JSA #13: Breath of the Dragon, Prelude

To call Murphy’s a dive would be charitable; it was poorly lit, stank of spilled beer and smoke, and the jukebox only played records from an era that might best be described as "bygone." In short, it was Ted Grant’s kind of place. He was belly-up to the bar, nursing his third or fourth beer, lost in his thoughts.

Despite his age, Ted Grant was possessed of rugged good looks and a fighter’s physique. When the two, giggling young ladies approached and tentatively asked if the seats next to him were taken, the smile he gave them was little more than a grimace.

“Fraid I wouldn’t be such good company tonight, darlin’s. Maybe next time.”

Disappointed, the two drifted away and Ted signaled to the bartender for another round.

“Feeling maudlin, champ?” A familiar figure replaced the young ladies; a man in a long brown rain coat, with graying brown hair and rounded spectacles, hat in hand, took the empty seat next to Ted. “That’s not like you…”

Ted gave him a sidelong glance, his eyebrow arching in real surprise.

“Wes,” he saluted the newcomer with a tip of his bottle. “I can say the same about you showin’ up in a joint like this.”

Wesley Dodds let out a breath and made a “whatever-he’s-having” gesture to the bartender.

“Well, I admit I’ve ever been to this particular establishment before,” Wes made a cursory glance around, “But it’s not too far from the brownstone, and I’ve heard you mention it once or twice before. Figured I find you here.”

Ted Grant leaned back against the seat of his stool, setting his bottle down. “What is it? I thought we were adjourned until next week’s meeting? Has something come up?”

Wes accepted a bottle from the disinterested bartender, and made a small, dismissive wave at Ted. “No, it’s nothing like that. I just needed to get away from HQ. Have a night off. Take a deep a breath before the next big plunge, if you know what I mean.” Wes watched as Ted visibly relaxed. “Besides, I don’t think we’ve had a drink together in… a real long time.”

Ted gave Wesley an appraising look, but let it go. With a grunt, he tapped his bottle to Wes’ and the two old friends drank in companionable silence for a moment or two.

“So, what was that about, if you don’t mind my asking?” Wes nodded over his shoulder, back towards the two young ladies, now playing darts with more amenable company. “I don’t think I’ve ever known you to turn away female companionship.”

Ted Grant gave a half-hearted shrug. “I dunno. Just thinking about Charlie, I guess.”

Wes nodded as he sipped his beer. Charles McNider, Doctor Midnight, their friend and comrade of many years. Dead. Murdered by the Fourth Reich only weeks ago. Wesley himself had brought the news back from Europe, only just escaping his own demise.

“We’d been so busy, what with that business on Earth-Two, and then with losin’ Dinah… Barely had time to even think about poor Charlie before now.” Ted shook his head.

“I know what you mean,” Wes told him in a low voice. “At least Dinah had a family. Loved ones around her; the memorial was beautiful. But Charles… He lost his Myra years ago, and like Dian and I, they never had children. No one to mourn him but a couple of old comrades drinking stale beer at a dive in Manhattan on a cold January day.”

Ted let out a frustrated breath, and said, abruptly, “I just hate losin’ friends,” he set his bottle down and faced Wes. “I suppose you live long enough it’s bound to happen, and I know we’ve been luckier than most, but I hate it. And we’ve lost so many now… Shiera all those years ago, then C.C. and Polly, Theo Knight, and now Charlie and Dinah… Who’s next? None of us is getting any younger, and the world sure as hell isn’t getting any safer. I mean, Nazis, f’r cryin’ out loud? I can’t tell if we’ve come full circle or if we’re getting near the end…!”

Wesley Dodds met his friend’s incredulous gaze with calm and an even expression; if he was surprised by the uncharacteristic outburst, he didn’t let on. After a moment, Wes looked away, sipped his beer and thought for a second.

“It was the Fourth Reich that killed Charles McNider,” he started slowly. “But it was the Iron Major who pulled the trigger. I never told you what happened to him.”

Ted Grant’s expression turned very grim. “That cold-blooded, murderin’ psychopath. I remember him from the war. Thought Easy Company took him out. I hope you got him, Wes. I hope you stuffed that metal hand right down his throat.”

But Wesley Dodds shook his head, holding his beer bottle in two hands on the bar top. “Nope. I didn’t kill him.” He paused a moment, and a smile tugged at the edges of his mouth. He turned back to Ted. “Hooty did.”

