novelnext Chapter 145 The Manhattan Project
Chapter 145 The Manhattan Project
Chapter 145 The Manhattan Project
The chairman's office on the top floor of the Morganfield Building.
The huge floor-to-ceiling windows reflected the Pittsburgh night view, but Douglas Morganfield had no time to appreciate it.
He stood behind the large desk, holding a telephone receiver in his hand.
The voice of a subordinate reporting what was happening on the highway came from the other end of the phone.
Those individual drivers, those self-employed individuals who were usually scattered like sand, actually responded to the call and formed a huge convoy, heading towards Pittsburgh along the interstate highway.
"A mob."
Morganfield snorted coldly.
He hung up on his subordinate's call and, without hesitation, immediately dialed another number.
That was the Pennsylvania Police Chief's private phone call.
"It's me, Douglas."
Morganfield's voice was calm, yet carried an undeniable air of command.
"The intersection of Highway 279 and Highway 79 is the gateway to Pittsburgh."
"I have received information that a group of illegally modified and severely overloaded freight trucks are trying to rush into the city. These vehicles will damage our roads, disrupt our traffic, and may even pose a huge threat to the safety of citizens."
"As a taxpayer, I demand that the state police immediately fulfill their duties."
"Set up a checkpoint there, the strictest kind."
The Pennsylvania police chief's voice sounded strong and resonant, with a playful, drawn-out tone.
"Douglas, old friend," the director's voice echoed through the receiver, "you know, that place is a powder keg right now. Washington's watching, Harrisburg's watching, nobody wants to get involved at this critical juncture."
Morganfield's fingers tightened slightly as he gripped the phone.
He understood the other person's subtext.
Everyone knows about the conflict between Morganfield and Leo.
Those who still support Leo Wallace are fools, but those who go to do Morganfield's dirty work without any compensation are even bigger fools.
Although the bureau chief was not in the inner circle of power, he had a keen sense of smell.
He knew no one would protect Pittsburgh now, which meant he could enforce the law with impunity, but it also meant that his help to Morganfield was an extra service.
Additional services will cost extra.
"I heard the department's budget seems to be a bit tight lately?" Morganfield's voice became flat. "Especially the highway patrol's overtime pay and the new vehicle purchase plan, which have been stalled by the state legislature?"
The director's laughter came from the other end of the phone; it was a knowing laugh.
"Yes, the brothers have been working very hard, and their equipment needs to be upgraded. You know, maintaining public safety always comes at a cost."
"I'll give the chairman of the budget committee a call," Morganfield said, throwing out his trump card. "In addition, the Morganfield Foundation has always been concerned about the welfare of police widows, and we have recently prepared a special donation."
After hearing Morganfield's offer, the director's tone instantly became serious and professional.
"Since there has been a report from the public, then this is our responsibility. We will deploy police forces immediately."
"I want every single vehicle to stop," Morganfield continued, "check their tire tread depth, check their emissions, check their freight documents, check the drivers' driving records."
Morganfield's lips curled down, and his eyes were cold.
"If any item fails to meet the standard, the vehicle will be impounded. If there are no problems, we will check more carefully until we find a problem."
"Understood." The chief agreed readily on the other end of the phone. "I will let them know that Pennsylvania law is not to be trampled upon."
"I want them to know that Pittsburgh's gates are not for just anyone."
hang up the phone.
Morganfield walked to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a glass of whiskey.
He looked out the window at the pitch-black night sky.
Did that young mayor think he could break the deadlock by inciting a few drivers?
too naive.
In this country, administrative power is always the most solid moat protecting capital.
As long as the police block the road, it becomes an insurmountable iron curtain.
Those drivers only run this route to make money, and if they face the risk of their vehicles being impounded, fines, or even license revocation, they will immediately scatter like birds and beasts.
this is the truth.
The intersection of Highway 279 and Highway 79.
Night falls.
A dozen state police patrol cars with flashing red and blue lights were parked across the middle of the road, blocking the wide four lanes and leaving only a narrow passage.
Red reflective cones and "Stop for Inspection" signs are placed along the roadside.
-
The searchlights shone so brightly that they turned the road surface a stark white.
The first batch of a dozen or so trucks that arrived have already been stopped.
They were parked on the shoulder, engines off, surrounded by state troopers in uniform and peaked caps.
A tense atmosphere filled the air.
A young state trooper, badge number 4209, was crouching next to the rear wheel of a Peterbilt heavy truck, holding an electronic measuring device.
Truck driver Frith stood nearby, anxiously rubbing his trouser leg.
"Officer, there's nothing wrong with my car," Frith said with a forced smile. "I just had it serviced. This batch of steel is urgently needed in Pittsburgh—"
"Shut up."
The young police officer coldly interrupted him.
