The Iron Wheels Grind to a Halt (Part 2)

Seattle, NLG Group's "Hub Seven" logistics center on the edge of the port area. This is one of the core dispatch nodes of the entire Northwest network, covering more than 50 acres and operating 24 hours a day. The huge steel-structured warehouse is like a crouching behemoth, with a maze of shelves and automated sorting lines inside.

Outdoors, hundreds of loading and unloading platforms are lined up in a row. On ordinary days, this place should be bustling with traffic, with the roar of diesel engines, the clanging of containers being lifted and lowered, and the urgent instructions from walkie-talkies intertwining into a never-ending industrial symphony.

But at this moment, at 7:30 in the morning, which should be the busiest time of the morning rush hour, Hub Seven was plunged into an unsettling and abnormal silence.

More than a third of the loading and unloading platforms were empty. Scheduled trucks did not arrive on time. Inside the warehouse, sorted goods were piled up in the shipping area like silent hills. Automated guided vehicles (AGVs) wandered aimlessly in the empty aisles.

On the huge electronic dispatch screen, the green dots representing "in transit" and "loaded and ready to depart" were pitifully sparse, while the yellow and red signs representing "delayed," "cancelled," and "pending dispatch" spread like a plague, almost covering the main trunk lines leading to the eastern states.

The dispatch center was located on the second floor of the warehouse, with a wall-to-wall screen displaying the status of the national network. The room was dimly lit, with only the cold light from the screens and the scattered work lights on the control panel. The air was filled with the strong smell of coffee, sweat, and an increasingly intense anxiety.

"Where's the refrigerated truck from Portland - Boise? Still no word from Joe Wilson?" Dispatch supervisor Karl, a middle-aged man with thinning hair and deep eye bags, practically shouted into his headset; his shirt collar was already soaked with sweat.

"No, Karl. Cell phone is off, and no one answers the home phone. The last GPS update was last night at the rest stop east of Spokane." A young dispatcher's voice trembled with tears.

"What about the backup driver? What about Hank? Isn't he supposed to be driving the backup route?"

"Hank is also on sick leave! Food poisoning!"

"What about the Fargo line? That batch of medical equipment must be shipped today!"

The driver said his car broke down and he was waiting for a tow truck in the middle of nowhere... but the tow truck company said they hadn't received his order!

"Damn it! The Spokane center reports they're short at least eight drivers! All citing sick leave and emergencies as the reasons!"

Bad news poured in from all the dispatch stations like an avalanche. Karl's face grew paler and paler, his fingers tapping unconsciously on the console, making a rapid "tap-tap" sound. He had been a dispatcher for twenty years, experiencing blizzards, floods, and union strikes, but he had never seen such a sudden, widespread, and highly similar collective absence of drivers. This didn't seem like an accident; it seemed more like... an organized paralysis.

"Contact the regional manager and the headquarters operations department! Immediately!" Karl ripped off his headset and yelled at his deputy, "Activate the Level 3 emergency plan! Use all available contract drivers and temporary workers! For the highest priority goods, find a way to carpool and use expedited air freight to supplement some of the shipments! Hurry!"

The order was given, and the entire dispatch center spun wildly like a top whipped into motion. The ringing of phones, the clatter of keyboards, and the frantic shouts nearly lifted the roof off. But everyone felt a heavy weight on their shoulders. The Level 3 emergency plan could only alleviate 20% of the transport capacity at most, and it was extremely costly. What about the remaining shortfall? What about the customers who had signed on-time delivery agreements?

9:00 AM, NLG Group headquarters building, top-floor emergency conference room.

The atmosphere was so heavy it could drip water. Around the long conference table sat Operations Director Smith, VP of Logistics Chen, HR Director, Safety Director, and Karl, who had come from "Hub Seven." Each person had alarming figures laid out before them: as of 8:00 AM, the unplanned absence rate for drivers across the entire network had reached 37%, the absence rate for core interstate routes exceeded 50%, and the estimated freight delay rate for the day would exceed 40%. The direct economic losses were currently difficult to estimate, but would certainly be astronomical.

"This is absolutely no coincidence!" Operations Director Smith, a lean, sharp-eyed British man, slammed his fist on the table. "The flu couldn't have only infected our drivers! Food poisoning wouldn't happen all at once! This is a strike! It's a surprise attack by those damned unions, trying to put pressure on us before our new contract negotiations!"

His judgment was immediately echoed by the majority. Unions, those hateful and feared behemoths in the United States logistics industry, do indeed have a history. In their pursuit of higher wages, better benefits, and shorter working hours, they frequently organize or threaten to organize strikes, causing headaches even for giant corporations.

