C-4

C- 4

a novel by

Hal Williams

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This is a work of fiction. The characters and situations—other than public figures identified by their real names and documented historical events—are products of the author's imagination and are not intended to portray actual persons or events.

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Copyright © 2018 by Hal Williams

ISBN 9780463071144

Smashwords Edition

CHAPTER ONE

CINCINNATI, Ohio

WARM RAINDROPS brought by a late summer storm pounded on painted steel. They played a syncopated percussion on the pickup truck’s roof and hood while Ben Kilgore sat inside, staring through a water-streaked windshield at the chained and padlocked iron bar gate and the offensive CLOSED sign affixed to it.

On the previous Monday that gate had stood open to admit sixty loyal Chilton Precision employees. Then, on the following Friday, the plant superintendent had called an all-hands meeting on the main production floor.

I know this is something no one wants to hear, he said in preamble, but as of this afternoon, our doors are shut.

For how long, some naïve workman asked.

Permanently, I’m afraid.

There were expressions of disbelief, dismay, and anger, all in roughly equal proportion.

Company ownership has decided to outsource our products to China. We’re shutting down at four o’clock. That gives you half an hour to gather up your personal belongings. Don’t try to take any company property because there will be hired security at the doors to check what you’re carrying out.

What about all the equipment? another abruptly unemployed worker wanted to know.

I believe the plan is for everything to be dismantled and crated for shipment to China.

Screw China, a third man said, and many agreed with him, Ben Kilgore included.

I’m in the same boat as all of you, the super told his erstwhile workers. I have to oversee stripping the building and then I’m out of a job, too.

Sorry, boss, but that don’t make me feel any better.

Kilgore had spent sixteen years at Chilton producing ultra-precision parts for medical equipment. The firm had established a reputation for superior quality, but now, owners who would not know a micrometer from a mouse trap had chosen profit over precision.

Screw China, he repeated mentally in melancholy anger. He lowered the window and tossed out his cigarette butt. I’d like to see them do our jobs without American mills and lathes and CNC computers.

WASHINGTON, D.C.

PAM ROBINSON muttered curses under her breath when she entered the ATF building on Monday and saw her office. Dozens of pink message slips littered the surface of her desk like confetti. A half-dozen paper coffee cups sat here and there, not all of them empty. Her swivel desk chair had vanished altogether. Damn the world!

She avoided eye contact with others as she marched along the hallway to Jim Simpson’s office and past his flabbergasted secretary, a twenty-something bimbo with long blonde hair and a Barbie-like figure.

What the hell happened in my office? It was no way to address a Deputy Director of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives, but she had demonstrated a disdain for protocol so often that he should expect it and apparently did.

And good morning to you, Agent Robinson. How’s the arm?

Healed just enough to take a swing at whoever trashed my office.

Well, now, that wouldn’t be a very nice way to start your day, much less someone else’s. His saccharin tone infuriated her all the more.

Dammit! I come back from that Rio Grande hell hole with a gunshot wound only to find my office looking like a blast site, and you make jokes?

Would you rather I tell you it isn’t your office any longer?

Is that the deal? Am I fired?

Sit down, Pam.

I don’t want—

That was not an invitation, Agent Robinson. Sit down.

Pam glared at Simpson for a moment, then pulled one of the side chairs closer to his desk and plopped into it.

Let’s get something straight right now. A messy desk is the least of your worries. I’m sorry about your getting shot, but the fact is that you had no business being where you were. She started to protest, but Simpson saw it coming and preempted her with a raised palm, then leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. In addition to a week of convalescent leave, you’ve earned yourself a written reprimand.

What? A reprimand?

Count yourself fortunate that you keep your pay grade, not to mention your job. The FBI Director wanted your hide for a rug in his office, and the only thing that kept him from getting it was a glowing report from Ruben Flores in Mexico. If not for him, you probably wouldn’t have a desk to fret over.

May I speak now?

Just don’t make any excuses, Pam. It’s all a done deal.

Fine. Done deal. But I want you to know what happened.

I’ve already read all the reports, Simpson said. You used a vehicle that belonged to the FBI in a high-speed pursuit, damaged an innocent Mexican citizen’s car, and then got yourself shot.

Do any of those reports point out that the fleeing vehicle crossed an intersection right in front of us? That we heard gunfire as it passed?

One does, but there’s no corroboration for it.

That figures, Pam said.

If you had gotten your report done, then I might have had two sources to use in your defense.

Okay, believe whatever you want to. I did what seemed appropriate at the time and under the circumstances, so don’t look for an apology from me.

Nobody expects one. What I expect, however, is better judgement on your part and a completed report. Now, go clean up your desk and start writing. I want it by the end of the day tomorrow.

