Killing the Giants

by Jeff Bennington

  Blake had never been more pissed.

  After he finished with the guard, he ran inside the bus to take control of the situation.

  “Dennis! Are you all right, you little bastard?”

  Blake reached down and touched Dennis’s shoulder. Dennis just lay there moaning and reeling in pain. His hands were covered in blood, and his hair was tousled and sticky from the oozing, vital fluid.

  Blake took a moment to look over Dennis’s injuries. He didn’t look good. Blake turned his head to look at the passengers. He saw some of them attempt to get out of their seats. They had been encouraged by their predecessor’s victory. Blake, however, was not about to let them overtake him. He lifted his bat in a threatening position, and held it up as if he were ready to swing. The scabs backed off.

  “That’s right. Sit your asses down!” Blake angrily commanded. “No one’s getting off this bus! Do you hear me? No one!”

  He picked up his injured friend and laid him across the front seat. “Hang tight, little buddy. We’re taking these scabs for a ride!” He climbed into the driver’s seat and prepared to drive.

  Compared to the heavy equipment Blake had been accustomed to operating, the bus seemed like child’s play. He quickly assessed the controls and levers, and placed his hands and feet in their appropriate position. He pressed down on the clutch, put the gearshift in reverse, and hit the gas.

  Outside, the rumble came to an abrupt stop as the bus began to back away from the chaotic setting. Greg nursed the Mexican’s wounds, while a couple of the union workers tended to Gail’s injury. The engine roared and clanked down the gravel road. The warriors stared in amazement as the bus drove away.

  The reporters seemed disappointed that their high-energy news story had come to an end so suddenly.

  The dust stirred up the silence, and the fighters watched the yellow machine drive backward. Blake grinned when he saw the workers’ and guards’ eyes light up with surprise as the bus pulled away. Their tired arms hung next to their torsos and their hearts beat in rapid succession. Some of them rested their elbows on their knees and caught their breath. The battle ended, but the war had only begun at the entrance of the PPI refinery in Chapleaux, Ontario.

  Chapter 3

  Geusto’s Ferry

  Grande Isle, Louisiana

  In Jefferson Parish, along the southern tip of Louisiana, there’s a small barrier island that parallels the coast in the Gulf of Mexico. It’s a beautiful place called Grande Isle.

  Deep in the emerald waters, only three-quarters of a mile from Grande Isle, still within view of the sandy beaches, sits an oil rig owned by PPI. The massive drilling operation employs a modest percentage of the local islanders. They too were in negotiations with PPI management.

  On a typical workday, Geusto’s Ferry transported materials and supplies, along with both incoming and outgoing PPI shift workers twice, daily. The first shift typically stepped off the ferry as they entered the rig, while the lethargic night shift crept down onto the ferry’s deck as they wormed their way home. However, the daily transaction was not completed on this day. There had been a terrible accident.

  • • •

  Sarah Perkins stood in line at a local coffeehouse, waiting for her tall mocha latte, watching the news on a wall-mounted television. The reporter touted the late-breaking story. He stood at the edge of a pier, holding his microphone just below his mouth.

  “Like a bridge over troubled waters, long-time resident and every islander’s friend, Lee Geusto’s infamous Geusto’s Ferry exploded early this morning while making its daily journey to the PPI oil rig. Located about three-quarters of a mile offshore, the vessel along with Lee and most of the passengers were found dead at the scene at sunup this morning. Although the authorities have not released the names of the victims, we have been told that there may be only a few survivors between both shifts of PPI workers, all of which are in critical condition.

  “Apparently, the explosion occurred during a shift change, when the ferry was put in at the offshore rig. Currently, it is believed that the explosion may have been an accident due to a faulty fuel line on the vessel. As a result, an investigation is underway.

  “This certainly is a tragic day and a great loss for everyone on Grande Isle and surrounding communities. Our hearts and prayers go out to the victims and their families. Of course, we promise to keep you posted, and bring you the latest updates as they come in.

