Bentwhistle the Dragon in A Threat from the Past
Page 8
Chapter 7: Security Sweep (Sooty or Sue?)
Peter went through his normal routine the next morning, deciding to send his consciousness off to get a copy of the Daily Telepath. He didn't get it every day, purely because he was too lazy, but today was important because the details of the Indigo Warriors' first Global Cup match should have been announced. Sending his mind off in a kind of autopilot way, it wasn't long before it had retrieved the paper and he was able to access it. The first page looked like this:
'Wow,' Peter thought, after studying the Global Cup section. ‘The Warriors are playing the Coral Rock'ards.’ It would be a tough game, but as a one-off contest, he was sure they could win and progress to the semi final.
'I wonder if Tank’s tried to get any tickets yet?’ Arriving at work, he buried his head in some timesheets, finding himself missing the old atmosphere that used to prevail before Manson had arrived. Only a relatively short time ago, he'd have known where to go for a joke and a laugh, but at the moment you couldn't even buy a smile from any of his staff, let alone a comic moment.
An hour or so later, his phone rang. He promptly picked it up to find that it was Dr Island, head of the scientists on the Cropptech industrial site. Peter prided himself on the fact that he got on pretty well with the heads of department, or had done up until the arrival of Manson.
"Hi Peter, it's Sheridan Island here from industrial," came the polite voice down the phone.
"Good morning Dr Island," replied Peter. "What can I do for you today?"
"Could you come on over please? We seem to be having a bit of a problem with some of the guards."
"What sort of problem?" demanded Peter, keen to get to the bottom of things.
"They seem to be conducting some sort of security sweep, and it's interfering with our work rather a lot."
"I don't understand," muttered Peter. "I've authorised no such thing."
"Uhhhh... I don't think it's you," said Dr Island. "According to the guards, the delightful Major Manson is behind it all," she added, dripping with sarcasm.
Letting out a long sigh that clearly wasn't missed by Dr Island, he told her he was on his way, before hanging up, grabbing his coat and heading out of the door, covering the five minute walk in just over two, keen to sort out the problem. On his way, he wondered just what the hell Manson was up to. Did he not realise these scientists were a special breed of people? Brilliant in their respective fields, they carried out some of the most critical work on the site, and Peter had long since learned from experience, and those around him, that it was best to try and let them get on with their painstaking and exacting work with as little fuss as possible.
Getting thoroughly drenched, despite his coat, Peter arrived at the industrial unit and made his way into the interior. His senses always seemed to go a little wayward whenever he was here. On one hand the environment was very clinical and sterile. On the other, massive machines zipped and turned, spraying hot metal and a bonfire night's worth of giant, molten sparks all over the place. Was it a laboratory? Was it a factory? Somewhere in between, his brain reluctantly told him.
Amongst all the machinery, scientists in gleaming white lab coats stood around in disbelief, looking on as a dozen guards wandered in and out of all the heavy equipment. Peter walked over to Dr Island and put a gentle hand on her shoulder.
"I'll try and sort this out straight away."
She nodded and tried to force a smile, but given that she looked like she was about to pull all her hair out, it came out as more of a grimace.
Striding over to the guard who looked reluctantly in charge, someone Peter knew as a hardworking and decent man, Peter reluctantly asked,
"What's going on, Phillips?"
"Just following orders, boss," Phillips replied anxiously.
"We can't just come in here and interrupt their work whenever we like," Peter whispered, knowing how far the sound travelled in this environment.
"But that's exactly what we CAN do," boomed a snarling voice from the opposite corner of the industrial unit, over sixty feet away. Everyone looked around as the voice reverberated throughout the equipment. Out from behind some of the larger machinery, stepped Manson, menacingly, tapping his walking stick on the polished white floor as he did so.
"Did you not understand when Mr Garrett put me in charge, Bentwhistle? I am in charge of security now, and I can perform a security sweep of any part of the complex whenever I like. Do you understand, Bentwhistle?" Manson used Peter's surname as if it were some kind of embarrassing fungal disease you might have in your unmentionables.
"Yes sir, I understand," ventured Peter, humiliated, with the dozen or so guards and ten or so scientists looking on.
"You had better," added Manson, steel in his voice, "or you'll be looking for a new job. Now, what I've seen today is nothing short of disgraceful. The security here is woefully inadequate, laughable in fact. Any of these workers," he said, pointing at the group of scientists, "could smuggle equipment or valuables out of here at practically any time."
"Now you listen here..." started Dr Island, looking as though she was about to erupt. "How dare you accuse any of my staff of impropriety? Every last item is always accounted for, and my staff are all as honest as the day is long."
"Have you quite finished, WOMAN?" Manson sneered with contempt.
Peter and everyone else couldn't believe what they were hearing. In all the time Peter had worked there, he'd never heard anyone speak with such rudeness, and by the look on the faces of those around him, they hadn't either.
"I'm not standing for this a second longer!" raved Dr Island, furious. "Nobody speaks to my staff that way, especially not some jumped up, snotty nosed ex-officer. I'll have you know that I've worked here for over thirty years and I've never been treated like this. Al Garrett is going to hear about this, straight away," and with that she stomped off out of the building.
Manson just stood there, twisting his finger in the air.
"One down, several hundred to go," he said grinning from ear to ear. "You can all get back to work," he said to the remaining scientists. "I will be introducing my own specialised guards for duty here, so you had all better watch yourselves."
The scientists, clearly distressed, made it look as though they were going about their jobs, but were more likely waiting for Dr Island to come back from speaking to Al Garrett.
"You can all resume your normal duties," Manson told the guards, who all dispersed in the blink of an eye. He really couldn't blame them. Turning, Manson looked Peter straight in the eye.
"I wouldn't bank on the good doctor having too much success if I were you."
As Manson left, Peter hoped with all his heart that Dr Island's explanation of events would be enough to see Manson on his way.
How wrong he was.
Returning to his office, eating his lunch and non-stop into the afternoon he wondered just how Dr Island had gotten on. He didn't have to wait very long. Noticing a new email had just arrived in his in box, he opened it, anticipating news of Manson's sudden departure.
One click of his mouse had him aghast. Al Garrett's email to all department heads read that Dr Island had been fired this morning for a severe breach of discipline and that without a natural successor, that department would be run in the interim by Major Manson.
Peter had assumed his day just couldn't get any worse. It turned out that he was wrong. A phone call later that afternoon informed him that Chief Security Co-ordinator, Mark Hiscock, another dragon and his direct superior whose shoes he'd filled, being off long term sick, had died last night. Shocked to his core, Peter had no idea what to do. It's rare that dragons die. Really rare. He'd never known anyone, human or dragon, who'd passed away. He remained in his office for the rest of the afternoon, overcome with grief.