After Gail stepped aside, Les Miller, a senior member of the union, stepped up to address the crowd. He was thin and balding, but he had always been one of the union’s hardest workers. Dressed in a meticulously ironed forest-green uniform, he approached the podium.
“Good evening, Blake, everybody.” Les nodded at the crowd. “I just want to say that these are hard times; that’s for sure. We all know that oil is a delicate business. It always has been. But as I stand before you, I have to tell you that these times are much like my younger days. We used to fight for every benefit we got. Nothing we’ve gained as a union has come without a price. We shed blood back then, because we were abused and mistreated like dogs! My generation shed our blood so you didn’t have to.
“But you know,” he said, turning his head and glancing at his coworkers, “I can see the writing on the wall. We’re going backward. Things are changing. And things are moving fast; maybe too fast for us to handle the adjustment. But we can’t give up. We can’t give in. Our brothers and sisters have sacrificed too much for us to just sit here and take whatever they dish out! Some of them gave their lives, for God’s sake.”
The crowd created a rumble of muffled whispering, causing Les to raise his voice. “We fought too hard back then to lose it all now! Are you listening to me? Do you hear what I’m saying?” Frustrated by the noise, and the crowd’s response, Les threw his hands in the air, turned and walked back to his seat.
At that moment, the building began to shake. The floor rattled and the foldup chairs vibrated. Everyone sitting grabbed something or someone just to maintain his or her balance. Initially shocked and frightened by the tremor, the crowd gave off a loud “Whoa!” with a few scattered screams. It sounded as if they were going over the edge of a roller coaster. Then, all at once, the building shook with an incredible force that caused pictures to fall off the walls and some attendees to fall from their chairs. Glass shattered, water lines broke loose and ceiling tiles fell from above.
Amid the screams and cries of helplessness, you could hear, “Oh my God! It’s an earthquake!”
“What the hell is it?” cried a random voice.
“Oh shit!” screamed another.
As quickly as the rumbling began, it stopped equally as abrupt. Rattled by the unexplained phenomenon, Blake and the other union members stepped outside to get some fresh air and to investigate the exterior damage. Blake walked through the broken doors, glass crunching below his feet, and gasped at what he saw. His heart felt as if it dropped into his gut. What he saw changed his life forever.
Chapter 5
Le Grande Pub
Grande Isle, Louisiana
Sarah Perkins spent the day interviewing the locals who were at or near the pier at the time of the explosion. It appeared that all of the witnesses who actually saw the explosion unanimously concurred with the young lady from the pier office. Furthermore, the sheriff’s department found debris embedded in the beach, which she believed was as a result of a blast, not just from being washed ashore. This suggested that a detonated explosive might have been the cause. She wondered why the media had made such hasty conclusions when there seemed to be so much evidence to the contrary.
She called Tim Rutherford, her department’s expert on explosives. They made arrangements to meet at Le Grande Pub at 7:00 p.m.
• • •
Max Pitman owned Le Grande Pub, a third-generation family business and a local hot spot. The pub had been built in the traditional French style, with elaborate woodwork. The multicolored lights illuminated the pub’s interior, and the beads that hung from the ceiling gave it a Mardi Gras flare year round. The bar fishtailed along a mirrored wall, long and wavy, constructed from thick mahogany, finished with brass inlays and glossed over with multiple layers of commercial lacquer. The black leather bar stools were no less attractive. It was a beautiful sight for any barfly. Junior Kimbrough playing the blues on the jukebox, and the clang of glasses dinging filled the quaint establishment with a sense of home to the islanders. Boisterous conversations, laughter and crude jokes permeated the rest of the sound waves.
• • •
Sarah wasn’t much of a social drinker. However, after sitting in the smoky bar a few minutes, she gave in. She felt a sense of judgment in the eyes of the locals who glared at her. The bartender leaned across the bar while he dried a tall beer glass and gave Sarah some advice.
