by Mike Brogan
A blonde CBS reporter with large round glasses asked, “Some people say that devices like Smartphones and Bluetooth technology might somehow contribute to driving problems. Your thoughts?”
“Our tests demonstrate this is not happening with XCar.”
A young female reporter from FOX raised her hand. “What about a person causing the problem. An angry employee. Or a fired employee. Someone getting revenge against GV?”
Madison had expected the question. “Our engineers and government authorities are exploring all possibilities, including these. But they have no clear evidence of that possibility at this time.” She wondered what Hank Harrison was learning from DuWayne Jefferson.
“But this is the age of terrorism,” the FOX reporter persisted. “Russians hacking into our elections. Into banks. Into credit cards. Hackers hacking hackers. Could hackers cause surging? Maybe a hacker terrorist group. Could they be behind this?”
Silence filled the room. She felt all eyes on her.
The terrorist question concerned her. She didn’t want the media to enflame or panic the public that this might be a nationwide terrorist attack. They had no proof it was.
“The feasibility of this kind of hacking is well beyond my technical knowledge. But again, I can assure you that authorities are investigating absolutely all possibilities, including this one. I know the FBI is addressing the possibility. As soon we know more, we’ll get back to you.”
Madison turned it over to Pete Naismith who answered some technical questions on the new revolutionary battery technology. As he started to end the press conference, a woman reporter stood up in back.
“One last question to Madison,” the reporter said. “Patricia Coburn, CNN New York. I just heard that a new XCar filled with three nuns and a child cancer patient from St. Jude’s Clinic for Children in Alabama has apparently crashed in a ditch. Any comment?”
Madison’s heart pounded. She had no knowledge of the incident and turned to Pete.
Pete stepped to the microphone. “I just received an update on that incident. Good news. The three nuns and the young girl patient are all fine. No injuries. But our hearts go out to them. And GV will provide a new vehicle to the St. Jude Clinic and make a nice donation.”
“Thank you,” the reporter said.
“And as Madison said, we’ll soon give you an update on all information regarding the XCar. Thank you for your questions. But right now, we’re being called to another meeting. Thank you for your time.”
As Pete Naismith and Madison walked away, his phone rang. He listened, hung up, and ushered Madison down a long hallway, checking to see if any reporters followed them. They didn’t.
“What’s up?”
He shook his head, looking shocked by the phone call.
Madison felt the blood drain from her face. Clearly, bad news had hit him hard. She waited for him to explain.
“Some of the new XCars delivered for the national launch were sold by the dealers - ahead of the launch date.”
“When?”
“Yesterday and the day before.”
“And . . . ?”
“Two of the national launch XCars surged.”
Madison felt like she’d been punched in the stomach.
“Injuries?”
“One minor. One fatality.”
TWENTY EIGHT
MICHIGAN, UPPER PENINSULA
Robert Khalid Bruner worked on his laptop in his remote forest cabin, surrounded by dense trees near Frenchman’s Lake, one hundred seventy acres of pure, crystal-blue water, nearly four hundred miles north of Detroit.
The seven-room log cabin had been his family refuge for years. He still pictured his wife, Abeela, and daughter, Bahiya, in the kitchen cooking his favorite Iraq dish, Quozi lamb and eggplant. He could still smell the fragrant scents, still savor the mouthwatering tastes.
His cabin was also the perfect hideout. His nearest neighbor, a ninety-three-year old farmer drooling with Alzheimer’s, lived over a mile away.
After confirming that Nester Van Horn had transferred the extra millions to him for new surge programming, plus his fee into his offshore bank account, Bruner began programming the surge to hit other GV vehicles.
The money was all his. Free and clear. And hidden from the greedy IRS and the US international banking watchdogs.
Bruner rechecked his sophisticated Hydra security system’s detection monitors strategically located throughout the forest surrounding his cabin. If any electronic or digital device came within one hundred yards of the cabin, the sensors would detect it and a flash alarm would glow on his desk.
If anything larger than a wolverine came within one hundred yards of the cabin, surveillance cameras locked on it. A human profile taller than four feet and heavier than eighty pounds would trigger a blinking blue light on his desk.
And the blue light would soon blink.
Nester Van Horn’s thugs would be coming to eliminate any evidence linking them to the surging XCars.
Evidence like me . . .
Especially if they somehow learned about my very secret program. A program Van Horn and Krugere knew nothing about. A program they, the police, FBI, Homeland Security and every other national security group in America would soon know everything about.
But wouldn’t know how to stop it.
Or where he was.
So they’d search coast to coast . . . while he was seven thousand miles away in a non-extradition-treaty country.
Bruner continued programming Van Horn’s surge to include a number of new XCars that had just arrived at the dealerships for the national launch. He entered their Vehicle Identification Numbers, the VINs . . . as well as the VIN numbers for some Carmel SUVs and the 6Pack Pickups. Months ago, with hacker help, he’d broken into GV’s Intranet systems and copied their VINs.
He’d next programmed the surge locations. Most surges would occur on city expressways and heavy-traffic streets, guaranteeing more damage. He’d launch most surges during morning rush hour and evening rush hour. Maximum damage. After all, no crashes, no gain.
