This is part three of our series based on the book Direct Action: Memoirs of an Urban Guerrilla, published by Between the Lines.

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11:15 p.m. There it was: plant number 402. I glanced back again and saw Brent pull over and turn off his headlights. Then I looked up and was surprised to see how close I was to the security tower. The bright florescent lights inside made it possible for me to see the expression on the men’s faces. One guy was sitting down looking at a magazine. The other guy bent over his shoulder so he could see it too. Something like a Playboy magazine, I thought. Look up, you idiots! It was imperative to our plan that they see me park the van. How could they miss me?

The van lurched slightly as I drove up over the curb onto the front lawn of building number 402. I prayed that my existence wouldn’t be extinguished by that lurch, but I continued coasting slowly over the floodlit lawn towards the west wall of the building. I felt so vulnerable and naked, driving on the lawn, the van brightly illuminated by the floodlights.

Once again, I glanced up at the security tower. The men continued to gaze, smiling, at their magazine. Then I stopped, put the van in reverse and backed it up against the wall. The back wheels crushed the hedges that lined the building. The hedges would conceal the back of the van from the security guards’ view, but, if they looked, they would see the front of it. I turned off the van and felt my heart beating even faster. If only I could go as fast as my heart.

Turning in my seat, I looked at the little toggle switch of the timing device and once more prayed that when I flicked it on, it wouldn’t ignite prematurely. It clicked, then nothing. I reached over and took the florescent orange cardboard box with the stick of dynamite taped on top. I got out and set the box carefully beside the van, then locked the door. On the side of the box, we had printed instructions in huge black block letters:

DANGER EXPLOSIVES — Inside this van are 550 lbs. of commercial dynamite which will explode anytime from within 15 minutes to 25 minutes after the van was parked here. The dynamite will be set off by two completely separate detonating systems. Do not enter or move the van — it will explode. Phone the police immediately and have them block off Highway 27, City View Drive, Dixon Road and other roads surrounding the Litton Plants and have the workers inside the plants moved to protected areas. Nearby hotels and factories should also be notified so that no one will be hurt by the blast. On top of this box is an authentic sample stick of the dynamite contained inside the van. This is to confirm that this is a real bomb!

The two sections of this warning that weren’t true — the two detonating systems and booby-trap — were only included to be sure no one attempted to tamper with the bomb.

11:20 p.m. My legs felt like jelly as I jogged quickly over to Brent’s car. As soon as I jumped in, I told him that I was quite sure the security guards hadn’t seen me park the van. “I sure hope Julie’s phone call gets through alright, or this could be a disaster!”

For five minutes, Brent drove quickly but within the speed limit to the place where we had left our second getaway car. The further away we got from the plant, the better we felt, but I could not extinguish the panic welling up inside me. Everything had not gone as we had planned, we thought. We drove off in the second car. I soon saw Julie pacing back and forth at the bus stop where we had arranged to meet, not far from her phone booth. We pulled over and she slid into the back seat. She began talking quickly in a small but frightened voice.

“He couldn’t understand me. I read the message and when I finished, he said, ‘What?’ and asked me to repeat it. I couldn’t believe it. I started thinking that he might just want to record my voice, so I just told him to go to the van and read the message on the box. Then I hung up … I did what you said, but he just didn’t understand.”

She kept repeating the details repeatedly until we told her we believed her and not to worry. For sure, he would see the van, read the box and call the cops. Usually when an action was over, I would feel an overwhelming sense of relief, but this time I didn’t feel like it was over. I wasn’t at all sure that it had gone well, and if it hadn’t, I didn’t even want to think about it.

As soon as we got into the apartment, I went into the living room and turned on the TV. Anything to get my mind off this bombing. If only there was some way of knowing what had happened. I switched channels mindlessly, looking for a diversion. Suddenly, the screen went black. A sober voice announced that the program was being interrupted by an important news bulletin. I had never seen normal broadcasting interrupted like that before.

A newsreader stated that there had been a bombing at Litton. The next picture showed a fleet of ambulances arriving at the plant, their emergency lights turning, sending a bright red light flashing across what seemed like a war-torn landscape. A reporter appeared on the screen, standing in front of a huge crater with smoke billowing out of it. Behind the crater was the shell of a building with a huge gaping hole bombed out of it. Thick steel support cables were dangling out of huge slabs of concrete that had been violently torn apart. But worst of all — especially from our point of view — was the sight of stretchers with bodies covered in white sheets being carried to waiting ambulances.

The reporter talked to a man with blood pouring down his face, blood from a wound on his head. He told her that, immediately after he was ordered to clear the building because of a bomb, a terrific explosion tore apart the building and thrown him to the ground.

Bright emergency lights illuminated a catastrophic scene of emergency crews, reporters and injured civilians milling about the ruins of the Litton plant. The van was nowhere in sight — only the crater and hunks of rubble all around it. If I hadn’t known any better, I would have assumed that the unlikely scenario of a surprise bombing attack on Canada was underway.

Inside my head, I could hear myself screaming. There was only one thing to do. Die. I could not live with this. That I was sure of.

“It must have gone off early,” Brent said in the same hushed voice. “How could that have happened? We tested it hundreds of times and never once did it malfunction.” For a few minutes, we sat in silence fathoming this possibility. “The security guards must not have cleared the building or blocked off the road.”

“I made the call!” snapped Julie, turning to look at Brent with angry eyes.

“I know you did,” he reassured her. She relaxed noticeably after that, but I could tell she was already riddled with the guilty feeling that, somehow, this disaster had happened because the guard did not clearly understand her telephone warning.

For a solid hour, the live-television coverage of the Litton bombing continued. All the while, the reporters apparently couldn’t say exactly how many casualties or injuries there had been. They would keep the audience posted on later developments.

I don’t remember sleeping that night. We sat up until the sky was light and talked about the various possibilities. Should we commit suicide or should we flee to the United States?