“They don’t trust you if you don’t drink,” he casually explained.
“Gotcha.” Sarah slowly nodded her head.
She knew there was something to their gawking. Of course, after her initial meeting with Max and Curt, she also knew she needed to demonstrate that she respected the locals and their culture. Therefore, in keeping with their expectations, she ordered a tall Blue Moon. When the drink arrived, she immediately quenched the desires of the judgmental eyes that were peering at her. She gulped down one-third of her drink, lifted her glass as if making a toast and dramatically dropped the glass on the bar with her hand clenching tightly. The onlookers appeared to be satisfied.
After Sarah dropped her glass down, she watched Max Pitman walk out of the kitchen and sit beside her.
“Hey there, Ms. Perkins. I find it hard to believe that someone with such integrity would darken the doors of my watering hole.” Max ran a toothpick through his teeth and nodded to the bartender, silently requesting his usual drink.
Sarah smiled. “Well, there’s no doubt that I’m tempting my moral fortitude here.” She turned her head and took a good hard look at the joint. “I’m due to go to confession any day now. Besides, it came highly recommended by some of your constituents.” The two chuckled at her sarcasm and reference to his remarks the day before.
The mayor continued in a more serious tone. “So, Sarah, how’s the investigation going anyway? You making any progress?”
Sarah took a sip from her drink. “Yeah, I think so. The first thing I have to do is establish whether this was an accident, which means the investigation is over, or if there is foul play involved. If I believe the explosion was a result of some form of criminal conduct, then we’ll begin a deeper investigation. And honestly, I’m leaning toward the latter.”
Leaning into Sarah’s personal space, Max discreetly whispered as his eyes scanned the room, “Well, let me tell you something, Sarah. I’ve been around here quite a while and I see and hear about everything that goes on. I’ve never said anything to anyone around here, because I don’t want the town to get in an uproar, but I overheard a couple of those oil execs talking one night about the future of this town. They were talking about the future of oil, and they said some pretty wild shit.”
“Like what?”
“Well, they were sitting right about where you are, and I was tending the bar. They were pretty sloshed, so I don’t think they realized how loud they were. Anyway, one of them said that oil is on its way out and that other technologies or some other kind of fuel could potentially put them out of business; pneumatic power, magnetic engines, I don’t remember.”
“Really? Electric or hydrogen power perhaps?”
“I don’t know. Much of what they said sounded like a bunch of big-shot businessmen bullshit to me, so I didn’t strain myself trying to hear it all. But I did hear them say that if things didn’t change around here or if that technology gets released, they were going under. Can you imagine that…oil companies going out of business? And by the way, I’m buying tonight, so order whatever you want.” Max made a hand gesture to his bartender that indicated that Sarah’s drinks were on the house.
Smiling and thankful, Sarah said, “Thank you…but do you think their conversation had any connection to the ferry?”
“I’d like think not, but honestly, I just don’t trust any of those corporations anymore. I think the union’s driving a hard line in those negotiations and PPI is getting desperate as far as their long-term prospects are concerned. Now, that’s just my opinion. But I think PPI found a way to end the negotiations permanent
ly and make a way for new workers to come in here for much less. And if I heard those exec’s right, then this might be the only way for them to become more competitive and—”
Turning his attention to the flat-screen TV, Max nodded at the bartender. “Turn that up, will ya?”
Sarah watched the screen with great interest. Several buildings were burning, emitting an eerie reminder of the previous day’s events. Max looked at Sarah with his eyes wide open.
Everyone in the bar watched as the Channel Six seven o’clock anchorman made the announcement.
“Apparently, this is not a good week for the North American oil producer, Petroleum Products International. After a fatal disaster that killed fifty-three workers at their Grande Isle offshore oil rig, they were hit hard yesterday in Chapleaux, Ontario, Canada as well. Our Canadian correspondent, Matt Rivers, is live to give us that report. Matt, how are things looking up there in Chapleaux?”