  “Up next…Dana Hartley has the weather after a word from our sponsor. I’m Rich Clark…and that’s the news at seven!”

  • • •

  The catastrophe brought Sarah Perkins to Grande Isle. She had become the ATF’s agent of choice to investigate crimes that involved explosions affecting large corporations and their employees. She had a reputation for being intelligent, assertive, and incorruptible. Sarah understood the depths of moral depravity, the business community and the world of the elite business class. Her superiors thought this circumstance worthy of her investigation.

  The evening after the explosion, Geusto’s quay lay empty and deserted. The place where his ferry had been secured was sealed off with yellow caution tape that flapped and twisted in the breeze. The air felt humid and smelled of fish and seawater. The sound of deckhands scurrying about had been replaced with seagulls squawking, news reporters reporting and families mourning the death of their loved ones. The accident happened at approximately 5:00 a.m. By 7:00 p.m. the community had come out in droves, placing wreaths and memorials near the entrance of the pier. The local police force and county sheriff’s department directed traffic, searched for bodies and collected statements.

  Dressed in jeans and her navy-blue ATF Windbreaker, Sarah Perkins was the ATF’s sole representative. She looked out at the oil rig, sipped her coffee, and watched the pink and lavender skyline sink into the sea. Her long brown hair swept across her face, and the setting sun accentuated her natural beauty. She was slender, wore very little makeup, if any, and stood about five foot six. She loved her job, but her heart broke for the families who were suffering.

  Sarah noticed an old black man gazing into the distance, sitting on the edge of the pier. He wore bib overalls and large yellow rubber boots. His scraggly gray hair dangled out of his baseball cap, touching the tips of his bristly whiskers. When Sarah looked at the man, she saw him drop his head. She watched his shoulders bob up and down as if he were laughing. His movements, however, were anything but joyful. He began sobbing uncontrollably, grieving. His tears were so thick that Sarah could see them falling from where she stood. She walked over to him and sat down. She draped her arm around the man and pulled her hair away from her face.

  “Did you lose someone in the explosion?”

  “Yes ma’am…I did,” the man replied with a heavy, cracking, Cajun accent. When he spoke, his bottom lip hung a little lower on the left side, adding a slight speech impediment that frequently caused him to whistle whenever he made an “s” or “sh” sound.

  “What was your connection?”

  “Lee…ma’am. I lost my frien Lee.” He spoke in between more tears and sobbing. “I lost all my friens that rode that ferry. They was all my friens.” He tried to hide his tears by wiping them with his dirty shirtsleeve.

  “I’m so sorry.” Sarah rubbed the stranger’s back. “What’s your name, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Gill…ma’am. My friens call me Gill, ’cause I gots these here scars on the side of my face.” Gill pointed to the three parallel scars on his right cheek.

  “And since I work on this here pier, I guess all my friens think that makes me some kinda fish or somthin’.” A slight chuckle attempted to break through the tears. His eyes were red and swollen, nestled in cavernous crow’s-feet.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Gill. My name is Sarah Perkins, and I’m here to find out what happened to your friends. Do you have any idea what caused the explosion?”

  “Well, the news folk say it was caused by some kinda fuel line or somthin�
��. But I know it wasn’ that ’cause I check the fuel lines every time I put gas in that ferry.” Gill’s hands began to shake. “Every day I worked for Lee, I always’d looked at that fuel line. And sometimes, when it starts to look a little cloudy, and feel a little stiff, I replaced it with a new one. I done that for twenty years, and I ain’t ever done it wrong ma’am…not ever. If I did…then I’m the one to blame for all this…and you can blame me ma’am…if that’s the truth.” Gill wiped more tears. “Then you can cuff me…and take me in right now. I’m so sorry, ma’am! I’m so sorry I dun it!” Gill resumed his initial posture: head down, tears falling and shoulders bobbing. She patted his back again and rubbed it gently as she pulled away.

  “Gill, you don’t need to be sorry. But it’s okay to be sad.”