Ted Grant blinked. His stricken look faded to dubious bemusement.

“What? You mean the owl…?”

“I mean the owl.” Wes could no longer hold back a full-on smile.

A snicker escaped from Ted Grant’s lips. Then something in his chest loosened, and he actually laughed. He leaned back in his chair and allowed the irony and justice to wash over him.

“It’s not the end, Ted,” Wes gestured for another round, on him. “It never ends for people like us. In fact, I think we’re just at the start of a new round. Time to come out swinging, Champ.”

Ted snorted, drained the last of his beer and leaned back with a sigh. He shook his head, chuckling. “Whaddya know?"he muttered to himself with a fond smile. "The god damned owl…”




Senator Alan Wellington Scott gazed out the window of his office, towards the Reflecting Pool and beyond towards the Lincoln Memorial. It was a beautiful, clear winter’s day and the view was spectacular. But all he could think about was the dossier on his lap. With a sigh, he glanced back down at it, and scanned through it once more, hoping to find a reason to hope that may have eluded him on the first read-through.

Alan served on a number of high-level committees, and as such was privy to a regular report from the various intelligence agencies--- some that didn’t even officially exist. And at the moment, all of them were focused on the situation in Central Europe.

Rallies in Kronstadt had reached a fever pitch of furious nationalism. The new Graffin Von Kron--- in truth, the supervillainess known as Baroness Blitzkreig--- and Chancellor Zwerg had put the country on a rapid armament schedule. War games were conducted on the borders near Kasnia and Vlatava, and sabres were rattling loud enough to be heard across the globe. Normally neutral Illyria, home to some of the most important banks and financial institutions in Europe, had called upon its neighbors for protection and threatened calling in enough loans and bonds to cripple the economies of a dozen nations if they were annexed by Kronstadt, as threatened. Modora and Ostenburgh called for peace summits, but factions in their own countries seemed determined to undermine the process, dredging up old grievances and demanding negotiation through strength.

Madness and paranoia had taken hold in Central Europe. It seemed like a tinder box waiting for a match to strike. And Alan Scott could not help but feel like he had seen this all before--- in the dark days before World War Two. He knew the Fourth Reich was behind this. He saw their hand everywhere, from the labor strikes in Pokolistan, to the political assassinations in Markovia. The question was what to do about it.

As a US senator, he felt he had to keep his country out of it; he could not risk the escalation. Sandman and Spy Smasher had brought back from the region an important prisoner, one Dr. Gerta Von Gunther, and she told them a very scary story about something called ‘the Aryan Virus.’ If it was true, pouring troops into the region would be like throwing more kindling on the fire.

No. The more he looked at it, the more he realized it was a job for his other team: the JSA was going to have to go to war again.

A knock came at his door, and a pretty, young woman poked her head in. “Senator?”

Alan turned and waved for his aide to come in. “What is it, Dolly?”

Alan Scott had known Dolly Dickles all her life, was--- in fact--- her godfather. Her grandfather, Charles “Doiby” Dickles, had been his driver, sidekick and confidante during the war years, and Alan had been only too proud to bring the whip-smart Ivy League graduate to Washington to serve as his personal aide de camp. She, like her grandfather, was well aware of the senator’s double life.

“Sir, there’s someone here to see you…” Dolly, usually so focused and precise, bit her lower lip and seemed momentarily unsure of herself. “I know you’re about to leave for the afternoon session, but he’s quite insistent--- Oh!”

“Out of the way, woman!”

Her mouth made a perfect round ‘O’ of surprise as somebody forced their way into the room, bumping her from behind. Alan shot to his feet, annoyed at the intrusion, but outraged at newcomer’s rude treatment of his aide.

The green ring on his knuckle flared, but Alan stuffed its power back with a burst of will.

“What is the meaning of this, Prince Vikram?” Alan demanded.

The intruder cut a somewhat ridiculous figure: he was dusky-skinned with a thin and neatly-trimmed moustache and goatee, attired in elaborate flowing robes, open in the front to reveal a hirsute chest. Crown Prince Vikram Satva Boddhi Shankaram of Bahdnesia usually wore a huge grin, as best to display a mouth full of dazzling teeth, but now his handsome face was clearly troubled.