“I have to be honest with you, Dave, it’s not looking good. It seems that on top of the current strike that has plagued PPI here in Chapleaux, there was a freak accident last night that caused a chain-reaction explosion that affected the entire village. At this time, the death toll is at three hundred and counting, with many victims remaining in critical condition.
“Although the details are sketchy at this point, the local fire marshal has issued a statement claiming that a male driver, who has not been identified at this time, lost control of his vehicle and ran into a natural-gas metering station at the edge of town.” The camera panned over to the crash sight. Matt continued, “He claims that under normal circumstances, the main feed that exploded would have been protected by a series of pressure and temperature relief valves and other safety devices. He further stated that due to a malfunction in these safety measures, the crash generated a citywide pipe bomb, affecting any structure attached to the system. Sadly, this included the homes and businesses of almost every citizen inside the city limits of Chapleaux.
“Local authorities are calling for a federal investigation because the timing of this tragedy reeks of foul play. But if that’s the case, who the target or what the motive was, is anybody’s guess at this point. We certainly offer up our prayers for the families and all of those affected by this terrible and unfortunate circumstance.”
“We’re so sorry to hear that, Matt. I’m sure you’ll keep us posted.”
Le Grande Pub was dead silent and a dark sense of dread pervaded the crowd. Although the news of Chapleaux had traveled around the globe, no other community on earth could have been more empathetic than the folks on Grande Isle. Likewise, no other town could have been more fearful of the implications of the catastrophe in Chapleaux.
Sarah felt her heart sink into her gut, saddened by the atrocity. However, she was not mystified by the apparent evil that had taken place. She fully suspected that the Giants—the elite and powerful elements of the world—were somehow involved. She was, however, surprised by their boldness and confidence.
As Sarah sat at the bar stool considering the Giants’ potential motives, Tim Rutherford walked into the pub. Retired from the Marines Special Forces, Tim looked rough enough to fit in, but he was still a stranger and drew plenty of attention. When he stepped inside, Max twisted around on his stool, turned his head toward Sarah and said, “I think your friend’s here.”
“Oh, is he?” Sarah turned to look at Tim. “You are correct, sir.” She flagged Tim over to the bar. Tim was thin and fit. Dressed in jeans and a Chicago Bears sweatshirt, Tim definitely fit the military image. He had blond hair, a flattop and a neatly trimmed mustache. When he approached the bar, Sarah introduced him to Max. Tim ordered a tall Coors and the three barflies began a conversation that went late into the night.
Chapter 6
Bereavement
New York City
That same evening, Jonathan Stalwart, the chief executive officer of PPI, had planned to appear in a live news conference at PPI headquarters. The media expected him to address the recent events that had occurred in Grande Isle, and now Chapleaux. Surrounded by an entourage of personal assistants, general council, and the vice president of Human Resources, Jonathan walked into the War Room at exactly 8:00 p.m. The camera crews had set up bright lights and microphones in preparation for the news conference.
Seated directly in front of the large assembly of television and print media, Jonathan adjusted a microphone and began to speak. His VP of HR, Thomas Radisson, sat directly to his right.
“Good evening. On behalf of Petroleum Products International management, employees, and other stakeholders, I want to thank you all for your support and prayers in this grievous hour. Obviously, as we mourn the loss of so many of our PPI family, we are deeply saddened and troubled by these unfortunate events. I personally want to extend my condolences to the families who are suffering the insurmountable loss of their loved ones and our dear employees. Therefore, I would like to begin this news conference with a pause, and offer our prayers during a moment of silence.” Naturally, all were quiet. After thirty seconds, Jonathan said, “Thank you. Now, I’d like to hand the press conference over to our HR manager, Thomas Radisson.”
Thomas sat upright and dignified, his every move smooth and regal, as if he was more than his position suggested. His brown hair had been perfectly trimmed, parted to one side, and his face shaved smooth as silk. Like the others present, his shirt, tie and coat were all crisp and quite expensive.
