"c182" - читать интересную книгу автора (Burt Andrew - Noontide Night)

4:25 A.M., Thursday, February 3, 2000
Manukau, New Zealand

It wouldn't be stealing, Desiree rationalized as she mindlessly copied names and addresses onto orders. The oil imports would resume as soon as the world sorted itself out. The Arab nations were less computerized than West; surely they'd be up and running in no time. Besides, she could almost just ask for the fuel from PS&B. Chapman, the owner, would surely agree that a hospital needed the fuel desperately more than his plant did. She'd make sure the hospital made up for the loan when they were finally rid of the Nation of the Strong. The phone rang. Another contractor called in his order, annoyed that he had to get up in the middle of the night to do it. Sorry, Desiree said, we all have to chip in for the cause. She stifled a yawn as she transcribed his order. Damn, this pen was running out of ink. Or her eyes were going dim. She wasn't yet accustomed to staying up until all hours. Good practice for when Jeremy came home, though, she reminded herself. Freddie, the floor manager, came over after she hung up. Bernice hung back by the door to the dirty-windowed office area, her arms crossed. "You take this order? Is that a '6' or a '0'? I sure hope that's a six or we just made sixty thousand too many rivets." He pitched an order slip onto her desk. She looked at it. "Nope. Not my writing. And I always put my name in the order-taken-by blank." But why did they have to pick on her? "Damn." He took the sheet, went to Tara at the next desk. "That yours?" Desiree wanted to retort that maybe Freddie should check the numbers before he ran off the product, but in truth she knew that wasn't fair. Everyone was working as fast and efficiently as they could. Some folks just had more 'could' than others. She resumed the drudge. Fifty meters at $2.27 a meter... She scratched out the math on a sheet of paper covered with calculations. She'd never considered that four-function calculators would be a commodity the stores would run out of. They had two amongst the seven of them, but waiting to use one usually took longer than doing the work by hand. Tara wheeled over after Freddie left. "Could you show me that long division thingo again? Torque Brothers wanted to buy however many I-beams they could get for a thousand dollars." Tara was quite intelligent and knowledgeable for fifteen, could extensively quote the gamut from Shakespeare and the periodic table, but suffered an unfortunate malady: The public school system had quit teaching long division in favor of calculators. Desiree admired her tenacity and showed her a more intuitive way to do division. Tara learned too quickly, alas, and Desiree was back to her own forms and mulling over how she could get diesel fuel from here to the hospital. Bernice eventually came in and announced their ten-minute break. This time Desiree waved off the others who were going outside for fresh night air and/or smokes. She hurried to the back of the plant, past chuffing blast furnaces and clanging rolling mills, under swaying cranes, around bobbling conveyors, past several idle machines for which they couldn't find operators (the usual employees having yet to report for work) and finally to John Kjelsberg's office. Kjelsberg was the engineer on duty. He didn't tend to make leaps of logic, and would be safe to pump for information. "Hey, John," Desiree said with a smile. "Mind if I ask you some questions?" He didn't. Desiree tried not to smile too much, lest Kjelsberg get the wrong idea. How did PS&B get so lucky they had power at night? She asked, playing dumb. A generator, really? How's that work? He waxed eloquent (for him) about three-cycle power, car engines, AC/DC conversion... And with a single word, Kjelsberg deflated her entire plan. "Petrol." "Petrol?" "You know, like you put in your car?" Panic fairly gripped her. "I thought generators used diesel." "Some do. Ours don't." Her head spun as if she'd stood up too fast. No, no, and no! Something that stupid couldn't foil her plan. She had to get in to see Jeremy. There might be some other way than trading visitation for fuel, but, shit, what if they lost power and Jeremy needed... She wandered back to her desk. There had to be a solution. Damn this left brain stuff. That was Morgan's specialty. She wished he were here. She was late coming back from break. In what Desiree perceived as punishment, Bernice had plonked a thick steak of credit applications on her platter. Each application took five to ten minutes to check out by phone, leaving her far too much time to stew. On-hold musak droned in her ear. Desiree sighed noisily. The others looked up at her. She smiled back thinly. This shouldn't be her problem. The damn terrorists should know their job, know how to take over a building and hold it. She chuckled inwardly at the thought. But damn it, she shouldn't have to be doing the terrorists' job for them! If everyone just did their own job competently, none of this would have happened. She sighed again. It was irrelevant. If she wanted to hold her baby, she had to take charge. Yet this wasn't like art. The finished piece didn't spring into her head fully formed, waiting only for her to copy it to canvas and fill in the details. She forced herself to step through the logic. Desired end result: She's holding Jeremy. Maybe she could carry him out, and... no, mustn't get distracted. She couldn't just walk in. With no ID card (or, perish the thought, an interlocking circle brand) she'd be immediately suspect and penned in with the hostages. Axton's brother could ship her in like freight. No, someone would open the crate. A fake ID card then. The police could make one... no way. They were "too busy". And that still didn't solve the fuel problem. Now that Desiree knew about it, she feared that if she didn't solve it, fate and Murphy would make sure it reared its head. The police could provide fuel, like they'd provided food. But they wouldn't need or want her involved. Still, she should tell them, so they could take care of that matter. If only Axton's brother could ship her in... Axton! If he knew drug smugglers, surely he might know fuel smugglers. If the police wouldn't help, he could. But what would Axton want in exchange?

