"They don't know the mill, Sergeant," I said, my baritone steady as an iron plumb line.
I walked to the eastern end of the brick tunnel where an ancient, steam-powered timber rail trolley sat on narrow-gauge tracks.
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The trolley was loaded with four tons of green, unseasoned Appalachian hickory ties—dense, heavy as lead, each eight inches square and ten feet long. The trolley was held on the thirty-degree descending grade by a single, four-inch mechanical steel pawl connected to an overhead trip-wire.
"Thomas," I commanded, pointing to the trip-wire lever beside the brick arch. "Take the boy's position. When I give the word, drop the pawl."
Thomas looked at the four-ton trolley, then looked at me, a wild, fierce grin of mountain understanding breaking through the soot on his jaw. "The bowling alley protocol, Dad?"
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"The bowling alley protocol, son," I replied.
BANG!
The heavy iron fire-doors at the western end of the kiln were blown inward by a linear breaching charge, sending blue-gray smoke and hot shrapnel whistling down the brick corridor.