Thomas leaned toward his microphone and somberly said, “Thank you, Jon. And again, thank you all for coming. Like Jon said, my name is Thomas Radisson, and I’m the vice president of Human Resources here at PPI. Before we begin, I want the families of the victims and all of you to know that we will do everything we can to assist the local, state, and federal agencies in their investigation. We also want the families to know that as a gesture of our gratitude, and in compliance with PPI family values, I will personally hand deliver a check for $10,000 to the surviving families. There is no need for them to suffer more than they already have, so we want to provide them with some kind of financial relief. Furthermore, we will give all surviving employees a paid, five-day bereavement as they try to make sense of these events, and time to mourn the loss of their families and coworkers.”
Thomas cleared his throat and sniffed, pausing as if he was holding back his tears.
“Ladies and gentleman, there is no question that this week will go down as the darkest time in the history of PPI. Naturally, we will do all we can to ensure that our employees and their families will never be at risk of such events again. Now, I’ll turn the floor over to the press for questions.”
The reporters frantically rushed for Thomas’s attention into the details of the matter. One reporter yelled, “Tom! Some of your employees are concerned that these events have taken place, oddly enough, at two of the oil facilities that are currently in the process of collective bargaining with you. Some are suspicious that these events are acts of aggression initiated by PPI. What can you say to those who are distrusting of management due to the coincidental or feared intentionality of the explosions?”
Thomas nodded. “All I can tell you is, at this point, there have been no allegations of foul play, and the authorities at both locations agree that these incidents were accidental. As I’ve said, we will assist the authorities any way we can. Thank you.” Thomas pointed to another reporter. “Next question.”
The reporter shouted, “This question is for Mr. Stalwart!”
Jonathan leaned forward. “Yes?”
“Our broadcast affiliate out of Sault Sainte Marie, Ontario, reports that there was a physical confrontation between your employees in Chapleaux and the temporary workers that you attempted to bring in the day before the explosion. Is that true? And secondly, is there a possible connection between the accident and any animosity the temps may have been feeling toward the local union?”
“Yes, I’m aware that there was a physical confrontation, and that’s very unfortunate. Howev
er, I’ll let the authorities do their job, and investigate any leads that they may have. Again, we want to help any way we can. Next question?”
The press put Jonathan and Thomas through the wringer. When they had enough, Thomas said, “Thank you. That’s all for now. We’ll update you as soon as we get more information. Good day!” They stepped out of the War Room, tired from the verbal battle.
Emotionally exhausted, Jonathan whispered to an assistant, “Thank God that’s over. Now would you please get me a cigarette?”
His assistant, taken aback by his request, replied, “But you don’t smoke.”
“Well, this might be a good time to start!”
Jonathan’s assistant handed him a cigarette, and lit it with her lighter. Jonathan inhaled, and slowly blew out the smoky fumes, followed by a sickly cough.
Thomas interjected, “Come on, Jon, you’re gonna be fine. Besides, we got some killer PR out there today!”
“That may be true, Tom, but we’re not getting the kind of PR I’m interested in right now. Don’t you realize how bad this looks? I mean, if our employees are suspicious and the press is asking questions, there’s a slight chance that we might become suspects. And not only do I hate that all this has happened, I hate what those families are going through. I hate that we’re shutting down two of our most productive rigs! I hate that we have to dish out millions just to look good when we haven’t done anything wrong!”
Thomas stopped walking, pulled Jonathan aside and whispered, “Who says we have to stop production? And who says we haven’t done anything wrong?”
Jonathan froze with his cigarette clinched between his fingers. The toxic vapors lingered in front of his face as Jonathan whispered authoritatively, “What are you talking about, Tom?” Jonathan gritted his teeth and looked around to make sure no one else heard what he said. “Are you crazy? Of course we haven’t done anything wrong.”
Killing the Giants Page 3