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Chapter 18.2

4:25 A.M., Thursday, February 3, 2000
Manukau, New Zealand

It wouldn't be stealing, Desiree rationalized as she mindlessly copied names and addresses onto orders. The oil imports would resume as soon as the world sorted itself out. The Arab nations were less computerized than West; surely they'd be up and running in no time. Besides, she could almost just ask for the fuel from PS&B. Chapman, the owner, would surely agree that a hospital needed the fuel desperately more than his plant did. She'd make sure the hospital made up for the loan when they were finally rid of the Nation of the Strong. The phone rang. Another contractor called in his order, annoyed that he had to get up in the middle of the night to do it. Sorry, Desiree said, we all have to chip in for the cause. She stifled a yawn as she transcribed his order. Damn, this pen was running out of ink. Or her eyes were going dim. She wasn't yet accustomed to staying up until all hours. Good practice for when Jeremy came home, though, she reminded herself. Freddie, the floor manager, came over after she hung up. Bernice hung back by the door to the dirty-windowed office area, her arms crossed. "You take this order? Is that a '6' or a '0'? I sure hope that's a six or we just made sixty thousand too many rivets." He pitched an order slip onto her desk. She looked at it. "Nope. Not my writing. And I always put my name in the order-taken-by blank." But why did they have to pick on her? "Damn." He took the sheet, went to Tara at the next desk. "That yours?" Desiree wanted to retort that maybe Freddie should check the numbers before he ran off the product, but in truth she knew that wasn't fair. Everyone was working as fast and efficiently as they could. Some folks just had more 'could' than others. She resumed the drudge. Fifty meters at $2.27 a meter... She scratched out the math on a sheet of paper covered with calculations. She'd never considered that four-function calculators would be a commodity the stores would run out of. They had two amongst the seven of them, but waiting to use one usually took longer than doing the work by hand. Tara wheeled over after Freddie left. "Could you show me that long division thingo again? Torque Brothers wanted to buy however many I-beams they could get for a thousand dollars." Tara was quite intelligent and knowledgeable for fifteen, could extensively quote the gamut from Shakespeare and the periodic table, but suffered an unfortunate malady: The public school system had quit teaching long division in favor of calculators. Desiree admired her tenacity and showed her a more intuitive way to do division. Tara learned too quickly, alas, and Desiree was back to her own forms and mulling over how she could get diesel fuel from here to the hospital. Bernice eventually came in and announced their ten-minute break. This time Desiree waved off the others who were going outside for fresh night air and/or smokes. She hurried to the back of the plant, past chuffing blast furnaces and clanging rolling mills, under swaying cranes, around bobbling conveyors, past several idle machines for which they couldn't find operators (the usual employees having yet to report for work) and finally to John Kjelsberg's office. Kjelsberg was the engineer on duty. He didn't tend to make leaps of logic, and would be safe to pump for information. "Hey, John," Desiree said with a smile. "Mind if I ask you some questions?" He didn't. Desiree tried not to smile too much, lest Kjelsberg get the wrong idea. How did PS&B get so lucky they had power at night? She asked, playing dumb. A generator, really? How's that work? He waxed eloquent (for him) about three-cycle power, car engines, AC/DC conversion... And with a single word, Kjelsberg deflated her entire plan. "Petrol." "Petrol?" "You know, like you put in your car?" Panic fairly gripped her. "I thought generators used diesel." "Some do. Ours don't." Her head spun as if she'd stood up too fast. No, no, and no! Something that stupid couldn't foil her plan. She had to get in to see Jeremy. There might be some other way than trading visitation for fuel, but, shit, what if they lost power and Jeremy needed... She wandered back to her desk. There had to be a solution. Damn this left brain stuff. That was Morgan's specialty. She wished he were here. She was late coming back from break. In what Desiree perceived as punishment, Bernice had plonked a thick steak of credit applications on her platter. Each application took five to ten minutes to check out by phone, leaving her far too much time to stew. On-hold musak droned in her ear. Desiree sighed noisily. The others looked up at her. She smiled back thinly. This shouldn't be her problem. The damn terrorists should know their job, know how to take over a building and hold it. She chuckled inwardly at the thought. But damn it, she shouldn't have to be doing the terrorists' job for them! If everyone just did their own job competently, none of this would have happened. She sighed again. It was irrelevant. If she wanted to hold her baby, she had to take charge. Yet this wasn't like art. The finished piece didn't spring into her head fully formed, waiting only for her to copy it to canvas and fill in the details. She forced herself to step through the logic. Desired end result: She's holding Jeremy. Maybe she could carry him out, and... no, mustn't get distracted. She couldn't just walk in. With no ID card (or, perish the thought, an interlocking circle brand) she'd be immediately suspect and penned in with the hostages. Axton's brother could ship her in like freight. No, someone would open the crate. A fake ID card then. The police could make one... no way. They were "too busy". And that still didn't solve the fuel problem. Now that Desiree knew about it, she feared that if she didn't solve it, fate and Murphy would make sure it reared its head. The police could provide fuel, like they'd provided food. But they wouldn't need or want her involved. Still, she should tell them, so they could take care of that matter. If only Axton's brother could ship her in... Axton! If he knew drug smugglers, surely he might know fuel smugglers. If the police wouldn't help, he could. But what would Axton want in exchange?


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