* * *
42
Apgar found Peter where he always was: at his desk, wading through a mass of paperwork. Just two days without Chase’s organizing presence, and Peter felt completely swamped.
“Got a minute?”
“Make it fast.”
Apgar took the chair across from him. “Chase really sandbagged you. You shouldn’t have let him off the hook so easily.”
“What can I say? I’m too nice.”
Apgar cleared his throat. “We’ve got a problem.”
He was filling out a form. “Are you quitting, too?”
“Probably not the moment for that. I got a message from Rosenberg this morning. A lot of tankers moving through there in the last few days, but none of it is showing up here.”
Peter raised his head.
“You heard me.”
“What does the refinery say?”
“Everything on schedule, blah blah blah. Then, as of this morning, not a peep, and we can’t raise them.”
Peter leaned back in his chair. Good God.
“I’ve got men on the way to the refinery to check it out,” Apgar continued, “but I think I know what we’ll find. You’ve got to hand it to the guy for balls, anyway.”
“What the hell would Dunk need our oil for?”
“My bet is, he doesn’t. It’s a play. He wants something.”
“Such as?”
“You’ve got me there. It isn’t going to be small, though. Light and Power says we have enough gas on hand for ten days, a few more if we ration. Even if we can secure the refinery, no way we can get enough slick back into the system to keep the lights burning. In less than two weeks, this city goes dark.”
Dunk had them in a vise. Peter had to admit, begrudgingly, that it was sort of brilliant. But one piece didn’t fit.
“So he sends us a truck full of guns and ammo, then hijacks all our oil? It seems contradictory.”
“Maybe the guns came from somebody else.”
“That was bunker ammo. Only the trade has that stuff.”
Apgar shifted in his chair. “Well, here’s another piece to consider. First you’ve got Cousin’s Place going up in smoke, then there’s a rumor going around that one of Dunk’s women showed up in the city saying that something happened out there. A lot of shooting.”
“A power play by one of his guys, you mean.”
“Could be just gossip. And I don’t see how it fits, but it’s something to consider.”
“Where is she now?”
“The woman?” Apgar almost laughed. “Who the hell knows?”
The guns and the oil were connected, but how? It didn’t feel like Dunk; holding a city hostage was out of his league, and the Army now had enough weaponry to take the isthmus and put him out of business. It would be a slaughter on both sides—the causeway was a kill box—but once the dust settled, Dunk Withers would find himself either lying dead in a ditch with fifty holes in him or swinging from a rope.
So suppose, Peter thought, the oil wasn’t just a play. Suppose it was actually for something.
“What do we know about this boat of his?” he asked.
Apgar frowned. “Not a lot. Nobody from the outside has laid eyes on the damn thing in years.”
“But it’s big.”
“So folks say. You think that’s got something to do with it?”
“I don’t know what to think. But there’s something we’re missing. Have we spread that ammo around?”
“Not yet. It’s still in the armory.”
“Get it done. And let’s send a patrol to scout the isthmus. How long till we hear from Freeport?”
“A couple of hours.”
It was a little after three P.M. “Let’s get men on the perimeter. Tell them it’s a training exercise. And get some engineers on the gate. The thing hasn’t been closed in a decade.”
Apgar gave him a look of caution. “Folks will notice that.”
“Better safe than sorry. None of this makes sense to us, but it does to someone.”
“What about the isthmus? We don’t want to wait too long to get a plan in place.”
“I won’t. Write it up.”
Apgar rose. “I’ll get it on your desk within the hour.”
“That quick?”
“There’s only one way in. Not a lot to say.” He turned at the door. “This is completely fucked, I know, but maybe it’s the opportunity we’ve been waiting for.”