Car Wars

by Mike Brogan

  “What?” Van Horn said.

  “Global Vehicles plans to launch the XCar early.”

  “When?”

  “In a few weeks.”

  “Jesus! They said four months!”

  “Not anymore.”

  Van Horn cursed under his breath.

  “So what’s our next step?” Chensen asked.

  “Simple. We launch our program soon.”

  “How soon?”

  “Like now. Meet me in Newark at nine tonight.”

  FOUR

  NEWARK

  Chase Chensen stepped into the noisy Rendez-Booze Bar, a sleazy, skuzzy, smelly, hole-in-the-wall saloon in a shabby section of North Newark. A far cry from the posh, chichi Manhattan clubs where he charmed sexy career-climbing female executives reeking of L’Aire du Temps.

  The Rendez-Booze Bar reeked of L’Aire de Urine.

  He missed the days people could smoke in bars. It masked the smell of body odor and piss.

  Chensen crunched his way over peanut shells, beer blotters, and something icky on the sole of his thousand dollar Ferragamo loafers. He saw Nester Van Horn in the corner booth. Not in his customary black suit and tie. Dressed down in a gray sweater, starched blue shirt, and pants with a crease sharp enough to slice bread. He wore glasses with silver rims, and he looked like a respected businessman. Which he was. Except for the respected part.

  Chensen walked toward him, squishing French fries beneath his shoes. He sat down opposite Van Horn, who sipped whiskey.

  A well-endowed waitress named Rhonda with purple spiked hair walked over and grinned at Chensen.

  “Watcha havin’ hon?”

  “Dewar’s . . . neat.”

  “Neat . . . as these?” She swung her bodice-ripping breasts close to his face, and cackled maniacally as she sashayed off toward the bar.

  Chensen blushed and scanned the customers. Trailer trash and hookers! At least no one here will recognize me.

  Van Horn leaned forward. “So why is GV launching the new XCar in a few weeks? Why so early?”

  “Word is they need the sales revenue now.”

  Van Horn nodded. “I knew the new XCar technology would break their bank!”

  Rhonda gave Chensen his Dewar’s neat and he gulped down half.

  “You told the boss?”

  Van Horn nodded.

  “And . . .?”

  “We start his program now,” Van Horn said.

  “I’m sure he realizes the physical risks of doing his program?”

  “Of course,” Van Horn said.

  “And . . .?”

  “He’s only concerned with the financial risks of not doing his program.”

  Chensen didn’t like the boss’s willingness to dismiss human injury.

  He checked, saw that no one was paying special attention to them, and whispered, “Some injuries could be serious. Some deaths maybe.”

  “Sacrifices for the greater good of the auto industry, the boss says.”

  Chensen knew the greater good actually meant more money in the boss’s pocket.

  And frankly more money for me.

  Chensen thought back to the day that changed everything. The day Madison derailed his career when she gave the top Media Director position to young Howard Goldberg even though Chensen had far more experience. Enraged at her decision, Chensen began searching for better jobs at other agencies. But when no one offered him anything worthy of his abilities, Nester Van Horn did. All Chensen had to do was keep Van Horn informed of Turner Advertising’s plans for the XCar program if Turner Advertising was lucky enough to win the XCar advertising. Neither man thought it possible.

  Yet, amazingly, Turner did win it.

  So in return for keeping Van Horn informed of all Turner and GV XCar strategies, Van Horn promised to name Chensen CEO of a large new media conglomerate he controlled. Bottom line, Chensen knew he would soon be living on easy street.

  Van Horn sipped his drink. “So Madison and Kevin are meeting with the Global Vehicles brass in Detroit tomorrow?”

  Chensen nodded.

  “How will you find out what they discuss?”

  “I’ll know immediately. Technology.” Chensen tapped his ear.

  “Find out the exact date for the XCar launch. Send me the agency’s advertising media schedule and strategy. Tell me how much they’re spending on television, magazines, newspapers, social media. And which audiences they’re targeting.”

  “Not a problem.” Chensen felt no guilt for revealing media targets or strategy to Van Horn. Madison had her chance to offer me the top media job – and she blew it!