“A thousand pardons, Senator Scott,” Vikram put his hands together in supplication and gave a tiny bow that did nothing to diffuse Alan’s annoyance. “It is a matter of life and death that I see you!”

“It damn well better be,” muttered Alan. “What is, Vikram? I already told you I’ve called for a vote on your country’s proposed trade treaty…”

A flicker of umbrage passed over the foreign dignitary’s face at Alan’s omitting of his royal honorific, but Prince Vikram swallowed it, and his pride. “Forget the treaty. I don’t believe it is on the table any more. There has been a coup in my country! The Black Dragon Society has murdered my grandfather and taken over Bahdnesia. The Dragon King is installed in the Royal Palace and has called for my head.”

The news took Alan completely unawares. The Black Dragon Society was a secret and criminal organization that operated out of the Far East, and had opposed the JSA during the War. The Dragon King himself was a mysterious and sinister figure that had once gone toe-to-toe with Doctor Fate and the Spectre--- and had beaten them back! But, like the Nazi menace, Alan had thought them long extinct.

A chill ran down his spine. It was happening again. Was war and death inevitable?

Prince Vikram knelt at the feet of the startled Alan Scott, looking up beseechingly. “I humbly and formally request asylum in the United States of America from the assassins of the Black Dragon Society. And I implore you to save my poor country of Bahdnesia from the clutches of the Dragon King and his minions, lest his fiery breath engulf the whole world. He fears only one thing, Alan Scott: his ancient enemies, the Justice Society of America! Call on them, I beg you! Save Bahdnesia!”




Jim Corrigan was dead, but that was nothing new. He’d been dead since 1938, when the thug “Gat” Benson had gunned him down and dumped his body in Gotham Harbor. For a long while after that, Corrigan had been bonded to the Spirit of Vengeance known only as the Spectre, but when the JSA disbanded in ’51, Corrigan went to what he had thought was, at last, his deserved rest, laying the Spectre aside. But Jim Corrigan’s time on Earth was not done. Now he wore the Artifacts of Fate, at least until he could find their rightful owner, his old friends Kent and Inza Nelson.

<Where are you?> he mused, not for the first or last time, gazing deeply into the Orb of Hotash. The mists residing deep within the crystal ball swirled, throbbing with a dull, obscured light. No answer was forthcoming.

Corrigan had spent months piecing it all together, but he still had so many questions. A while back, Kent had set aside the Helm of Nabu, using the other two Artifacts to forge the Helm of Fate, a lesser, half-helm, which he had taken to wearing instead. Then, shortly after the JSA had re-formed, he and his wife, Inza, had vanished, leaving their Salem Tower in smoking ruins. Corrigan had reclaimed the Tower, driving away all manner of loathsome Chaos-mites, and had donned the Artifacts, including the Helm of Nabu that Kent had set aside--- there was no sign of the Helm of Fate. As of yet, he had discovered no explanation for the Nelson’s disappearance, though he had begun to see why Kent had stopped wearing Nabu’s Helm: the ancient and long-dead wizard who empowered it was an over-bearing force, always seeking to assert his own identity over the wearer. This was less successful with Corrigan, who was, after all, dead, and past the point of worrying about such things.

Doctor Fate no longer exists, Nabu whispered to Corrigan. Neither Kent nor Inza Nelson exist on the Material Plane.

<I’m Doctor Fate, now, wizard,> Corrigan reminded the constant voice in his head. <And you know as well as I do that there are many planes of existence. If I have to, I’ll search through every one of them to find my friends and bring them back.>

Will you, James Corrigan? Nabu did not sound convinced. You are not half the Doctor my former champion was. Can you be the Agent of the Balance betwixt Order and Chaos? You are no seeker of mysteries, no diviner of truths. You cannot possibly comprehend what waits beyond the veils between worlds. Even a ghost may be driven mad, Corrigan. And there is a final oblivion you may yet suffer.

<Then instead of taunting me, why don’t you help me find Kent and Inza?> Corrigan beseeched Nabu.

Novice, scorn filled Corrigan’s thoughts. Are you my dog to lead around on a chain? I have been dead much longer than you. I am no ghost but only the echo of a power long since lost. All that remains of Nabu is imbued in the Helm. Answers don’t come cheaply, and knowledge comes not without sacrifice.