  Sarah reached into her purse to grab one of her business cards and handed it to Gill and said, “Here’s my card. If you need me or if there’s anything I can do to help…please call. Okay?”

  Gill grabbed the card and stuffed it in his front pocket. “Yes, ma’am. I will, ma’am.”

  Sarah smiled at Gill and he tipped his hat and turned away. Gill had been a staple in the community—always friendly and always kind. Gill never knew a stranger, and he never did Lee Geusto wrong.

  • • •

  Later that evening, Sarah waited to meet a couple of the local authorities at the pier office, located at the entrance of the pier. While she waited in the foyer of the one-room structure, she observed the many pictures on the walls. The photographs documented decades of memories and local events that defined the community. There were pictures of fathers and sons fishing off the pier at an annual fishing tournament. Photos of dinghy races, coastline triathlons and pictures of local authorities cutting ribbons were pinned to a large collection of bulletin boards. Besides fishing licenses, quay permits and other documentation, it seemed as if the office was a central location for the island’s activities.

  Sarah couldn’t help but speak her thoughts out loud, overheard by the young attendant that manned the office. “This looks like a really tight-knit community.”

  “Yeah, you could say that,” exclaimed the visibly upset attendant. “Everybody’s in everyone’s business. You know how it is.” She turned her head to avoid exposing her emotions.

  “I know what you mean. I grew up in a small town myself.”

  Sarah curiously spread open the blinds that covered a window facing the water. When she opened them, she noticed that the smoldering ship sat in perfect view from the office. She casually looked through the windowpane to get a perspective on the ship and what the sight may have looked like from inside the room.

  “Are these window blinds always closed?”

  “No. I usually keep them open. I closed them after I called 9-1-1. I just couldn’t look at the smoke and fire anymore. I closed the blinds and cried right where you’re standing.”

  “You saw the explosion?”

  The young woman chewed her gum. “Yeah, I saw it. I looked out the window the very moment the ferry blew up. I heard the blast and saw the flames and bodies. It was terrible…I…I couldn’t keep watching.”

  “I’m so sorry,” said Sarah. “Please forgive me for being so intrusive. I just—”

  “No. It’s okay,” she said, choking back her tears.

  “Would you mind telling me how big the explosion was?”

  “No, not a bit,” she said choking back her tears. “But I can just as easily show you what it looked like.” She reached into her desk and grabbed a black dry-erase marker. After pushing her chair back, she walked toward the window and outlined the image of the explosion to scale with the windowpanes.

  “If you stand here and look at the ferry, the explosion went all the way to the top pane in a bright round circle, like this. I’ll never forget what it looked like. It’s like when you look directly at the sun, you have a black or white dot embedded in your vision. In this case, the silhouette of the blast is embedded in my mind.

  “Anyway, after the explosion expanded, it quickly contracted and then the ship caught fire.” She completed the drawing and moved away from the window to allow Sarah to study the sketch.

  Sarah stared at the black outline of the explosion and began to question the initial theory released by the press and local authorities. She had seen explosives and ignited-gas fires and she knew that there was a clear difference between the two. Sarah began to question the popular theory. However, she needed to be sure. She would have to get an expert to confirm her suspicions. She needed to get other eyewitness testimonies. Her gut told her that there were two possibilities: either the explosion was an accident or the result of a detonated charge. Her experience could not rule out either theory.

  • • •

  Curt Monet, the pier manager, and Max Pitman, the mayor of Grande Isle, walked into the pier office. They introduced themselves to Sarah soon after they entered the building.

  “Mr. Monet…Mr. Pitman,” said Sarah, reaching out her hand. “I’m very sorry for the devastating loss that you and your community have experienced today. I want you to know that as a representative of the ATF, I intend to use every resource available to find out exactly what happened.”