  “XCar will be a hot seller!” Chensen said.

  “I think not!”

  “Why?”

  “Good reasons. Our program. Plus fake-news XCar stories,” Van Horn said with a smile.

  “What kind of stories?

  “It seems the XCars’ amazing new batteries are erupting in fires. Like those lithium-ion batteries in phones that catch fire and explode.”

  “But XCar has had no lithium-ion battery type fires. In fact, their new cooling system is designed to prevent battery fires.”

  “Hey - if lots of fake news stories report horrible XCar battery fires over and over, people will believe it.”

  Chensen knew it was true.

  “The boss also wants you to find out what GV’s future plans are. Will they install XCar battery technology in other GV models? Which ones and when? Standard equipment or as an option?”

  Chensen nodded and sipped his drink.

  Van Horn stared at him. “You look a little concerned. You still with us one hundred percent?”

  Chensen did a quick pros and cons. His rewards for agreeing with Van Horn’s and the boss’s program far outweighed his concerns about injuries to people.

  “I’m in.”

  Van Horn smiled. “You’re in anyway, Chensen.”

  “Why?”

  “You know too much.”

  “Which means?”

  “Which means if the cops ever squeezed you hard, you might squeak.”

  “No way.”

  “Good. Boss has to know he can trust his people.”

  So do I, Chensen thought. And he had concerns about Van Horn and the boss. They both came from military backgrounds. They were men who wasted their enemies and danced on their graves.

  Will they dance on my grave after I help them?

  He chugged the rest of his drink and realized something was stuck to the sole of his Ferragamo. He lifted his shoe and watched a long string of bubble gum snap up onto his pant cuff and dangle down like an ornament.

  A fat lady with mayonnaise on her lips pointed at his dangling bubble gum and howled with laughter. Beside her an albino dwarf slapped his knees and snickered.

  He hated them both. He hated everyone is this scum-sucking loser bar. Nothing but low-lifes.

  He knew about low-lifes.

  He’d been raised by them.

  FIVE

  “LaGuardia, please,” Madison said to the Yellow Cab driver as Kevin and she settled into the taxi outside Turner Advertising.

  “Yes ma’am,” the young driver, badged Abdul, said with a smile. He checked traffic on his dash GPS and drove off.

  Madison turned to Kevin. “You have our latest auto industry files handy?”

  “Just reviewed them,” he said, handing her a thick, dog-eared folder.

  She fanned through the familiar pages. “Thank God the files are only three months old.”

  “And still valid according to Automotive News latest statistics.”

  Abdul passed a smelly garbage truck and zipped through a yellow light. Traffic was light.

  Madison hoped they’d get to LaGuardia in plenty of time for their flight to Detroit for their first client meeting with Global Vehicles. But recent LaGuardia flights had been delayed for weather, overbooked seats, overcrowded security lines, and hissy-fit passengers. She couldn’t afford to be delayed, even if a passenger punched a stewar
dess for stuffing her Pug into an overhead bin.

  Madison skimmed through the auto research, remembering much from servicing their former World Motors client. The car industry was changing . . . more customers wanted more Wi-Fi Internet features in their multi-use SUVs, crossover vehicles, and pickups. Trucks were hot and far fewer customers wanted traditional sedans.

  As they turned onto the airport exit, Abdul slammed on the brakes to avoid hitting a gray Honda that cut right in front of him.

  “Uber jerk!” Abdul yelled, pulling alongside the orange-haired driver and flashing him the finger.

  “Those bad guys steal our customers!” Abdul said.

  “Sorta like the ad biz,” Kevin said.

  “But a bad ad can’t injure my passengers!”

  “Good point!”

  Madison turned to Kevin. “We’ll need to concentrate on Global Vehicles in the next few weeks.”

  Kevin nodded. “Without shortchanging our other clients.”

  She took a breath. “So we’re back on ninety-hour work weeks!”

  “We went off?”

  “Touché.”

  She knew their ninety-hour weekly schedule was exhausting and didn’t exactly lend itself to making babies. Yesterday’s negative pregnancy result was the third negative test. Dr. Kaki Lyons said there were no medical problems that might hinder pregnancy. She suggested they take a long vacation, relax, and let nature do its thing.

