid exposing himself to the chances that such a theft would entail, he held that as a fallback position only. It was much better, he reasoned, to manufacture his own explosives using common chemicals. That’s what had led him to the 5th Brigade. If anyone knew how to fabricate explosives, they would. So late in the fall he had attended a couple of their meetings. He had even gone out on “maneuvers” with them once. Unfortunately, he had found himself disliking the whole lot of them. While he had heard the term “Cox’s Army” before, he had never known what it had meant until he spent time with the 5th Brigade. A maneuver with that mongrel organization was the military’s equivalent of a bad hair day. For weapons, the “soldiers” of the 5th Brigade carried everything from high powered sports rifles to old military weapons that looked to be more dangerous to the owner. Only the wild diversity of physical appearance and stature of the members of the unit surpassed their strange assortment of weaponry. With the exception of three or four former soldiers, the unit of the 5th Brigade Dale fell in with was composed of fat men well past their prime or boys trying hard to make noises like men. In disgust Stoner had left that group and, for a short time, despaired of finding a suitable explosive for his project.