The voice fell silent. Which was fine with Corrigan. He concentrated his efforts on the Orb, hoping to pierce the bilious depths of the miasma. How long he remained so, he did not know. A day, perhaps? It could have been a week. He had no need of food or sleep, but he also knew when something wasn’t working. He was about to withdraw his consciousness from the Orb, when something reached out from it and seized him!

Corrigan was pulled forward, physically and psychically, towards the Orb and the intrusive presence moving through it. “Where is the Spectre?” An atonal, high pitched voice demanded.

He braced himself on the Material Plane with every erg of energy he possessed, pushing back against the arcane assault from the Orb.

<Who the hell are you?> He demanded. If a ghost could sweat with effort, Corrigan would have had to wipe his brow.

“I am He who vanquished Doctor Fate and his filthy mystic concubine. I am the wolf at the door, ravenous for the flesh and blood of gods. When at last I stand unveiled, you shall know my name and despair!”

Slowly, and with a supreme effort, Corrigan raised his hands, making horns with his fingers, drawing power from the Artifacts to withstand the overwhelming force sucking him into the Orb.

<Where are they, damn it!> Corrigan spat back, straining to remain free. <Just tell me where they are and I will give you the Spectre. The two of you can destroy each other, for all I care!>

"Fool, I see your mind. The Spirit of Vengeance is no longer yours to command. No matter. Wherever he has gone to ground, he is much reduced. He will be dealt with in due time. As for your friends, they are mine, and I will not give them up! And now you will join them in their torment!"

Corrigan felt himself being drawn inexorably into the Orb. His essential essence was beginning to fray at the edges, being drawn towards a greater power. In seconds, he would be absorbed. Was this how Kent and Inza had been taken?

Corrigan did the only thing he knew how to save himself. He ceased fighting back and in the instant before he was sucked into the Orb, he concentrated all his might into a double-fisted blast of mystic bolts straight at the crystal ball.

The Orb of Hotash shattered in a spray of glass and dust, the concussive force throwing Corrigan backward across the Tower chamber. But the hold that had been upon him was gone, released with the destruction of the Orb.

Corrigan picked himself up off the floor, pulling the Helm of Nabu from his head. He stared at the blackened smudge on the flagstones and wondered what fearsome might was now arrayed against him…

Jim Corrigan was dead, but--- he had discovered--- even the dead could learn fear.




Far from the public areas of the museum, in the cavernous meeting room of the JSA, with its large round table of engraved marble, Robotman was parked in front of the large bank of flat, high-definition monitor screens, and plugged into the network of computers. As JSA castellan, he was responsible--- first and foremost!--- for the safety of the HQ and its personnel, civilian and otherwise, so he did a security sweep: there was a tour winding its way through the ground floor exhibits, Sanderson Hawkins, executor of the JSA Trust was working in his office, and Ma Hunkel’s granddaughter Maxine, the Museum’s chatelaine, was busy arranging a reception for next week’s annual charity ball; the only member of the active duty team in residence was Commander Steel, who was many levels underground, in the gym.

All seemed to be in order. Except for the relentless bombardment of viruses and malicious programs assaulting the JSA’s neural net. The stealth attack had begun the day before, slow and clumsy at first, with worms bouncing off the firewalls. Robotman had noticed it immediately, and activated the enhanced encryption protocols. Discovered, the digital assault increased, but was equally ineffective no matter what they tried--- Michael Holt’s superior protection programming baffled any attempt to infiltrate or harm JSA systems.

Still, it was troublesome. The attackers were not without some sophistication and thus far neither Robotman nor Michael had been able to track the source or identity of the attackers. And thus far, they had no leads.

“Hello, Bob.”

The Flash came out of nowhere, as he usually did. He slid into place beside Robotman, crossing his arms over his shoulders as he scanned the banks of monitor screens.

It had been a very long time since Robert Crane had thought of himself as anything but Robotman. It was hard, when all that remained of his mortal body was a bit of gray matter in a super-reinforced cybernetic shell. But the JSA had taken him in, had given him a purpose in life again, and more than that, had given him a family. And he would be damned to rust and rot if he ever let them down.

“Jay,” His voice was smooth and natural, thanks to Michael Holt’s programming, but it was not Robert Crane’s voice. Not that it mattered; Robotman had forgotten what his voice sounded like a long time ago. “I thought you were in Westchester with the others at the Academy.”