"Contact Bob Jenkins, the local chapter president of the International Brotherhood of Teamsters (IBT)," Smith ordered the HR director, his tone icy. "I want him sitting here within an hour with an explanation! Otherwise, I guarantee their next contract won't even have extra toilet paper!"

The order was carried out swiftly. An hour later, the meeting room door opened, and Bob Jenkins, the local IBT chapter president, walked in. He was a white man in his sixties, obese, wearing a wrinkled suit, with the kind of arrogant and mercenary expression typical of union bureaucrats. Behind him were two young union officers.

"Bob, what the hell is going on?!" Smith didn't even let him sit down, launching into a tirade. "You want to play hardball? Trying to cripple our network with these underhanded tactics? Let me tell you, you've miscalculated this time! The company won't compromise, not a penny more! And we reserve the right to pursue legal action against the union and individuals for any losses incurred as a result!"

Jenkins was taken aback by the sudden outburst, but he was clearly experienced; instead of panicking, he displayed an angry expression of offense. He plopped down in the chair opposite Smith, his obese body making the chair creak.

"Mr. Smith, watch your words!" Jenkins' voice boomed, tinged with theatrical indignation. "What strike? What network paralysis? I swear on my mother's name, the union knew nothing about this! I was just as shocked as you were when I got the call this morning!"

He leaned forward, pointing at Smith: "In fact, it should be our union questioning you, NLG! What exactly have you done to our members? Why are so many drivers suddenly afraid to come to work, or forced to take leave with all sorts of absurd excuses? Have you introduced some new anti-worker policies? Are you exploiting them to the point of no return? Or are there deadly safety hazards in the working environment that you're covering up?"

Turning the tables and shifting blame—this is a classic tactic used by labor unions. The faces of NLG's executives in the meeting room turned incredibly grim.

"Bullshit!" Logistics VP Chen couldn't help but curse, "Our compensation and working hours have always met industry standards! Our safety record is also A-level! Bob, stop putting on an act! Besides your union, who else could organize such a large-scale synchronized operation?"

"Where's the evidence, Mr. Smith, Mr. Chen?" Jenkins spread his hands, looking completely innocent. "Do you have any evidence to prove it's a union-organized organization? Do you have a strike notice from the union? Do you have the collective signatures of the members? Nothing at all, just your guesses, and you're throwing mud at us? I'm telling you, this is slander! It's defamation! We will file a complaint with the National Labor Relations Board (NLRB)!"

He became increasingly agitated, standing up and spitting as he spoke, "I believe the real problem lies with your own management at NLG! This has provoked a spontaneous resistance from the workers! I demand that the company immediately establish a joint investigation team, with the union fully involved, to uncover the truth and give the workers an explanation! Furthermore, given the psychological harm and potential risks this incident has caused to the workers, I demand that the new contract negotiations include clauses on hazardous job allowances and psychological trauma compensation!"

The meeting devolved into a chaotic, marketplace-like argument. Jenkins insisted he knew nothing about it and even used it as leverage in negotiations. NLG executives were furious but couldn't produce any concrete evidence of a union. Both sides exchanged accusations, threats, and table-pounding, and the meeting ended in acrimony. Jenkins stormed out with his men, leaving with the words, "Take a good look at yourselves! Don't provoke the real workers!"

After Jenkins left, the conference room fell into a deathly silence. Smoke filled the air (someone started smoking), and everyone's face was etched with frustration and deeper doubt.

"It's not a union..." The security chief, a bald man with a former FBI agent, spoke slowly, his voice low. "Bob Jenkins is a greedy bastard, but his reaction just now... didn't seem feigned. If he had organized it, he would have jumped in to negotiate much earlier, instead of passively responding and even trying to turn the tables. Moreover, this method of precisely targeting critical lines, creating panic without leaving any trace of organization... doesn't seem like the style of a union. Union strikes want the whole world to know, the bigger the commotion, the better."

"Who could it be?" Smith asked wearily, rubbing his temples.

"I've had the IT department urgently retrieve all the last communication records, social media messages, and public surveillance footage from locations they frequently visit for all absent drivers," the security manager said. "Meanwhile, I've had our people try to contact those drivers directly, or their families."

The investigation proceeded swiftly in a tense atmosphere. It was highly efficient, given that the company's survival was at stake.

Around noon, the preliminary report was delivered to Smith. The more he read it, the more ashen his face became, and finally, a hint of paleness flashed across his eyes.

The report shows:

1. More than 80% of the drivers who were absent had a brief phone call with an unknown number or were in places where strangers with Asian faces were near them (gas stations, rest stops, CCTV footage from their doorsteps) within 12-24 hours before they took leave.