He inserted a measuring probe into the tire tread to read the data.
"The tread depth of the left rear tire is 1.5 millimeters." The officer stood up and wrote it down in the ticket book. "The legal standard is 1.6 millimeters. Your tire is excessively worn, posing a risk of a blowout and seriously endangering public safety."
"What? 1.5?" Frith's eyes widened as he rushed over to check the reading. "That's impossible!"
I just measured it before I left the house, and it was still 2.5 millimeters!
"Back off!"
The officer's hand rested on the holster at his waist.
"Do you want to assault a police officer?"
Frith froze.
He looked at the young but indifferent face, and at the menacing police officers around him.
He got it.
This is not a security check at all.
This is nitpicking.
This is to keep them pinned here forever.
"This isn't fair!" Fries roared. "You're deliberately making things difficult for me! I need to deliver steel! It's for building Pittsburgh!"
"There's not much steel here, just illegally parked vehicles."
The officer tore off a pink impoundment slip and slapped it on Frith's chest.
"The vehicle has been impounded pending further technical assessment. You can leave now, or wait in the grass by the roadside."
Frith held the ticket, his hand trembling.
That was his car, that was his life.
The following cars suffered the same fate.
"Exhaust emissions exceed standards."
"The height of the cargo box baffle is not up to standard."
"Driving log records are incomplete."
The police officers used magnifying glasses to search for every tiny flaw on these rough trucks, then magnified it infinitely to become a reason to impound the vehicles.
The drivers honked their horns angrily.
"Beep—! Beep—!"
The piercing sound of the air whistle echoed through the night sky.
Someone jumped out of the car, waving their fists and cursing.
"Are you police officers or watchdogs of the capitalists?"
"We need to get across! This is the highway!"
Faced with the drivers' protests, the sheriff in charge at the scene simply picked up a megaphone.
"All drivers, return to your cabs immediately! Any attempt to storm the checkpoint will be considered a riot! We will take enforcement action!"
Riot police raised their shields and batons and advanced.
The drivers were forced to back off.
Although they were angry, they were civilians; all they had was a steering wheel, no weapons.
Faced with the violent intimidation of the state apparatus, they were helpless.
Frith squatted by the roadside, looking at his old car that had been sealed off, his eyes reddening.
He remembered the wrench he had stuffed into his pocket before leaving the house and wanted to rush up and fight those bastards.
But reason told him that doing so would only result in going to jail and wouldn't change anything.
The young officer, badge number 4209, had just finished processing Fries' ticket.
He felt somewhat tired.
His name is David, a native of Pennsylvania, whose father used to be a coal miner.
He joined the police force to uphold justice and to arrest drug dealers and robbers.
But tonight, he felt like an accomplice.
He looked at the old driver squatting by the roadside and felt a strange sense of guilt welling up inside him.
Those hands, covered in grease and scars, reminded him of his father.
"Damn it."
David muttered a curse under his breath, his voice filled with helplessness.
He knew what he was doing, and he knew it was despicable.
But he had no choice.
This is work.
This was his boss's order, and it was the only way for him to keep his job.
In this damned world, conscience can't put food on the table, and justice can't help him pay his mortgage.
He had no choice but to harden his heart and play the role of the watchdog, even though it disgusted him.
He turned around, ready to flag down a car.
Just then.
He felt the ground beneath his feet tremble.
That's not an illusion.
The asphalt road surface trembled slightly, and ripples spread across the puddles beside the road.
A muffled, thunderous sound came from the northern horizon.
"Rumble—"
The sounds grew louder and more frequent.
It was like a distant mountain collapsing, or like a stampede of thousands of horses.
David looked up and gazed northward.
The sky there used to be completely black.
But at that moment, the place lit up.
First, one or two points of light flickered faintly.
Immediately afterwards, the light spots connected to form a line.
Then, the light converged to form the sea.
Those are car lights.
Thousands upon thousands of car lights.
They pierced through the fine rain, illuminating the entire horizon.
The roar drowned out all the noise.
That wasn't just a dozen or so cars.
It was a steel torrent consisting of at least hundreds of heavy trucks, pickups, and tractors.
With their high beams on, they formed a long column stretching for several kilometers and marched in a mighty procession.
All the trucks sounded their horns.
"Waaah—! Waaah—!"
These voices, when combined, created a chilling resonance.
That was the eruption of the power that had been suppressed for too long.
David stood blankly in the middle of the road, the ticket book slipping from his hand and falling to the ground.
He watched the convoy getting closer and closer, and saw the slogans painted on the vehicles.
"Support Pittsburgh!"
"Break the blockade!"
"Long live the workers!"
"For the sake of the children!"
Some cars had American flags on them, while others had union flags.
The sheriff's terrified roar came through the walkie-talkie.