  But nature couldn’t do its thing when Kevin was flying all over the country producing television commercials and she was flying all over the country attending client meetings and conferences, or meeting new business prospects. Being together at the fertile time of the month was difficult thanks to their crazy travel schedules.

  “Kevin . . . we need a new priority number one!”

  “Which is . . .?”

  “Doing the dirty deed at the right time of month.”

  “Any time of month is right for me.” Then he pointed to his Delta ticket and smiled. “Look – today’s date is the right time of month.”

  She smiled. “You suggesting we sneak into our flight’s restroom at thirty-thousand feet for a quickie?”

  “We could name our kid Delta . . .”

  SIX

  Robert Bruner sat in his Lexus LX watching the entrance of the US Military’s PTSD treatment center on Milburne Avenue in Rochester Hills, Michigan.

  He waited for First Lieutenant Karl Hardmunn, his next test subject, to walk out.

  Bruner’s first test – yesterday’s incident on the Mackinac Bridge - could not have gone better. Lilly Thompson’s XCar unexpectedly raced ahead like she’d floored the gas. Except she hadn’t. He had.

  Then he had some fun - steered her car right - left – right - playing with her. Then he sped it up to nearly seventy miles per hour on the narrow bridge. Her terrified expression in the side mirror was priceless.

  Then he steered her hard left, smashing her through the side railing, plunging her and the new XCar off the bridge and into the cold waters of the Lake Michigan two hundred feet below.

  He remembered the shocked look on other drivers’ faces. Most assumed she had a stroke, or a seizure, or committed suicide. Couldn’t have been wind gusts. Wind was just three miles per hour.

  Or they thought she simply lost control.

  Wrong again!

  She didn’t have control.

  I did!

  Using his prototype remote entry system, he hacked into the Wi-Fi of her new XCar. Next he accessed the car’s driver control systems and deactivated its accident avoidance systems and brakes.

  Then he took total control and drove her car through the side railing and into the icy waters below. A fate she richly deserved for stealing his rightful promotion at Global Vehicles. She’d used her feminine charms and probably sex to persuade the idiot Director of GV Engineering to give her the promotion. Even though he knew I deserved the promotion.

  Bruner heard laughter. He turned and saw Karl Hardmunn stroll out through the PTSD Center doors. Hardmunn laughed with a woman and five-year-old girl leaving the center, obviously forgetting that the Iraqi women and young children he’d bombed would never laugh again.

  Bruner watched Hardmunn get into his new BMW 216d Tourer, a gift from a local BMW dealer for Hardmunn’s three tours of active duty.

  “Here’s to our war hero!” the dealer claimed.

  War criminal! Bruner knew. Proof? Six years after leaving the military, Hardmunn’s PTSD was still eating away at him!

  But Hardmunn’s Post Traumatic Stress was minor compared to the stress he was about to feel.

  He drove out of the lot.

  Bruner followed him onto University Drive and headed west on Walton Boulevard back toward I-75. Bruner knew Hardmunn’s route and routine: return home to his third wife and obese dog. He’d watch TV and guzzle Jim Beam until he passed out.

  Hardmunn entered I-75 south. Bruner followed, then eased in three cars behind him.

  Bruner checked the laptop on his passenger seat. He tapped a command and hit Enter. His computer instantly locked into Hardmunn’s BMW Wi-Fi. Then Bruner used his special software to enter the BMW’s OBD II portal and connect to the car’s computer-controlled drivability systems.

  Bruner could now drive the BMW if he wanted to - but decided to let Hardmunn drive for a while.

  Hardmunn drove along the big curve near the impressive Chrysler Building in Auburn Heights. Bruner smiled, reminding himself that Chrysler’s popular Jeeps might also offer him access to their driver controls via the Jeep’s Blackberry and Wi-Fi Internet.

  Bruner checked Hardmunn. The guy was doing 75-mph, normal for this expressway stretch.

  As Bruner approached the target zone, he saw no police vehicles, not that cops would make any difference.

  Hardmunn neared the attack zone – an overpass of the always-busy I-75 and M-59 interchange.

