Pipeline
"Be careful what you wish for."
| If
you had a very powerful telescope, and focused it on
a particular window of the thirty-first floor of the
Kirkley Petroleum Building in downtown Los
Angeles, you might see someone in
a dark-gray suit speaking on the telephone. Judging
by his gestures, you would imagine he was
discussing a very heavy business deal
involving millions of dollars. If you knew
a little more about Kirkley Petroleum,
you might imagine that this man were speaking to someone
in charge of their part of the new
pipeline being built in Alaska. From the sweat forming on
the speaker's face, you might figure that the
matter under discussion was very important to the future of
that project. But you would need a telephone
decryption device to listen in on the conversation. Then,
you would have found you had been right:
The conversation did involve Tundra Pipeline, and the protection
against a threat to that investment - by extreme
measures. In Fairbanks, a few lights still burned at
the clapboard building which was the main
on-site office of Tundra Pipeline Service Company. Everyone had
gone home, except the auditor from the main
office in LA, Phil Voss. Phil was working late, even for an
auditor — he was on the audit trail of something
big. Phil was not the kind of
guy you'd figure as an accountant, especially not an
internal auditor. He was too good-looking
and good-natured for that kind of work. Many thought he
looked like a nerdy version of Robert Redford.
But Phil didn't think about his looks much. To some,
this made him seem all the more attractive. He felt
uncomfortable in his suit. Though "off the rack,"
it fit him well. This kind of work was still new to
him, and he'd much rather have been wearing shorts and a
light shirt, especially in this heat. |
| Who would have thought it'd get this hot in Fairbanks? He was sweating more than could be attributed to the heat; he was poring over a box of time slips, becoming more agitated each time he paused to look at one more closely. He shook his head slowly: The evidence was right here -- someone was playing games with the payroll. And there seemed to be no effort to hide it! Phil took a stack of slips to the copy machine, arranged them carefully on the glass, then pressed the COPY button. It took him several passes to make copies of all the slips. He replaced the slips in their carton, three-hole punched the copies, and placed them carefully into a binder. He paused to loosen his tie and wipe his forehead with the back of his hand. He took off his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves. He had put off looking at the Miscellaneous Charges journal until he was sure everyone had left. Even as a new auditor, he had figured what might lay inside that book. It was odd, but he hoped someone might have had time to rip out the incriminating entries. Of course, as he opened the journal, he immediately saw that no one had done so. What idiots! Didn't they know what discovery of these figures would do to them? He'd HAVE to report it all to Kirkley, and then what? The pipeline accounting supervisor would certainly get the ax, maybe the Controller, too. His head began to ache; he'd certainly get a promotion out of this, but at the cost of how many jobs? Phil groaned out loud as he ran his finger down the columns. What bullshit! Who would be fooled by these figures? These guys must be amateurs! Didn't they care? By midnight, he had made thirteen trips to the copy machine. His notes had grown to two volumes, and he had yet bo add his narrative description. He would do that in his motel room. He was growing tired even with the adrenaline in his blood. He packed his notes and papers into his briefcase. The notebooks didn't fit, so he carried them with his suit jacket under his left arm. He bundled out of the doorway into what passes for night in the arctic summer. The humidity was terrible. This was worse than the Houston assignment. At least the mosquitoes in Houston hadn't been as large and aggressive. He got into his car; he smiled at the "hitching posts" in front of each parking spot. |
| When he first had gotten here, he'd thought they were parking meters. On closer examination, he had seen they were electrical outlets, provided for winter use with cars' engine heaters. In the arctic cold, they kept the oil of parked cars from freezing. Phil bemusedly thought these little hitching posts were in keeping with the frontier look of the whole area. Alaska, the last frontier. He smiled again. He didn't notice that though the weather was now warm, his car was plugged into its hitching-post outlet. When he plopped into the car seat, he felt a hot blue flash. Phil Voss moaned as his body shook with spasms of electricity. Semi-conscious, he vaguely saw a figure walk over to the front of his car and peer in through the windshield. He tried to call out for help, but gurgled softly instead. Then, he lost consciousness. A gloved hand pulled the plug from the socket, then yanked the cord from the box attached to the car. Phil slumped over onto the passenger seat, his body still slightly jerking. He made a rhythmic hiccuping sound. A harsh female voice with a southern accent spoke: "Is he dead?" A male voice answered: "Naah, I doubt it. C'mon, we got work to do." A four-wheel drive pickup with makeshift towing gear backed up to Phil's rented car. The two figures hooked up the towing gear to Phil's car. "Hey, he's got some papers here. What do we do with them?" The woman's voice. "We got no orders about papers. I don't like improvising. Leave 'em there 'n' let's go! They're waiting for us at the site." The two slid into the truck and drove off. The dust from the dirt parking lot hung in the air long after they left. The mosquitoes avoided it. Phil had a vague sensation of motion. There was something he had to do. He had to warn someone. Something was just wrong about this. Phil tried but just couldn't remember he had left undone. Phil slowly became aware of a vibration; of machinery sounds. He was slowly lifted out of the car, then he was floating in something. |
| Phil's eyelids began to flutter. A clattering, splashing, a warm feeling around him sliding up and up his body. He coughed weakly as his shoulders, then his blond hair slowly swirled in the bubbling goo. Soon, Phil's eyes were almost covered. A sudden rush of energy and consciousness made them slowly open. He saw three figures watching him, one in a suit, the other two hard to distinguish. The suited man looked very uncomfortable. The Suit spoke: Well, turn off the pump. The three watched as concrete finished dripping into the piling hole footing from which Phil Voss' eyes glared with fright. As the last of the concrete dripped over Phil, he felt his fingers tremble weakly, then go numb and still. Then, his vision faded to darkness. The three silhouettes stood by the pump engine, and noted a few small bubbles pop on the surface. When no more movement was visible, they silently turned. The man and woman got into their truck; the Suit got into his Lincoln. They drove their separate ways. As darkness finally came, the frogs began to sing their summer song. "I still think we should've got those papers." The man said. "Just forget it," said the woman, who sounded very tired. |
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Updated June 05, 2007 |