"Stop them! Stop them now!"
"Attention all units! Level 1 alert!"
"Don't let them get through! Issue tickets! Push all the roadblocks up!"
The sheriff's voice had changed.
He had initially thought he was facing a few lone sheep, but now he realized that a herd of galloping bison was charging towards him.
The riot police panicked; their hands holding the shields trembled.
They dared to brandish batons when facing several drivers.
But faced with this torrent of thousands of tons of steel, let alone riot shields, even holding a gun might not be effective.
The first heavy truck has already arrived at the checkpoint.
It was a red IWC heavy truck with a tall and imposing front end and thick anti-collision steel beams welded to the front bumper.
The driver was a burly man in his thirties with a thick beard and fierce eyes.
He showed no intention of slowing down.
The massive wheels rolled over the road, and the engine roared deafeningly.
There are still fifty meters to go before reaching the checkpoint.
Thirty meters.
ten meters.
"Stop the car!" the sheriff yelled from the roadside. "Shoot! Shoot them if they don't stop!"
No police officer dared to fire.
David stood in the middle of the road.
The red heavy truck finally braked five meters in front of him.
"laugh"
The sound of the exhaust from the air brakes was like the panting of a giant beast.
The massive front of the car came to a stop, less than half a meter from David's body.
The scorching radiator grille radiated heat waves, burning David's face.
The car window rolled down.
The bearded driver poked his head out.
He looked at David.
His face was covered in coal dust, and there were deep wrinkles around his eyes.
Those are the marks left by years of driving late into the night.
"police officer."
The bearded driver's voice was hoarse.
"My truck was loaded with steel bars for repairing a primary school building in Pittsburgh."
"My tire treads might not be deep enough, my emissions might be too high, and my bumper might be in violation of regulations."
"You can impound my car, you can fine me, you can even arrest me."
The driver pointed to the endless sea of car lights behind him.
"But you can't arrest all of us."
"You can stop a car, but you can't stop this tide."
"We're here to eat, to live."
"What are you doing this for?"
The driver stared into David's eyes.
"To be a dog for that billionaire sitting in his office?"
David was stunned.
He looked at the driver and thought of his father.
My father was the same way. He was covered in coal dust and was so tired every day that he could hardly stand up straight, but he would still smile and hand over his newly received salary to my mother.
My father often said: "We who work hard earn clean money, so we must stand tall."
David looked down at his uniform.
This uniform represents the law and order.
But what is he doing now?
He was helping a capitalist who wanted to monopolize the city to block the path of a group of workers who only wanted to earn a living through physical labor.
Is this what they call order?
Is this the justice he swore to uphold?
The sheriff's roar continued over the radio.
"David! What are you doing! Give him a ticket! Impound his car!"
David took off the walkie-talkie.
He looked at the bearded driver, then at the tired but determined faces behind him.
They were his neighbors, his fellow villagers, and his fathers.
If he really sparked a bloody conflict.
His father would be ashamed of him.
David took a deep breath and made his decision.
He raised his hand and reached for the police light switch on his shoulder.
"Smack."
He turned off the police lights on his body.
Then, he raised his baton and pointed forward.
That was a gesture of approval.
"Let's go."
David's voice was soft, but it still reached the driver's ears clearly amidst the roar of the engine.
"Everyone, leave."
The bearded driver paused for a moment.
He then gave David an understanding smile and nodded solemnly.
"boom!"
Press the accelerator.
The red heavy truck roared, spewing out a plume of black smoke from its exhaust pipe.
It started.
They bypassed the roadblocks and made it through the checkpoint.
As the driver passed David, he honked his horn with a long, drawn-out blast.
"Ugh—!"
Then came the second one.
The third one.
The fourth vehicle.
The police officers who were initially hesitant put down their tire spikes and batons upon seeing this.
They are also human.
They also have families.
They didn't want to be accomplices either.
The defenses have collapsed.
The steel torrent roared and surged through the last barrier erected by capital.
The car headlights formed a flowing river of light, illuminating the road to Pittsburgh.
The sheriff was so angry in the command vehicle that he smashed the walkie-talkie, but there was nothing he could do.
D.
When thousands of people move forward toward the same goal, nothing can stop them.
David stood by the roadside, watching the trucks speeding past.
Rain pelted his face, but he felt no cold.
He felt he had done the best thing he had ever done in his life.
It was already past 2 a.m.
On the reserved construction site of the Pittsburgh Inland Port, a few high-powered searchlights stood forlornly in the mud.
This place should have been filled with steel and cement, but now it's just empty weeds and rubble.
Ethan Hawke raised his wrist to check his watch for the third time, his movements stiff, anxiety crawling all over him like ants.
"Two hours late."
Ethan's voice was somewhat ethereal in the wind. He looked at Leo beside him and spoke urgently.
