by Mike Brogan
She then called her PetHealth client, Irene, to apologize for missing the meeting.
“Hi, Irene . . . it’s Madison.”
“Madison! You didn’t call. I was so worried. Christine said you were stuck in a taxi.”
“I was stuck.”
“For three hours?”
“Yeah.”
“Where?”
“Underwater.”
Long pause. “Water - ?”
“- in Napeague Bay.”
Madison explained.
“Holy Shit! That’s the best damn ad agency excuse I’ve ever heard. It’s gotta be true.”
“It’s true, Irene!”
“Are you okay?”
“Just damp . . .”
“Rest, Madison. The meeting went well without you. I’ll brief you later. Whenever you want.”
“Thanks, Irene.”
An hour and a half later, she landed at Detroit Metro Airport’s Private Aircraft terminal. A GV limo pulled up. Pete Naismith stepped out, hurried over and hugged her.
“Thank God you’re safe, Madison.”
“Thank Dorothy Stein, the reporter who spotted the gray taxi I sank in. And Officer Tina Kavanagh who found me.”
“I will.”
Madison looked at Pete Naismith. His eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, his face pale and tired. The XCar surges, the injuries, and negative media were taking a huge toll on him. And an even bigger toll on his company’s image. Pete was clawing his way through a public relations nightmare . . . the kind that often destroyed a good brand, and a good marketing director’s career.
She had to help him survive the nightmare.
Pete faced Madison. “The media are blasting us with both barrels!” He showed her some newspaper headlines:
XCAR SURGES . . . STILL SURGING!
WHY DO XCARS SURGE?
WILL XCAR SURGES KILL ALL ELECTRIC CAR SALES?
“Even though the media realizes this surging is caused by an outside criminal, some reporters say it’s our fault.”
“Why?”
“For not anticipating the problem.” He exhaled slowly. “And maybe in some way it is.”
“Pete, that’s bullshit! How can a car company anticipate individual terrorist attacks . . . on hundreds of different cars . . . in forty-one different states?”
Pete shrugged. “They can’t! But there’s some good news.”
“What?”
“Your ads work great. The dealers say they’ve brought more potential buyers into the dealerships to see the XCar than any other new car announcement in our history. And crowds keep coming - even though Hank Harrison just postponed the national XCar launch until we fix the surges.”
“Postponing was Hank’s only choice,” Madison said.
“Yes, but CNN’s talking heads, and FOX’s talking legs, suggest GV might cancel the XCar.”
Madison said nothing.
“One media pundit warned GV itself might even be forced into bankruptcy.”
“That’s wildly inflammatory!” Madison said. “The facts don’t support it. Less than one percent of your XCars have surged. If your engineers can correct the problem, we can start reviving the car’s image immediately.”
“I hope so, Madison. We’re doing everything possible. But let’s be honest – we’re fighting for the future of XCar. And to some extent for Global Vehicles itself.”
“I understand.”
Beside them, she saw the giant roadside Uniroyal tire. The way their luck was going, it would roll over and crush their car any second.
Pete turned on the back seat television. “Here’s what car buyers are seeing on some television news . . .”
FOX News flashed onto the screen. She saw a new XCar on an expressway suddenly race ahead, then quickly brake for no reason, causing cars behind it to swerve into other lanes. Then the XCar raced ahead again and bashed into the car in front. Then it jerked into the left lane, spun back into the right lane and raced up the freeway embankment where it crashed into an abutment. The video faded to a gleaming mahogany casket being rolled out of a church and panned to a black-dressed woman and two young daughters, tears streaming down their faces, as they stared at the casket.
Madison said a quick prayer for the family.
“The TV media loves crashes,” Pete said. “Boosts viewership. Traffic cameras are capturing XCar surges. People are loading them on YouTube!”
Madison nodded. “I’m so sorry, Pete.”
Pete shrugged, knowing he couldn’t stop the media. His phone rang. He answered, listened, hung up and slumped down in his seat. Slowly, he turned and stared at her.