“I was,” he clapped his old friend on his cold, molybdenum shoulder, as if it were flesh and blood. “I just got done putting the kids through their paces and gave them the rest of the day off. Figured I’d check in before heading back to Keystone, see if you wanted to join us for dinner. Joan and I are having Libby and Johnny over, too, and I know they’d love to see you.”

He said it with no sense of how absurd it sounded. Come for dinner! What need did Robotman have for nutritional sustenance? He had neither a digestive system nor an appetite. He looked over at Jay to see if the speedster was playing a trick on him, but the plain, honest face of Jay Garrick stared back at him with a hopeful expression.

“I shouldn’t leave HQ…”

“Take a break, rust-bucket, I got this,” Beth Chapel, one of the two medical doctors hand-picked by Charles McNider to work at HQ, entered the conference room, striding purposefully towards them with her overnight bag in hand. Having served active military duty in the Air Force, Dr. Chapel was confidant and competent--- and in another life Robert Crane would have been extremely attracted to her. He was sure Beth Chapel got that a lot. She said, “You’ve been going non-stop for weeks now. Go recharge your batteries or oil your joints. Relax.” She set her bag down on the console, rooting in it for the neural interface Holt had provided for non-cybernetic monitors.

“My last diagnostic was only three days ago, I hardly think---.”

“Please do not do that Mr. Data thing with me, Dr. Crane,” Chapel whirled on him, her single upraised finger effectively cutting him off. “You may call yourself Robotman, but there’s a human brain in there somewhere, and it needs to connect with other human brains instead of talking to computers all day. Besides,” her expression softened a little, a smile playing at the corner of her lips, “You’re hogging all the fancy toys. I want to give our Mr. Holt’s gadgets a spin for myself.”

Jay Garrick looked as if he was trying to keep from laughing as he pulled his old friend from his rolling chair. “C’mon, Bob. Better do as she says. We may be the ones with the superpowers, but between her and Maxine, we know who really runs this place, huh?”

When they were gone and Beth Chapel was installed at the controls, she allowed herself a smile. She could have sworn that Robotman’s immovable faceplate wore a hapless expression as he was escorted away. He was cute… for a bucket of bolts.




The house at 99 Rimble Road in Westchester County was the ancestral home of Carter Hall’s family, but had long since passed into the JSA Trust. Today, hidden away from the rest of the world, it was known by its tenants simply as the Academy, where the legends of the greatest generation trained the heroes of tomorrow.

Two of them, Rick Tyler and Jesse Chambers strolled hand in hand through the woods, not far from the estate, but far enough away for the privacy they sought.

“Rough day, huh?” Rick observed, rubbing the side of his face where a bruise was darkening.

“Artemis get a lucky shot in, did she?” Jesse gave him a sidelong smile, watching the cold, hard forest floor as they picked their way down the trail, towards the hot-spring-fed lake, their favorite spot for alone time.

“All her shot are pretty lucky,” Rick grunted. And Wildcat’s daughter, the Tigress, never pulled her punches, not even with her teammates. “No, I meant it feels like they’re going pretty hard on us these days. And I thought we did a pretty good job on Earth-Two, so what gives?”

Jesse nodded in agreement, but thought about it for a minute before she answered. “I don’t think it’s that. I don’t think it’s so much about us proving ourselves anymore, as it is preparing us…”

Rick snorted. “We’ve been preparing all our lives! What exactly do they think they’re preparing us for, exactly?”

A small frown line creased Jesse’s forehead. They were close to the lake now, and she paused, Rick turning back to wait for her, still holding her hand.

“Can’t you feel it in the air, Rick?” she asked. “It’s been pretty heavy, lately. Alan, Jay and the others… they’re all watching that situation in Europe pretty closely… I think they think something real bad is coming, and I think they want us to be ready for it.”

Rick Tyler saw the genuine worry in her eyes. He took both her hands in his now, and assured her, “We’ll be ready, Jess. You’re already the most amazing person I know--- and nothing can stop me, when you’re at my side.”

A twinkle returned to Jesse’s eyes; she could not keep a smile from curling her lips. “Someone thinks he’s getting lucky out here with a line like that.”

“Can’t blame a fella for trying,” Rick returned her smile and bent to kiss the lips she offered.