Bruner’s perimeter alarm flashed. He spun around to the visual monitors and saw two small fawns munching acorns on a footpath near the cabin. His security system worked fine.
He sipped tea, sat back, and chewed some fresh Medjool dates like he used to pick in their Tikrit garden. So sweet.
Some day he’d return to their garden.
TWENTY NINE
MANHATTAN
After the Detroit press conference, Madison and Pete Naismith flew back to Manhattan to meet with the FBI agents arriving at Turner Advertising any minute.
Madison and Pete sat in Madison’s small conference room. Kevin was in California shooting commercials for GV’s Carmel SUV and 6Pack Pickup.
Madison watched Pete handle phone calls from his concerned GV dealers – as she handled calls from her impatient Turner Advertising clients . . . impatient because they were not getting as much face-time or phone-time with her these days. She’d been concentrating on helping GV manage their XCar-surge crisis. But she’d have to start balancing the needs of all her clients better.
Like tomorrow’s meeting with their pet food client. She and Kevin had worked on the creative concepts, but she still had to refine some strategic and media recommendations. But when? There was no time. She was falling behind . . .
And her favorite client, St. Jude’s Children’s Hospital, called a couple of days ago and asked if she’d do some new television commercials. As usual, Madison agreed to do the commercials for free. If St. Jude could treat poor patients at no cost, she could make St. Jude commercials at no cost to them.
And on top of everything, her new-business phone was ringing off the hook. Winning the Global Vehicle advertising business generated so much buzz for Turner Advertising that several large companies had called and asked her to present for their business.
Her agency was hot again! A major airline asked her to pitch for their social media assignment. Who kno
ws, maybe that could lead to winning the airline’s entire advertising account - four hundred twenty million dollars annually.
And this morning, a major pharmaceutical company asked her to present a campaign for their new drug that slowed the progression of Alzheimer’s. She’d love to do pharmaceutical and airline advertising, but the agency was maxed out right now on the XCar surge problem. She asked the airline and pharmaceutical companies if she could present ideas to them in four weeks. Fortunately, both companies agreed.
“The FBI men are here,” said Christine Higgins, Madison’s smart, organized, attractive sixty-year-old executive assistant. Christine had been her father’s assistant. He called her the most competent professional executive he’d ever known. And she looked professional in a dark blue Carina suit, practical black pumps, half-glasses and the gold Rolex her father had given her for twenty-five years service. Her father said he couldn’t function without her. Now, Madison couldn’t.
“Please show them in, Christine.”
She ushered in two agents in their thirties, one tall thin man, the other shorter and muscular. They wore dark suits, ties, and pleasant smiles.
“Welcome to Turner Advertising,” Madison said.
“Thanks, Madison,” said the taller, slender man with blue eyes and thick copper-red hair. “I’m Special Agent Neal Shaw. And this is Special Agent Hugh Hayden.”
They flashed their badges and shook hands with her and Pete Naismith.
Agent Hayden’s light-blond air was cut so short he looked almost bald. His strong jaw and blue eyes reminded her of Jason Statham, the British actor.
Madison introduced them to Pete Naismith.
“Anyone like coffee, water?” Christine asked.
“No thanks, ma’am,” the FBI agents said in unison.
Agent Shaw turned to Pete Naismith. “As you know, your engineers asked our FBI tech people to look into your XCar surges.”
Pete nodded.
“And because some XCars have crossed state lines, and XCar incidents occurred in different states, the FBI has assumed jurisdiction in the investigation.”
“I understand,” Pete said.
“The Department of National Transportation and Highway Safety Administration, NTHSA, are also working with us.”
“Makes sense,” Pete said. “I understand your engineers, like ours, have found no mechanical reason for the surging.”
“That’s right,” Agent Shaw said. “We’ve also just ruled out some outside incidental electronic interference as causing the surges. Including cellphone tower interference, special phone-app intrusion, municipal transformer power surges.”
“Our tests ruled all that out too,” Pete said. “And this morning our GV engineers tried one last outside interference possibility. EMP.”
“What’s EMP?” Madison asked.
“Electromagnetic Pulse. Zapping the XCars with a massive surge of electromagnetic energy!” Pete said.
“And what happened?”
“The XCar engines were momentarily affected by the massive burst of power. Slowed them down. But they recovered. And the EMP bursts did not cause braking, accelerating, or steering the car in any direction. But a much more powerful EMP gun blast might turn the car engine off.”
“So in view of all the research and testing, what do your engineers think is causing the surge?” Shaw asked.
Pete didn’t hesitate. “A person.”
Silence.
“They think someone is sending a signal that enters the OBD II port in our XCars and then takes control driving them.”
Agent Shaw nodded. “Our FBI techs and NTHSA engineers agree. Someone is remotely entering the OBD II ports and driving these XCars.”
Madison remembered that the Director of Engineering, DuWayne Jefferson, at the GV Technical Campus also felt that was the case.
“That person,” Pete said, “would need very specific knowledge of our XCar’s drivability systems.”
Shaw said, “Like one of your engineers?”
Pete nodded. “Or one of our component supplier engineers.”
