If you don't drop the federal grand jury indictment against War Supplies Corporation by midnight, your niece won't leave this precinct alive, the police officer whispered, pressing his service re...
The news spread like wildfire through the Department of Justice, whispered in hushed tones, then shouted in triumph. The War Fraud Unit had scored a decisive victory.
Without federal payments, with all corporate assets frozen solid by my Executive Order, War Supplies Corporation had no lifeline. They were cut off, starved of cash flow, unable to meet their obligations.
I received a direct call from the chairman of the War Production Board, his voice a mix of shock and reluctant admiration. “Pendelton. It’s done. War Supplies Corporation filed for emergency insolvency this morning. Chapters 7 and 11. Simultaneous.”
Chapter 7, immediate liquidation. Chapter 11, reorganization, but with assets already frozen, it was a death knell.
“Their corporate board has dissolved,” he continued. “Executive assets are being seized by creditors. The whole damn thing just… collapsed. Overnight.”
No drawn-out legal battles. No endless appeals. No opportunity for political maneuvering or witness intimidation. The federal financial hammer had come down, swift and absolute, crushing the entire corrupt infrastructure beneath its weight.
The other companies implicated—the smaller shell corporations, the distribution networks, the phantom suppliers—followed quickly. Without War Supplies at the center, their parasitic operations withered and died. It was a domino effect, a financial implosion that crippled their ability to function, to steal, to bribe.
My office filled with a quiet buzz of victory. Marshals and agents, usually exhausted, now moved with a new spring in their step. Martha brought me a cup of coffee, her eyes shining with pride.
“They’re calling it the ‘Imperial Freeze,’ Mr. Pendelton,” she said, her voice hushed. “The biggest homefront victory against war profiteering this year.”
I nodded, accepting the coffee. The objective had been achieved. The syndicate was broken, its financial lifeblood drained dry. The corrupt machine that fed on the war, that enriched itself at the expense of soldiers’ lives, was utterly destroyed.
But the taste of victory was strangely bitter, a metallic tang on my tongue. The news of their ruin brought no elation, no sense of triumph. Because while the machine might be broken, the cost of breaking it was still very much alive, and very much uncertain, in a quiet hospital room across town.
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