"Something must have happened. The state police may not have been able to stop it, but there are too many accidents on the road, or Morganfield may have used other methods."
Frank was squatting on a rock, with an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth.
Nearly a hundred workers stood behind him.
These people, dressed in thin overalls, stamped their feet and rubbed their hands in the cold wind.
No one spoke, only heavy breathing and the occasional cough.
They were called by Frank to unload the cargo.
If the goods don't arrive, they're just fools who came here to starve.
Leo stood on a high point on the riverbank, his hands in his coat pockets.
Across the river, the lights of the Morganfield Tower still shone, like a giant, one-eyed eye watching the predicament on this side.
The old man was probably sitting in his warm office, waiting to see what happened here.
Leo felt cold.
This coldness comes not only from the weather, but also from a feeling of exhaustion after making a desperate gamble.
He gambled everything, placing all his bets on that unseen road and on those drivers he had never met.
He believed in them, just as they believed in him.
"They will come."
Leo spoke, his voice hoarse.
Ethan opened his mouth, wanting to offer some rational analysis, such as risk assessment or backup plans.
Just then.
A glimmer of light appeared in the darkness in the distance.
The light was faint, twinkling on the winding valley road like a lost star.
Frank suddenly stood up, dropping the cigarette from his mouth to the ground.
"Look over there!"
Someone shouted.
Immediately afterwards, a second beam of light appeared.
The third bundle.
The fourth bundle.
The points of light rapidly increased, connected, and converged in the darkness.
Within seconds, the once silent highway in the distance was completely illuminated.
That was a band of light.
A winding, flowing dragon of fire, composed of countless headlights.
It pierced the darkness at the edge of Pittsburgh, charging toward the valley with an unstoppable force.
"Ugh—!"
A loud whistle pierced the night sky.
Then came the second tone, and then the third tone.
The sounds of car horns echoed along both banks of the valley; it was the roar of diesel engines and the vibrations of heavy tires rolling over the road.
"They're here!"
Frank roared, his voice trembling.
"Guys! The car's here!"
The first red IWC heavy truck, covered in mud, rushed into the construction site gate.
The vehicle was enormous, and the trailer was piled high with heavy H-beams.
The driver pushed open the car door and jumped out. It was a burly man with a full beard, his eyes bloodshot, but a wild smile on his face.
"Is this Pittsburgh?" the big man asked loudly.
"Heard there's a steel shortage here? I've brought you the best steel from Yili!"
The second truck was loaded with cement from Scranton.
The third vehicle was carrying glass and pipes from Johnstown.
There was even a flatbed cart that was originally used to haul timber, with several second-hand generators strapped to it.
They broke through state police checkpoints, ignored association bans, and in the dead of night, re-injected the lifeblood of the entire Rust Belt into the dying heart of Pittsburgh.
"discharge!"
Frank waved his arms like a general commanding a vast army.
Hundreds of workers let out a deafening cheer and rushed toward the trucks.
They climbed onto the train carriage, untied the cables, carried cement bags, and moved steel bars.
The drivers joined in as well.
These men, who usually fight over right-of-way on the road and argue heatedly over freight rates in the freight yard, have now gathered together.
Someone took out a cigarette and offered it to a stranger nearby.
Someone took out coffee from a thermos and handed it to the sweating porter.
They patted each other on the shoulder, told crude jokes, cursed the damn Morganfield, and cursed the world that didn't want them to live.
The entire construction site turned into a bustling plaza.
This is a primitive and passionate celebration belonging to the laborers.
Leo stood on the high ground, watching this scene unfold.
The searchlight shone on his face, reflecting two clear lines of tears.
At that moment, he felt that power.
"Leo".
Roosevelt's voice echoed in his mind.
"I've got it."
"That's something Morganfield will never understand."
"That's why he was destined to lose."
"Capital is very powerful."
"It can buy the highest efficiency, the most stringent laws, and even half a government."
"But the power of capital has its limits."
"When people work for profit, Morganfield is invincible because he has money and he can set prices."
"but----"
"When people unite not for profit, but for survival, for dignity, and for leaving a way for their children to live."
"Capital monopolies are extremely fragile."
"It will be torn to shreds by this most primal survival instinct."
Roosevelt's voice became impassioned.
"This is also a Manhattan Project, Leo."
"It's not about making atomic bombs, it's about making consensus."
1
"Tonight, you not only delivered steel and cement."
"You also brought the most precious and scarce things from this land."
"Class consciousness".
"You make them realize that they are one. The Erie drivers and the Pittsburgh workers share a common enemy and a common destiny."
"We have this."
Roosevelt made his final assertion.
"You absolutely cannot lose."
"Because no force can stop a group of people who know why they are fighting."
>