“Una, Group Two’s calling in their supply list.”
“Alright, I’ll deal with it,” Una replied, annoyed. She grabbed the headphones from a mound of paperwork, adjusted the mic, and listened. The connection was horrible, as was to be expected. Forecasts put the group in the middle of yet another snowstorm. At least it was still intelligible.
“Wait--how much explosive?”
---------
“Really.”
-----------
“Uh-huh. Well, I’ll see what I can do, but I don’t think that counts as necessary expenditure.”
---------------------------------------------
“YOU DID WHAT?”
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“OK, that throws everything off. Do you know how expensive those are?”
------------------------------------------
"Look, give me a few minutes, and I’ll get back to you. Might have what you need then. Oh, and for the love of Odin, keep Fimby away from the incendiaries this time.”
----------------------------------
“Roger. Signing off. Oh, and ask that guy to warm up his freaky teleport spell.”
Shutting off the mic, she leaned back into a chair, rubbing her temples.
“Skurvbefengte råtesopp av ein innavla fåreskalle….” she muttered. “This is why I hate my job.” Sighing, she grabbed the mic again. She set the frequency to the proper setting, stated her name, and waited for the secretary to reconnect her.
A man answered the call. Without going into too much detail, he was the primary supplier of ammunition for the expedition. She’d nicknamed him Mr. Boom, since his name, some foreign concoction from pre-Rash times, was basically unpronounceable. He was as volatile as his nickname suggested. He was also, unfortunately, extremely wealthy.
“Hey, this is Una. You know, from the Allied Expedition?”
Mr. Boom acknowledged that he had heard of her.
“Nice to speak, too, sir. Now, we’ve got ourselves in need of some ammunition.”
Mr. Boom wanted to know exactly what happened to the several crates he had already sent.
“Well…...our team members pulled a Vasterstrom, so to speak….”
There was some muffled cursing, and a demand to know why did they do something that stupid, do you know how expensive and difficult it is to make those, etc etc etc.
“Yes, I’m aware of how difficult those rounds are to manufacture, sir, but our records state you have several hundred cases still in stock, and there can’t be much demand for that caliber in Iceland, can there?”
Sullen muttering and a statement that there would be no price for which he would sell his stock.
“Regardless, we need those rounds. We’re prepared to offer-”
Mr. Boom suggested several highly improbable places she could put her offer.
“Sir, no I will not do that. In fact, it is highly insulting that you--.”
Mr. Boom reached a level of poetry unattained by Shakespeare in the execution of his insults.
“Sir, if you persist in this behavior I will have no choice but to take my business elsewhere.”
Mr. Boom told her that there’d be no way an <expletive deleted> like her could get anything, him having absorbed the company of his major competitor yesterday.
“I see. Stole their business? How interesting. Have a nice day, now.”
She flipped the frequency back to Group Two’s radios, cutting off Mr. Boom’s final insults. The connection still was mostly static.
---------------------------
“Can you get that survivor guy on?”
----------
…
---------------------
“Hey, can you do me a favor? Got a slight problem that requires a quick solution.”
------------------------------
“Thanks. It’s 1823 Rostungur Avenue.”
----------------------
Switching the radio off, she waited a few minutes. Soon, Mr. Boom was calling back. He apologized profusely, and offered to sell the ammunition for half the asking price. His voice carried hints of sweat and fear. She thanked him, and switched back to Group Two.
“Thanks. You’ll get what you need in a couple days.”
Just another day at the office…..
