They drove the truck up to the barricade. ID’s were checked and they were allowed to pass. Another 75 yards and they pulled over and got out. They walked the final 50 yards to where the sappers had dug the hole. A tripod with a pulley to pull up the dirt marked the location. It was less than twenty feet from a wall of the pediatric wing of the hospital. Ten feet down and eight feet by six, the hole was lined with lumber to brace the earth and keep it from falling in. The sappers had dug this by hand, one shovelful at a time. Each sapper knew the risks they were taking. A shovel hitting the bomb casing, a slightly too strong vibration from a passing truck, could set off the bomb. That would leave a crater a hundred feet across and very little left of anyone in side the hole.

At the bottom sat the bomb. The grey steel casing lay covered with a thin film of mud. The stabilizing fins had been torn off on it’s journey through the earth. It sat there, silent, dormant. Awaiting its time of destruction.