“Things just got worse! Three Carmel SUVs and two 6Pack Pickups just surged into accidents!”
Things-just-got-worse. Four words that always stabbed her like daggers. Words her father said to her when she was seventeen years old. She’d met him in a waiting room at Mount Sinai in Manhattan. He walked up, took her in his arms and said, “Things just got worse, Maddy.”
“How?” she whispered.
“Her treatment is not working. Her cancer has metastasized. She’s critical.”
“How long?”
“Doc Karoub says anywhere from six weeks to six months.”
Six months later, her mother died peacefully at home with her father and her at her bedside.
Her mom had been everything to her. Always warm and loving, but tough when Madison was a headstrong teenager, and forgiving when she screwed up. Madison felt, and never doubted, her mother’s unconditional love every day.
Her father never married again.
She knew why.
He never found anyone like her mother.
FIFTY
The limo pulled into the underground garage at Global Vehicles Headquarters in downtown Detroit. Madison and Pete hurried onto a waiting elevator and rose to the 20th Floor. They were escorted to a small conference room and settled in around a polished oak table. The walls were decorated with beautiful photos of GV’s cars from the forties and fifties. One wood-paneled station wagon looked like her dad’s trusty Chevy Woody. She used to sleep in the luggage area.
Pete’s Executive Assistant, Helen - a trim, fiftyish brunette in a gray-striped suit and blue blouse - walked in. “The FBI agents just arrived.”
“Please show them in, Helen.”
She ushered Special Agents Neal Shaw and Hugh Hayden into the conference room.
Madison felt comforted to see them again.
Shaw walked over, checked her over. “You look great, Madison, considering your deep sea diving adventure.”
“Thanks, Neal,” she said, touching her sore ear where Shaved Head hit her with the gun. “I still taste saltwater.”
He nodded. “Police are still searching for your three abductors. No luck. We’re watching the house they held you in. No one’s returned.”
“They might have escaped on their motorcycle with two side cars.”
“We’re looking for that too. You sure you’re okay? Your ear took a hard hit,” Shaw said.
She nodded. “GV’s brand took a harder hit!”
“True, but I just got some news that might help us!”
Everyone waited.
“Robert Bruner died in a rented cottage fire in the village of Emmett, Michigan.”
The news jolted Madison. “Really? How do you know it’s him?” She hoped his death stopped the surging.
“Bruner’s ID was on the body. Also receipts with his name.”
Madison felt instant relief.
“So maybe his program died with him,” Pete said with hope.
Shaw nodded. “Maybe . . . or maybe not.”
“Why not?”
“Minutes ago I learned of three more XCar surges.”
Madison’s heart sank. “Can his program run automatically?”
“Let’s pray not,” Agent Shaw said.
“Maybe we can turn it off,” Pete said.
“Or maybe only Bruner could,” Agent Hayden said.
N
o one spoke.
“At least our CSI Wi-Fi techs and your engineers zeroed in on how he causes the surge,” Shaw said.
“How?” she asked.
“As suspected, Bruner created an ingenious system – one that emits a powerful remote signal – a signal that can travel a great distance. Very probably relayed off a private satellite link and enters the car’s OBD II portal via a car’s Wi-Fi systems.”
“What kind of car Wi-Fi systems?” she asked.
“Systems like Bluetooth, GPS vehicle navigation, and others. Once through the OBD portal, he turns off the car’s factory codes, inserts his own codes, grabs control, and takes over driving the car!”
“So . . . if NSA can find the correct remote satellite link, maybe they can block the signal from entering the cars,” Pete said.
“That’s what we’re working on,” Agent Hayden said.
“But nearly all newer cars come with those Wi-Fi systems,” Madison said.
“That’s the problem.”
“Are you’re saying he can attack any newer cars with Wi-Fi? Not just GV’s cars?”
“In theory, probably yes.”
“And in reality?”
