"c171" - читать интересную книгу автора (Burt Andrew - Noontide Night)

15:11 Universal Coordinated Time, Wednesday, February 2, 2000
Somewhere over North America

The plane banked and nosed downward, a dip of turbulence jolting Morgan awake from a dream of Hawaii. Morgan watched the ground approach, white, dotted with black veins and warts of trees, lakes and roads. On landing, stiff in every muscle, Morgan stretched out and grabbed his tote bag from under the plane's seat. Snow swirled outside the portholes. Why couldn't they have stationed him in Hawaii? God, not snow. He felt a rush of cold air as they unsealed the cabin door. He'd forgotten that the States were in the teeth of winter. Well, he remembered now. Goosebumps formed on his legs below his shorts. Again, he wondered why they didn't leave him in Hawaii, which was extremely well connected, Internet-wise. His journey stretched behind him like a heavy chain: Auckland to Sydney to Honolulu on chartered QANTAS 727's and 747's; bus to Hickam Air Force Base. Air Force C-130 transport to Los Angeles Air Force Base; unfortunately the C-130 was configured with side-facing seats as if for paratroopers, which was extraordinarily uncomfortable. The seats themselves were tortuous, but sitting sideways against the motion of the plane made Morgan nauseous. In LA, draftees and soldiers were merged and shuffled like playing cards, then Morgan was on to Chicago via a United DC-10—with most commercial air carriers serving various governments almost exclusively, it was heavenly luxury by comparison; even the peanuts smelled wonderful—then bussed halfway across the state to Scott Air Force Base outside of St. Louis, and onto this last olive drab C-130 to Boston. (Though at least it was configured for passengers, and Morgan was able to doze.) At each stop it was show your orders, wait in line, show your orders, wait in line, sit, stand, wait, wait, wait, get on a plane or a bus. Repeat. Morgan's sheet of orders was getting torn and frayed from the constant unfolding and inspection. With the handwritten destination, he wondered just how closely they were keeping track of him. If he lost that sheet, would they know where to send him? Would they even know he was missing? He suppressed a vicarious thought of vanishing and sneaking back in to New Zealand. Instead, he unfolded his sheet once again, and queued up. The terminal building was small inside. The lights were on, and a wide array of civilians and uniformed soldiers milled about. Morgan immediately knew they hadn't landed at Logan in Boston. Yet it didn't look like a military base. Though he saw no obvious tourists, it looked passenger oriented, with a coffee shop to his left, and an ordinary baggage claim facility. And all the signs were in both French and English. And there were an awful lot of red maple-leafed Canadian flags on signs. "I don't think we're in Kansas anymore," the black-haired, pony-tailed guy on crutches behind him in line said, apparently coming to the same realization. "Morgan Hyland," Morgan introduced himself with a firm handshake. "Nate Zamora. I may be wrong, but this sure doesn't look like Philadelphia." "Philadelphia? It doesn't look like Boston to me." A drill sergeant's command voice boomed. "A-ten-hut! Listen up, recruits! Fall into a line, single file, do whatever you sorry asses call a march, and follow me." As they straggled toward yet another bus barely visible through the thickening snow, Morgan pointed out a sign to Nate. "Welcome to Halifax."

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Chapter 17.1

15:11 Universal Coordinated Time, Wednesday, February 2, 2000
Somewhere over North America

The plane banked and nosed downward, a dip of turbulence jolting Morgan awake from a dream of Hawaii. Morgan watched the ground approach, white, dotted with black veins and warts of trees, lakes and roads. On landing, stiff in every muscle, Morgan stretched out and grabbed his tote bag from under the plane's seat. Snow swirled outside the portholes. Why couldn't they have stationed him in Hawaii? God, not snow. He felt a rush of cold air as they unsealed the cabin door. He'd forgotten that the States were in the teeth of winter. Well, he remembered now. Goosebumps formed on his legs below his shorts. Again, he wondered why they didn't leave him in Hawaii, which was extremely well connected, Internet-wise. His journey stretched behind him like a heavy chain: Auckland to Sydney to Honolulu on chartered QANTAS 727's and 747's; bus to Hickam Air Force Base. Air Force C-130 transport to Los Angeles Air Force Base; unfortunately the C-130 was configured with side-facing seats as if for paratroopers, which was extraordinarily uncomfortable. The seats themselves were tortuous, but sitting sideways against the motion of the plane made Morgan nauseous. In LA, draftees and soldiers were merged and shuffled like playing cards, then Morgan was on to Chicago via a United DC-10—with most commercial air carriers serving various governments almost exclusively, it was heavenly luxury by comparison; even the peanuts smelled wonderful—then bussed halfway across the state to Scott Air Force Base outside of St. Louis, and onto this last olive drab C-130 to Boston. (Though at least it was configured for passengers, and Morgan was able to doze.) At each stop it was show your orders, wait in line, show your orders, wait in line, sit, stand, wait, wait, wait, get on a plane or a bus. Repeat. Morgan's sheet of orders was getting torn and frayed from the constant unfolding and inspection. With the handwritten destination, he wondered just how closely they were keeping track of him. If he lost that sheet, would they know where to send him? Would they even know he was missing? He suppressed a vicarious thought of vanishing and sneaking back in to New Zealand. Instead, he unfolded his sheet once again, and queued up. The terminal building was small inside. The lights were on, and a wide array of civilians and uniformed soldiers milled about. Morgan immediately knew they hadn't landed at Logan in Boston. Yet it didn't look like a military base. Though he saw no obvious tourists, it looked passenger oriented, with a coffee shop to his left, and an ordinary baggage claim facility. And all the signs were in both French and English. And there were an awful lot of red maple-leafed Canadian flags on signs. "I don't think we're in Kansas anymore," the black-haired, pony-tailed guy on crutches behind him in line said, apparently coming to the same realization. "Morgan Hyland," Morgan introduced himself with a firm handshake. "Nate Zamora. I may be wrong, but this sure doesn't look like Philadelphia." "Philadelphia? It doesn't look like Boston to me." A drill sergeant's command voice boomed. "A-ten-hut! Listen up, recruits! Fall into a line, single file, do whatever you sorry asses call a march, and follow me." As they straggled toward yet another bus barely visible through the thickening snow, Morgan pointed out a sign to Nate. "Welcome to Halifax."


back | next home