  Bruner got ready. He saw the traffic grow thicker from cars entering I-75, exactly as anticipated.

  SHOW TIME!

  He counted to three and tapped Enter on his laptop.

  Instantly, Hardmunn’s BMW surged ahead at breakneck speed.

  Bruner imagined Hardmunn’s panic. The man had no idea what had happened, and no control of his speed. But he did a good job of swerving around cars in both lanes.

  Bruner deactivated Hardmunn’s braking system. Now the poor bastard had no brakes.

  Then Bruner took over the BMW steering. He gave Hardmunn a couple of left-right squiggles.

  Hardmunn was now in full-blown, eye-popping, what-the-fuck panic.

  Bruner sped the BMW up to ninety-three as it headed up the big overpass – and seconds later he steered the car hard right.

  The BMW smashed through the guardrail, went airborne, fell seventy feet toward M59 expressway below, landed on a vehicle transporter, and rolled off into the path of a speeding tractor trailer that crushed it against a concrete abutment.

  Bruner checked in his mirror. The Beamer looked like an accordion swallowed in flames.

  Finally, Bruner thought.

  Now . . . you feel the fire your victims felt.

  He’d start filming these crashes. Load them on YouTube. Let others enjoy them.

  But best of all . . . he’d just delivered justice to one more war criminal.

  SEVEN

  DETROIT

  Madison and Kevin settled into the immaculate black Global Vehicles limousine waiting for them at Metro Airport, fifteen miles west of Detroit. The driver, Ike, sixty something, with a short gray Afro and a big smile, introduced himself.

  “Good flight?” Ike asked.

  Madison smiled. “Smooth, no-hissy-fit passengers, no screaming babies, no loud drunks, and it landed early.”

  “Rare flight . . .”

  “Yeah.”

  She was excited to meet with their new clients at Global Vehicles Worldwide Headquarters. She wanted to make a good first impression. Unlike her first impression to a prospective banking
client last week when she walked over to shake his hand, tripped over an electrical cord, and landed with her lips caressing his wingtips.

  “Cole Haan!” he said, “$169 at Macys!”

  “They taste nice!” she said, grinning at them.

  He laughed, helped her up, and one week later gave her the business. Probably out of pity. Or maybe she’d literally stumbled onto a secret new-business strategy - grovel at your prospective client’s feet. Whatever it takes.

  Now, as they were being driven along I-94 Expressway toward Detroit, Madison still couldn’t believe her phenomenal luck - winning the Global Vehicles XCar account. Advertising Age called it the advertising upset of the year – “Turner Whoops The Goliaths! Kevin’s creative ads and the agency’s strategic recommendations proved more persuasive with GV management.

  She saw vehicle transport carriers hauling shiny new Chevys, and Fords, and Chryslers out of the city. Most hauled SUVs and crossovers.. She wondered what became of station wagons like her dad’s trusty Chevy wagon?

  Clearly, she was in Detroit - the Motor City - the town that put America on wheels.

  “My God – what’s that?” Madison said, pointing at something on the side of I-94.

  “That would be the world’s largest tire,” Ike said. “The famous Uniroyal tire.”

  “It’s huge!” Madison said.

  “A hundred-feet high, twenty-feet wide. Weighs twenty-four-thousand pounds. Six-inch deep tread birds nest in.”

  Madison said, “My dad says Detroit is why Americans don’t speak German. Detroit’s military tank and truck production overwhelmed the Nazis. And later, the Japanese.”

  “A lot of those trucks were made by the company in the tall towers you see downtown,” Ike said, pointing. “That’s General Motors headquarters.”

  “Impressive headquarters building,” Kevin said.

  “Impressively evacuated on 9/11!” Ike said.

  “Why evacuate way out here?” Kevin said. “This is long way from the Twin Towers attack.”

  “But only forty-five seconds from a Windsor, Canada Airport attack. General Motors is a high value target.”

  Kevin nodded.

  Minutes later, the limo pulled into the executive garage of the massive, twenty-story, distinguished Global Vehicles Headquarters that occupied an entire block in downtown Detroit. A man opened the limo door and they were met by a smiling Pete Naismith who shook their hands.