“Also probably yes.”
“How many cars and trucks today have Wi-Fi?”
“Over fifty million. And the number is growing fast.”
FIFTY ONE
In his office, Kurt R. Krugere looked up as Nester Van Horn walked in and plopped down opposite him. Van Horn looked pleased for a change.
Krugere pushed a button beneath his desk. Instantly, his door closed, his chair rose, and his white noise machine hissed to life.
He looked at Van Horn. “What’s up?”
“Good news. Some dealers are selling their launch XCars early even though Harrison postponed the national launch!”
“Terrific! How many have they sold early?”
“Best estimate – nationwide somewhere between four hundred and five hundred XCars. When other dealers find out, they’ll start selling them too. And Bruner programmed many to surge.”
“Excellent,” Krugere said, sipping his whiskey. “What about the original two hundred early-release XCars?”
“Many are still on the roads. The drivers refuse to return them to the dealers. GV is terrified of more surges.”
“They should be. Anything else?”
“The best news of all.”
“What’s that?”
“Thanks to our two esteemed colleagues, Tucker and Fern, it seems our brilliant automotive engineer - the only link to us - has just perished in an unfortunate cottage fire in the village of Emmett.”
“How do you know Bruner perished?”
Van Horn smiled. “Our friend at the FBI just confirmed it.”
“Most excellent.” Krugere felt greatly relieved that Bruner, a loose cannon, was eliminated. He reached over and poured some Jack Daniels into a tumbler for Van Horn. They clinked glasses and sipped. Krugere felt the comforting heat creep through his body.
“All Bruner’s surge programs will keep right on running, right?”
“Right. They run until they shut themselves off.”
“But what about Carmel SUVs and 6Pack pickups?
“They also run automatically.”
Krugere nodded his satisfaction. “And what about our extended surge program for all GV model lines?”
“Started and will soon run automatically.”
“You’re positive Bruner didn’t install an on-off switch for our GV programs in case he changed his mind?”
“No way! Remember – he hated GV more than we do. His surges will continue through their entire predetermined program length. As he often bragged, his programs run their course and then turn themselves off automatically. I saw him activate the programming!”
“Do you believe him?”
Van Horn paused. “I do on this.”
“I trust you’ve erased all his communication concerning us – all texts, e-mails, tweets, and the rest – everything between Bruner and you?”
“All gone!”
“And all related messages between you and me?”
“Deleted.”
“Don’t forget - Bruner was an Internet geek,” Krugere said. “He could have designed something new. Or left hidden clues about you and me if we gave him trouble. Or dumped incriminating information in that fucking Cloud thing or whatever. I never trusted him.”
“I didn’t either. But my hacker gurus swear they eliminated everything from him related to me and you. Every connection. From his home desktop computer, cabin computer, laptop, hard drives, software, apps - all destroyed. We also deleted his storage files and everything in the Cloud related to us. Everything’s wiped out! No roads lead to us!”
Krugere nodded and sipped more scotch. “Have you seen our latest AsiaCars sales numbers?”
“They look good,” Van Horn said.
“They look great! Customers are returning to AsiaCars in droves. Turning away from GV. The surges are killing prospective XCar sales. Hurting all GV models sales. Even better, the surges are hurting all electric car sales. Down nine percent. GV’s battery manufacturing plants are cutting back all their XCar and XCar battery production schedules. Also two other electric-car plants have slowed second-shift vehicle production lines. Workers were sent home early.”
Van Horn grinned. “Thanks in no small part to our story about lithium-ion battery explosions. The story is spooking the hell out of prospective electric car buyers.”
Krugere nodded. “Nothing works like fake news.”
“And we’ve got more coming.”
Krugere nodded and sipped more scotch. He checked his computer screen. “Our AsiaCars sales are up 29.6% compared to the same-week sales last year. And we’re not using sales incentives and rebates. Customers are paying sticker price.”
“Your star is rising!” Van Horn said.