A loud burst of voices interrupted their moment. Startled--- thinking they were alone--- Jesse and Rick sprang apart, looking around. The woods were still, but after a moment, there came the sound of splashing water and laughter.

“The lake!” Jesse whispered, aghast that someone had discovered their private spot.

They crept quietly the rest of the way, following the familiar voices. At the edge of the trees, they halted, peeking through the leaves and branches at the scene. Clothes were scattered on the ground, and two figures cavorted, naked, in the water. One of them was easily recognizable as their teammate, Ray Terrill, windmilling his arms and sending splashes of water high into the air. And the other---

“Is that Dolly Dickles?” Rick hissed. He could hardly believe his eyes. Alan Scott’s senatorial aide had always seemed so prim and proper--- he might even have called her uptight. And yet there she was, naked as the day she was born, bouncing around in the water, trying to avoid Ray and dunk him at the same time, laughing.

Then Jesse was pulling him back, her hands covering his eyes. In the shelter of the trees, the two could only stare at each other and try to keep their own laughter down.

“Can you believe that?” Jesse breathed in mock outrage. “Skinny-dipping in our skinny-dipping place!”

“Yeah,” Rick feigned anger. Which was quickly replaced with an earnest, hopeful expression. “Want to join them?”

Prologue

Later, after dinner at the Academy, there was a meeting in Headmaster Michael Holt’s office. He sat behind his desk, looking towards Alan Scott, who was gazing out the window at the setting sun. Ma Hunkel, caretaker of the house and its inhabitants, was there as well, sipping hot chocolate in a thickly-padded armchair, across from the uneasy-looking Prince Vikram.

“It should only be for a couple of days, Michael, Ma,” Alan said over his shoulder. “Just until we get the Black Dragon Society sorted out.”

“Oh, don’t give it a second thought, dear,” Ma Hunkel clucked. “I’m sure Prince Vikram will be very comfortable with us here.”

“He’ll be safe, that’s what matters,” Michael Holt echoed the caretaker’s sentiments; in his hands, he toyed idly with a small metallic sphere. “I’ll even provide his highness with my new personal security field device, if that makes him feel any better,” by the sour look on Vikram’s face, it didn’t. “But the Black Dragons couldn’t possibly know to look for him here, in Westchester.”

“Never underestimate the Dragon King,” Vikram pronounced, sinking into his chair with a sullen expression. “In the East, he and his ilk have plagued us for centuries. Their tentacles find their way everywhere.”

“Whatever else he is, your highness, he’s just a man,” Alan grunted, casting his memories back to the 1940s, and the last time he had encountered the leader of the Black Dragon Society; suddenly, the air seeping in from the glass of the window grew a little colder. “And justice comes to all men.”

“No, you’re wrong,” Prince Vikram shook his head, adamant. “He’s not a man. He’s something else.”

Something about the way the Bahdnesian prince said that, about the fear in his voice, made an involuntary chill shiver down Alan’s spine. But before he could respond, movement caught his eye. He glanced out the window to see a line of black cars pulling up the drive towards the house.

“That will be General Harrigan,” he explained to Michael, who had gotten up to look. “I’ve asked him to attend our emergency meeting tonight. He’s going to debrief the team on the latest news overseas.

Within moments, the official government liaison to the JSA was striding into the Headmaster’s office. Major-General Henry Harrigan of Homeland Security was the son of a JSA ally during the war, and a trusted ally in his own right. Today, he looked haggard and worn.

“Glad you could make it, Harry,” Alan greeted him warmly. Harrigan just stared at him with empty eyes.

“Alan,” Harrigan nodded tightly, glancing around the room.

Ma Hunkel tried to offer him some refreshment, but Harrigan dismissed the gesture. Instead he focused on Prince Vikram, who had not risen from his chair.

“Is this the Bahdnesian?” Harrigan asked, with a jut of his chain towards the prince.

Alan cocked his head at the abrupt behavior of his longtime friend. “Yes. Allow me to introduce Prince Vikram Satva Bod---.”

Harrigan ripped open his jacket, revealing the explosive device strapped to his chest.

Through gritted teeth, Harrigan rasped, “The Dragon King sends his regards,”

“Harry, NO---!” Alan screamed. He was already raising his fist, blazing with an emerald glow.

But it was too late. Harrigan had already fingered the detonator.

The explosion ripped through the office and--- in seconds--- the resultant fireball engulfed the whole house…