“How many companies supply components for your XCar’s electronics and driving systems?”
“Probably hundreds. Major suppliers and sub-suppliers supply us with various electronic/computer systems and components. Most supplier companies have been with us for decades.”
“Any unhappy with GV?”
“A bunch,” Pete said.
Shaw looked surprised. “Why?”
“We just asked them to reduce their prices by two percent.”
Shaw nodded.
“And this was after they gave us two percent price reduction last year. It’s tough to reduce their cost and maintain the high product quality standards that the government and we require. But we had no choice. We had to reduce our costs to remain price competitive in the market. So they were unhappy.”
“Any really unhappy?”
Naismith paused. “More than a few, as I recall.”
“We need those names.”
Naismith nodded and made a note. “Okay. But I don’t think they’d sink to destroying our vehicles.”
“Why not?”
“It would destroy their sales to us. Their sales depend on our sales. If surge-accidents reduce our sales, we make fewer cars . . . need fewer of their parts.”
Agent Shaw nodded. “But if a fired supplier employee is really enraged - he may only care about revenge! So we have to look at everyone.”
Pete nodded.
“The question is who?” Madison said.
“Any angry fired ex-engineers come to mind?” Agent Shaw said.
Pete seemed to consider that.
“Maybe some employee who expressed a lot of anger when he or she was let go?” Shaw said.
“That list might be long.”
THIRTY
Madison knew all about angry employees. You learn when one tries to kill you.
A few years ago one of her Turner Advertising EVPs named Alison Whitaker hired an ex-CIA assassin named Eugene P. Smith to kill her. Smith nearly succeeded until he lost his head, literally, to the blade of a giant Dutch windmill. Alison Whitaker was sentenced to life without parole. Madison was sentenced to remembering how badly she’d misjudged Alison, whom she’d considered a trusted friend.
“Any specific ex-employees stand out?” Agent Shaw asked Pete Naismith. “Someone who swore revenge against GV after being fired? Or was really angry?”
Naismith closed his eyes. “A few executives. Our ex-CFO, George Gerhardt, was angry as hell when forced to retire. Left with fat sacks of severance money. Says he has no regrets now and leaving GV was the best thing that ever happened to him. Fishes and hunts on his Texas ranch. Winters in the Bahamas.”
“You believe him?”
Pete paused. “Yes.”
“Anyone else?”
“Another top executive, Simon Snavely, left angry because he didn’t get the CEO job that Hank Harrison got. A real hothead. But again, an eight-figure golden parachute and stock payoffs cooled him off. So did a huge win in Vegas. Snavely says all is forgiven.”
Shaw wrote down Snavely’s name. “Anyone else?”
Pete rubbed his eyes. “Information-tech boss, Herbert Dweeck. IT Genius. Enraged we chose a software company he didn’t like. Now owns a telecom giant in Kuala Lumpur making ten times more money than here. Also happy as a clam.”
Shaw wrote down his name. “Any others?”
“A few, but I don’t think any of them have the engineering driveline system expertise to do this.”
“Even so, we need their names and any engineers who do have the right expertise.”
Naismith nodded agreement. “What about our present employees with the expertise?”
“Include them.”
“We’ll get the list to you in a few minutes,” Pete said.
Madison thumped her forehead and stood up. “I just remembered something . . .”
Everyone looked at her.
> “I have a friend who works at GV who might be able to help.” Madison was surprised she hadn’t thought of Brooke sooner.
“Who?” Agent Shaw said.
“My college classmate, Brooke Daniels. She’s a GV engineer at your GV Engineering Campus near Detroit. Worked there for about seven years in something . . . I can’t recall. Drive . . . something . . .”
“Drive train?” Pete suggested.
“Yes. That’s it, I think.”
“That’s the area we’re investigating,” Naismith said.
“Want me to see what she knows?”
“Absolutely,” Shaw said, gesturing for her to call now.
Madison pulled up Brooke’s number on her iPhone and dialed.
Shaw said, “Ask her if she recalls any drivetrain engineers who were, or are, angry at GV for any reason?”
Madison dialed Brooke’s number and hit the speakerphone.
The phone rang twice and was picked up.
“Brooke, it’s Madison.”
“Hey, Maddy, congratulations again on winning our advertising business.”
“Thanks, Brooke.”
“So you need a tall, stunning model in a teeny bikini for XCar ads, right? I’m quite cheap.”
“I know. And you’re hired, Brooke. But I’m calling about the XCar surge problem.”
“Oh God – it’s awful! We’re going crazy here trying to figure out what the hell’s causing it. You guys helping us with that too?”
“We’re trying to. I’m putting you on the speaker with Pete Naismith, your Marketing VP, and two FBI agents.”
“Whoa . . . ! Mr. Naismith and the FBI? That’s way above my pay grade.”
“Not today, Brooke. Special Agent Neal Shaw and Pete would like to ask you some questions.”
Long pause. “Well sure . . . but -”
“Hi, Brooke, it’s Pete Naismith. We met once at a company conference last year.”
“Oh yes, I remember, Mr. Naismith.”
“Call me Pete, please. And just go ahead and answer Agent Shaw’s questions.”