“And fast enough to make me Chairman within a few months. It’s time our demented, fossilized Chairman, Charley Wong retired. I’ll replace him.”
“You have the board votes?”
Krugere nodded. “I’ve already got five of the ten board members in my pocket. They’ll vote for me.”
“What about the other five?”
“I’ve got serious enough shit on three to force their votes.”
Van Horn nodded. “But if for some reason the votes fall short, there’s our fail-safe way to retire Wong.”
Krugere knew Van Horn meant fatal heart attack.
They’d done it before.
Van Horn sipped his bourbon. “I’m still worried about this GV engineer, Brooke Daniels. She might remember more incriminating stuff Bruner said.”
“I thought you handled her already,” Krugere said.
“She took a day off work. My guy’s located her now. He’ll handle her any minute!”
Van Horn’s phone buzzed. He answered and listened.
Krugere saw his face flush red. Something had gone wrong. Van Horn hung up and looked at Krugere.
“What?”
“The ad woman, Madison,” Van Horn said.
“You said she’s dead at the bottom of Napeague Bay!”
“Not any more.”
“WHAT?”
“Somehow she broke out of the underwater taxi and escaped.”
“Where is she now?”
“Flying to Detroit for GV meetings.”
Krugere’s pulse pounded. “Handle those two women! NOW!”
FIFTY TWO
Madison sat with Agent Shaw in Pete Naismith’s office. She sipped hot coffee hoping it would refresh her a bit. It didn’t. Maybe a gallon of 5-Hour ENERGY or Red Bull would.
Agent Shaw’s phone rang. He answered, listened for a minute, hung up, then shook his head in disbelief.
What now? Madison wondered.
“I don’t believe it!”
They waited.
“Bruner’s alive!”
“WHAT?”
“The DNA of the
dead man in the cottage did not match Bruner’s DNA. Bruner set us up. Wanted us to think he’s dead!”
“So he can continue surging XCars,” Madison said.
“Which he’s doing!” Shaw said. “He also just hit more GV Carmel SUVs and 6Pack pickups!”
Pete Naismith slumped down in his chair. “My worst fears! He’ll probably surge all our models.”
Madison nodded. “And why not other car brands - like GM, Ford, Chrysler-Fiat, Toyota, Mercedes, and the rest? How safe are they?”
Pete nodded grimly. “Unsafe if they have Wi-Fi! And they all do.”
Pete closed his eyes. “Imagine you’re driving in heavy traffic. Suddenly, Bruner speeds you up to ninety. But you have no brakes and slam into the cars ahead of you!”
“Then another car crashes into the back of your car!” Madison said. “Row after row crashing into row after row, a chain reaction. Deadly dominos falling. You can’t escape. Hundreds injured. Cars totaled.”
“And that’s on just one city expressway!” Shaw said. “And if we multiply that city by hundreds of city expressways with rush-hour traffic around the country, we’re looking at potentially thousands of injuries and deaths.”
Madison tried not to imagine the highway slaughter.
Agent Hayden said, “Or what if your car suddenly jumps the curb and starts mowing down people on crowded city streets like a terrorist?”
“Or mows down kids on school playgrounds!” Madison said.
“Or slams into oncoming traffic . . . like Bruner’s wife did.”
Pete said, “The question is - how does he select which cars to surge. Why does he choose certain XCars to surge and not others?”
“Any evidence he targeted specific individuals?” Madison asked.
“We found two cases,” Shaw said. “A US pilot who bombed his parents’ home, killing them and other family members. And the woman engineer he drove off the Mackinac Bridge because she was promoted to the GV job Bruner wanted. But beyond that we see no connections between Bruner and other XCar drivers he surged. For the most part, his system seems to randomly select XCars to surge.”
“Maybe the man he talked to, Nester Van Horn, knows more,” Madison said. “Any luck finding him?”
“He’s totally disappeared.”
Agent Shaw’s phone rang. He answered, frowned, nodded, and then hung up.