  Curt, a short round man with short hair and a thick gray beard, looked at Sarah with distrust, crossed his chubby arms and said, “I appreciate you saying that Ms. Perkins, but right now the last thing we need in this community is more red tape and more of your government bureaucracy. Besides, I’ve got family and neighbors working out there. I trust them. I think we’ll be just fine on our own.” Curt stared at Sarah, tucked in his short-sleeved button-up shirt and put his hands on his hips.

  At that point, Max Pitman, who stood a foot taller and much thinner than Curt, spoke up.

  “Sarah, with all due respect…you have to understand where Curt’s coming from. The majority of our community has suffered financially these last few years, because PPI has slowly reduced its output with the intention of moving its operation to the Canadian coastline. We’ve lost a lot of jobs and they want more concessions from the union. And lately, things have been getting pretty ugly around here.” Max stuffed one of his big hands in his pocket and pointed outside with the other. “If you listen to those people out there, they’ll tell you that they’re very suspicious of how that ferry blew up. Do you get what I’m saying?”

  “I think so.” She squinted, listening intently.

  “We’ve lost our faith in big business and government. Washington never listens to their voting constituency…least not nowadays.”

  “I hear what you’re saying. And I want to assure you that I’m here because the ATF believes in justice. You just have to trust me.” Sarah grinned. “I know what corrupt organizations are capable of and I understand your reservations. I’ll do everything I can to be as unobtrusive as possible.”

  Curt looked Sarah in the eye and asked, “If it’s not too much to ask, can you just…tread lightly on these folks? Obviously, families are hurting. Hell, I lost my cousin today, and the last thing I want is a federal agent snoopin’ around trying to figure out how PPI doesn’t need to pay a settlement.”

  “Understood. I’ll do what I can. For now, let me show you what I’ve already discovered.”

  Sarah proceeded to gain a bit of credibility by showing the two men the outline of the explosion that the office attendant drew earlier.

  Chapter 4

  The Hall

  Union Hall of Local 927, Chapleaux, Ontario

  Voices roared like a den of angry lions inside the union hall, where there was standing room only. Blake tried to calm the crowd and bring order to the assembly.

  “Please…please…ladies and gentlemen, please have a seat! We need it quiet if we’re going to proceed!”

  Others yelled “Quiet! Shut up! Be quite!” as the group began to settle down.

  “Thank you!” said Blake. “Now, I understand that you’re all upset. I am too. Hell, we all are. But, if you want to express your
concerns, we’re going to have to do this with some semblance of order. If you have something to say, step up to the microphone.” Blake pointed to a podium that sat in the middle of the two sections of chairs. “Otherwise, stay seated and listen.”

  Blake watched as four union members rushed to the podium. Dell Hardaway, the first speaker, tapped the microphone and said, “Test…test, one, two, three…”

  Interrupted by a brief moment of feedback, he continued. “Listen; I know we’ve been through a lot together over the years, but what happened yesterday was just madness! Now, I know some of you’ve got a savings built up and maybe you can weather this storm, but you know that Beth and I have five children, and we’re about ready to break. The last thing I need is to be bedridden from the kind of violence we experienced yesterday. I just can’t afford it. And I’m not the only one.” He looked around at the crowd, eyeing the others who had been struggling financially. “So I say, we might have to give in a little bit.”

  The crowd resumed its raucous arguing and infighting.

  Gail Skinner shuffled toward the microphone. She walked with less enthusiasm than the previous day and her head was wrapped in gauze from her injuries. Her left eye was purple and swollen. “I know what it’s like to fight for what’s right,” she said, gripping the podium nervously. “I had to fight just to get into my trade because I’m a woman. But I’ll be damned if I’m gonna let them greedy sons of bitches take my job away, and take away everything I’ve fought for!” The crowd erupted in applause.

  Gail continued. “I know that we have principles that we have to stand on, but…um…this…” She pointed to her injured head. “This is not going to get us anywhere. I don’t want to lose what I have and walk away crippled too. I’d rather take a loss and keep my job, rather than start over…you know what I mean?”

  “No! NO!” Shouted the hard-core members, while the more cautious cheered her on. Gail went back to her seat.