2. A few drivers who were secretly contacted by security services and were relatively calm, after receiving promises of "absolute confidentiality and personal safety guarantees," hesitantly revealed that they had received warnings from "certain people." The other party was "very polite," but the "meaning was very clear"—stay home for the next few days, don't go out, and don't touch the steering wheel, and you'll get paid; otherwise, you'll face "serious health problems." One of them vaguely mentioned that the other party was "Asia."

3. In Pocatello, Idaho, local police reported a "serious single-vehicle accident resulting in the driver's death and the vehicle catching fire." The deceased was an NLG driver Rick. The cause of the accident is "suspected to be speeding and loss of control," but there were "unusual traces" at the scene. The case has been handed over to the state police for investigation. The time of death was this morning.

4. Based on information from multiple channels, a vague outline emerges: This was an organized, violent sabotage operation targeting NLG Logistics network drivers, primarily using threats and intimidation. The perpetrators are suspected to have Asian backgrounds, acted professionally and ruthlessly, and had a clear objective—to paralyze NLG's transportation capacity.

"Bang!"

Smith slammed his fist on the heavy conference table, making his coffee cup jump. His fingers trembled, not from anger, but from a cold, bone-chilling fear. This wasn't business competition; this was war! A decapitation strike aimed at the very foundation of NLG!

Without further hesitation, he picked up the red secure phone on the table and dialed the number that led directly to Richard Walton's office. The phone rang for a long time before being answered, and Old Walton's voice, unable to conceal his weariness and gloom, came through. "Speak."

"Mr. Walton," Smith's voice was dry and hoarse. He forced himself to remain calm, but his speech involuntarily quickened, "Something terrible has happened. We've encountered... a systemic attack. Not a union attack, but... a violent threat. Someone has used guns and gasoline to force at least a third of our drivers, especially those on critical routes, to collectively 'take sick leave.' The network in the east is crippled. In Idaho... a driver has already died, burned alive in his vehicle."

He gave a brief report, emphasizing the key words "organized," "Asian faces," "violent threats," and "cyber paralysis."

There was a deathly silence on the other end of the phone for nearly half a minute. It was so quiet that Smith could hear his own heart pounding like a drum, and the faint, heavy, suppressed breathing of Walton coming through the receiver.

Then he heard a very faint but violent cracking sound, like something being crushed. Like a pen or a glass.

Then came Old Walton's hoarse, distorted voice, forced out through clenched teeth, a voice filled with unbelievable shock and rage, a thoroughly aroused murderous intent, and a hint of... a deep-seated unease that even he himself was unwilling to admit:

"What did you say?!"

"We've been attacked, sir. A physical attack. The target is the lifeblood of our logistics network—the drivers," Smith repeated, his voice heavy. "Right now, every hour of downtime costs us millions of dollars. And this news... can't be completely covered up. Once it gets out, the stock market will..."

He didn't finish his sentence, but his meaning was clear. The stock price, already teetering on the brink of collapse due to short selling, was about to experience a precipitous drop. Customer panic, supply chain disruptions, banks withdrawing loans... that would be a true catastrophe.

There was a few more seconds of silence. Then, Smith heard Walton take a deep, deep breath, a long, trembling breath, as if he were desperately suppressing something.

"Use... use all our security personnel, and all the personal connections we can reach." Walton's voice rang out again, more stable than before, but with a desperate ruthlessness. "Protect the drivers who are still able to work, and find a way... to persuade those who are being threatened, tell them the company will protect them, pay three times... no, five times the security allowance! Go find those independent drivers, those not controlled by the union, pay whatever price! Get the routes running!"

"Yes, sir!" Smith replied quickly.

"And another thing," Walton's voice suddenly turned cold, carrying a desperate resolve, "Contact me... Uncle Gong from the ' Fuqing Gang.' Now, immediately!"

Smith was stunned. The Fuqing Gang? That ruthless Chinese gang that's based on the West Coast? Is the boss going to...?

"Tell him," Walton's voice was icy cold, each word dripping with the stench of blood, "I want to see him. Now. The terms... he can name them. But I want him, right now, to drag out those Rat hiding in the sewers, one by one, and crush them!"

"Understood, sir!" Smith's heart skipped a beat, knowing that his boss was being forced into a corner and was about to use the darkest and most dangerous forces. He didn't dare ask any more questions and immediately wrote it down.

The call ended. A busy tone followed.

Smith gripped the microphone, his palms clammy with sweat. He looked out at the gloomy sky and felt as if the business empire he had served for twenty years was being choked by an invisible yet powerful hand, slowly dragged into a bottomless abyss of darkness.

All they seemed to be able to do was struggle desperately and... pray to the deeper darkness for a power that might be salvation or destruction.