Simpson had not commented on her lack of a presumably essential undergarment, so he either did not notice that she was not wearing a bra or realized that she could not hook one with her left arm encased in bandages. The latter seemed far more likely even though he probably was not aware of the nerve damage that might limit dexterity in her fingers for the rest of her life. She had worn a blazer over her white blouse and khaki slacks in an effort to conceal the absence, but given her ample bust size, she doubted that it made much difference.

On the way back to her own office, she checked others along the way, looking for her desk chair. When she found hers in an arson investigator’s empty cubicle, she scribbled a note to the occupant, then wheeled the chair back to her own office. Her phone rang before she had a chance to sit in it.

What’s the meaning of this note, Robinson?

Just what it says, Dougherty. Keep your grubby mitts off my chair.

By the end of the workday, Pam had straightened up her office, returned a score of phone calls, filed half a ream of paper, and filled out a pointless expense report. Almost every charge from her most recent assignment had gone directly to ATF. Her only out-of-pocket expenditures had covered meals and little else. Texas and Mexico had been hard on her wardrobe budget, but that just went with the territory.

Before being rescued by chartered Citation business jet, she had spent a miserable night and day in a Piedras Negras hospital, and then a delightful day and night in Eagle Pass. Recalling the latter brought a smile to her face but not to her soul.

Texas Rangers Captain Steve Oliveras had been caring and considerate, just as willing to help her get dressed and take her out for meals as he was to help her get undressed when they returned to the hotel room. He had even bought her a new white blouse to replace the one ripped and bloodied by her bullet wound. Pam enjoyed every minute of attention and affection he had shown her during that fabulous twenty-four hours. She did not want it to end, but by the time they parted to resume their respective careers—hers in Washington and his in Austin—she had resigned herself to the actuality of aloneness.

She steered her Audi A6 into the ground-level garage and shut off the engine. The car was an extravagance, but it made her feel more secure in the madness of Washington traffic, and front-wheel-drive helped her avoid the vehicular mayhem that winter weather could cause. In that context, she did not consider it a luxury.

Trying to dress one-handed presented enough difficulty that Pam had not bothered with it until that morning. She had spent the previous five days wearing nothing but a light and loose muumuu that she could pull on and off over her head. Shedding her day’s business attire proved easier than putting it on, but not by much. Once she had disrobed, she slid a plastic bag over her bandaged arm and secured it above the elbow with a rubber band, then stepped under a warm, relaxing shower.

She wished Oliveras could be there to bathe her as he had done in Texas.

"Pamela Kay!"

She always recognized trouble whenever her mother called her that.

"You get in here this instant! What are you doing out there with no clothes on?"

It had seemed perfectly reasonable to a five-year-old. Bathing the family fox terrier in the wading pool was going to be a splash and splatter endeavor. Why wear anything that would get all wet? Her explanation did not earn her any lenience. The spanking did not hurt as much as having her rationale completely disregarded.

CHAPTER TWO

Scheming and planning are similar but quite different concepts. Bud Kilgore did not comprehend the distinction. He had a scheme but no plan. He was astute enough to know he would need help, and that meant recruiting assistance.

Some former co-workers might also become co-conspirators, given the right inducement. For Kilgore, doing anything that would hinder the Chinese usurpers was sufficient incentive for him, and he expected everyone else to feel the same. He would appeal to a man’s outrage or recklessness, possibly both.

Kilgore placed his first telephone call to Paul McKamy, a veteran mill operator who had been a year from retirement when the axe fell at Chilton Precision.

Sure, it pisses me off that the Chinks are getting all our tooling and machinery, but what are we supposed to do about it? We damn sure can’t just walk in there and start taking—

I didn’t say take anything, Kilgore interrupted. I’m talking about keeping it from going anywhere at all. Or at least making sure it’s worthless when it gets there.

Sabotage?

That’s what the company did to us, Bud said. Especially you. What did they offer you for screwing up the rest of your life?

Just what everybody else got, McKamy said. They’ll pay me for any unused vacation, and they want to buy out my interest in the pension plan.

Same here. You gonna do it?

I haven’t decided yet. Now that there’s no more money going into the plan, I might just as well take what’s there and bail out.

The way I figure it, Bud said, we’d do them a favor by getting out, and I damn sure don’t wanna do them assholes any favors.

Well, neither do I, McKamy agreed, but I ain’t gonna get involved in trying to wreck their equipment, neither. You’d be smart to forget about it yourself, Bud.

How’m I supposed to forget that they fucked us with no warning?

A half-dozen subsequent calls led Kilgore nowhere. Each conversation brought him sympathetic agreement but no commitments. The unemployed craftsmen and machinists he spoke with had too many other worries: How to pay a mortgage, how to afford health insurance for a family, how to send kids through college.

At that point, Kilgore quit scheming and began planning.

On most autumn Monday evenings, he would park in front of the television to watch Monday Night Football and drink beer, but on this