Getting to this point with the package, though, had been a test of skill and ingenuity. The prosthetic limb Toby had acquired weighed in at six pounds even, the majority of which was the inch-diameter steel support column running from the metal ball joint — or ankle — to the cup in which the stump rested. This steel column was concealed in a hollow plastic form that approximated the shape of the human calf. That was cut away carefully for later replacement, giving access to the column. The first problem was this steel rod. It was in the way, making it impossible to fit the cylinder of VZ in the limb. The other consideration was weight. Even if there were room, the added mass of the cylinder would surely convince the congressman that something was amiss.
The only solution then was to replace one with the other. The rod, as severed just below the cup connector and above the ball joint — leaving three quarters of an inch on each as a base for connection — weighed in at three pounds and four ounces. The cylinder of VZ and its associated timing and release equipment tipped the scales at two pounds and twelve ounces. An eight-ounce difference. John figured they could afford an extra half-pound without changing the feel of the limb too much. Vorhees, after all, had probably not worn it since getting his newer, lighter limb thirteen months earlier. It would be somewhat unfamiliar even to him.
Sixteen ounces. One pound. That was what John had to work with to replace the structural service of the support column, while providing room for the cylinder of VZ. He first considered actually using the cylinder as part of the new support column, but discarded that thought after being unable to convince himself that it would not damage the workings of the release and timing mechanisms. He knew all this should have been thought of before Kostin chose the cylinders and filled them, but that was the past. He now had to make the best of what he had. And he finally came up with a solution. It came to him while staring at, not out, a window.
As any carpenter worth his salt knows, when one wishes to place a window in a previously untouched wall, there is the consideration of load that must be addressed. Walls in general home construction are made of a series of studs that run vertically, parallel to each other about sixteen inches apart. These studs form part of the support system of the structure, transferring the load of the roof or stories above to the foundation below. When cutting a window into a wall, several of these studs have to be removed to make an opening of the desired size. This leaves the top portions of the studs hanging, unable to transfer their share of the load to the foundation, and the bottom portions jutting up uselessly. It is the top portions that are critical, though, and the solution to the problem is something called a header. Simply, it is a horizontal piece of lumber, running between the complete outer studs and connecting to the dangling studs, allowing the weight they carry to be transferred to the foundation through the full studs supporting the header. The header allows the load to be transferred around the empty space.
Why not in his mini-construction project? John had thought. No reason at all, was the answer.
To achieve the transfer of load from the cup to the ankle he chose to create a metallic header of titanium that would curve over the top of the cylinder, looking much like the skeletal framework of a dome. This “dome” header then would mate with a skeletal tube, also of titanium, that had a slightly larger interior dimension than the outer dimension of the cylinder. The tube’s bottom was a slightly less curved “foundation” of titanium that was mated to the ankle joint. The design simply took the load around the cylinder as a header and studs carry it around a window opening.
Building the system was the next step, and John went about it using all the skills he’d retained from his early days as a machinist. He had no CNC (computerized numerically controlled) machines to make the precision he desired very easy. And his knowledge, he learned, was not complete, requiring several visits to the library in Richmond and to a welding shop nearby for tutelage. But it did come together, though an ounce over the limit he’d decided upon, requiring that some plastic be shaved from the interior of the cosmetic cover.
And now it was assembly day.
“It fits perfect,” John said, allowing himself a bit of self-congratulation. He deserved it at this point. The work of a man can be judged only by its purpose. Trent’s words were true, but this piece of garage engineering was going to advance a purpose.
“All right, Pop,” Toby said, patting his father’s back. “You did it.”
“We did it.” John twisted the cylinder against the padding tape lining the inside of the skeleton, making certain the timing control would be accessible through the titanium “bones.” He placed the dome header, now attached to the cup, over the top of the cylinder and turned it into twist-notches he’d precut into the top edge of the titanium tube. “Look away.” He held a welder’s mask in front of his own eyes and touched the business end of the arc welder to a single spot where the dome and tube met. A blue light flashed in the confines of the garage, then subsided. John lowered the mask and checked the bond. “Perfect.”
“When do we set it?”
John did a quick calculation. “You’re handing it over next Monday, right?”
“Eight at night.”
“Set it at five forty-five that afternoon,” John instructed. One hundred hours exactly to 9:45 on the following Friday. Forty-five minutes into the speech. John smiled.
“Got it.”
“You can finish the shell after you set the timer,” John said, entrusting that last step to his eldest boy. He would check it, of course. “And don’t forget the charge on the inside of the shell.” The small blasting cap charge, of negligible weight, would be wired to the timer to blow a hole in the shell as the VZ was released.
“Okay, Pop.”
John laid the arc welder on the power unit and switched it off as he looked at the now complete innards of the device. All the rest was cosmetic. What lay before him was the power soon to be unleashed. The power to start anew.
“Would these guys try and mix with any local groups?” Special Agent David Rogers asked from his position at the head of the table. He was from the Bureau’s Washington headquarters, and was supervising the search for the NALF. His question was directed to Art Jefferson.
“I don’t think so. Our office pieced together a picture of a bunch of bitter loners.” Art considered the question on a deeper level briefly. “I think they’d only hook up with someone if it was necessary to complete whatever they’re up to.”
“Well, we know what assumption we’re working on,” Rogers said.
“David, I’d suggest not going too narrow on their target,” Art said. To his right Frankie nodded. “Not that it’s probably not correct, but these guys have hit like a scattergun. L.A. Utah. Lord knows what they’ve done here.”
“If anything,” another agent suggested. “They could just be laying low.”
“All right, if—”
A knock preceded an agent popping into the conference room. “Agent Jefferson, A-SAC in Los Angeles is on the phone for you.”
Art looked to Rogers.
“Take it in my office,” the lead agent said. “Mike, show him where.”