“Hey, those new weapons are really something, aren't they?”
“Superweapons or not, those men have to learn to function as a team before they'll be ready for the war. They said I would have free rein in choosing men and tactics, and by God, this time I'm not going into battle until they're ready. I don't care if it takes two months or two years.”
“But Kumo...”
“Kumo and I work for the same employer and they put me in charge. We'll move when I say we're ready.”
Clancy shrugged his shoulders.
“Just asking, Steve. No need to...whoa. Could you back that up?”
He pointed excitedly at the screen. Tidwell obligingly hit the hold button. On the screen, two men were in the process of attacking simultaneously from both sides with swords. Images of Clancy and Tidwell were also on the screen standing on either side of Kumo.
“How far do you want it backed?”
“Back it up to where you interrupt the demonstration.”
Tidwell obliged.
The scene began anew. There was an attacker on the screen cautiously circling Aki with a knife. Suddenly Tidwell appeared on the screen, closely followed by Clancy. Until this point they had been standing off-camera, watching the proceedings. Finally Tidwell could contain his feelings-of skepticism no longer and stepped forward, silently holding his hand up to halt the action. He signaled the man with the knife to retire from the field, then turned and beckoned two specific men to approach him. With a series of quick flowing motions, he began to explain what he wanted.
“This is the part I want to see. Damn. You know, you're really good, Steve. You know how long it would take me to explain that using gestures? You'll have to coach me on it sometime. You used to fool around with the old Indian sign language a lot, didn't you? Steve?”
No reply came. Clancy tore his eyes away from the screen and shot a glance at Tidwell. Tidwell was sitting and staring at the screen. Every muscle in his body was suddenly tense-not rigid but poised, as if he was about to fight.
“What is it, Steve? Did you see something?”
Without answering, Tidwell stopped the film, reversed it, then started it again.
Again the knifeman circled. Again the two mercenaries appeared on the screen. Tidwell punched the hold button and the action froze.
He rose from his chair and slowly approached the screen. Then he thoughtfully sipped his drink and stared at a point away from the main action. He stared at Kumo. Kumo, the old sensei who never showed emotion. In the split second frozen by the camera, at the instant the two men stepped past him and interrupted the demonstration, in that fleeting moment as he looked at Tidwell's back, Kunio's face was contorted in an expression of raw, naked hatred.
The Cold Cash War
-9-
Fred dispensed with the waiter's profuse thanks with an airy wave of his hand. He could still vividly remember his high school days working as a busboy, and as a result, habitually overtipped.
“Incredible! You feel it necessary to offer bribes even for the simplest of services.”
“Have you ever tried waiting on tables for twelve hours solid, Ivan, old friend?”
“Yes. As a matter of fact, I have. My pay for the entire twelve hours was less than you just gave that man as a tip. But I did not mean to start another argument, my friend. I was merely commenting on the differences between how money is handled here and how it was in my old homeland.”
“Well, you're in America now.”
“Yes, and as I said, I apologize. I meant no offense. Please, for once let us end our meeting on a pleasant note.”
“Fine by me.”
Still maintaining an annoyed air, Fred rose to leave. However, he was puzzling over Ivan's last remark. Strange. It was the first time Ivan had ever apologized for getting under Fred's skin. If anything, he usually enjoyed doing it. In fact, Ivan had been acting strange all evening-no, make that all day.
Fred habitually spent more time studying his enemies than he did his friends, trying to memorize their quirks, their moods, anything that might give him an advantage in a confrontation. Quickly reviewing Ivan's reactions or lack thereof during the entire day, Fred would be willing to bet a month's wages that there was something bothering him. But what?
He paused for a moment to light a cigarette, and was rewarded by having Ivan rise to join him.
“Please, Fred. Might I walk with you for a bit?”
“Sure. I'm heading back to my hotel. Tag along and I'll buy you a drink. It's just across the park.”
Ivan fell in step beside him and they left the restaurant in silence. Fred played the waiting game as they crossed the street and started down the sidewalk through the park. The night sounds of the city filtered through the air, giving a feeling of unreality, a persistent counterpoint to the deep shadows of the trees.
“Fred, we have been meeting privately at dinner for two months now. During these unofficial talks, I feel we have grown to know each other, yes?”
“I suppose.”
C'mon, you bastard, spit it out. What's in the wind?
“I have a personal favor to ask of you.”
Bingo! Deep in Fred's mind, a bright-eyed fox perked up its ears. If this was what it sounded like, he'd finally have his rival right where he wanted him. Nothing like having a member of the opposition over a barrel.
“What's the problem?”
“It is my daughter. I have recently received word she is alive...ah, I am getting ahead of myself. When I escaped...when I left my homeland, I was told that both my wife and daughter had been killed. Now word has been smuggled to me that my daughter is alive and living with friends. However, there is danger of the authorities finding her and I wish very badly to have her join me here in America.”
“Have you told them at Oil?”
“Yes, but they cannot help me. They say I have not been working for them long enough.”
“Bastards!”
“I have saved some money, but it is not enough. They say they can give me a loan in another six months, but I am afraid. My fellow workers will not help me. I am not well liked because of my many promotions. I thought that perhaps...”
His voice trailed off into silence.
Fred's mind was racing. He'd help Ivan, of course. If Communications would not spring for the money, he'd do it out of his own pocket. This was too good an opportunity to miss. The big question was what could he get out of Ivan in return. Fred could probably shake him down for one big favor before Oil found out that their number two negotiator had sold out, but if he played it right, one would be plenty.
“Tell you what, Ivan...”
“All right, you two! Hand 'em over!”
The two men spun to face the source of the interruption. A youth was standing on the sidewalk behind them; he must have either followed them or been waiting in the bushes. His voice was firm, but the gun in his hand wavered as he tried to cover the two men.
“C'mon! Give!”
The boy's voice cracked.
“Steady fella, we're giving.”
Fred reached for his wallet, taking care to move slowly. If the kid had a knife he might have tried taking him, but he had a healthy respect for guns, particularly when they were held by nervous amateurs.
“No.”
All movement froze at the sound of Ivan's voice. “What'd you say, Mister?”
“Ivan, for God's sake...”
“I said, 'No!”'
He began to move toward the mugger.
“All my life I have been ordered around!”
“Stand back!”
“Ivan! Don't!”
Fred's mind was racing. He had to do something quickly.
“You have no right to...”
The gun exploded in a flash of light, the report deafening in the night.
Ivan lurched backward. Shit! Fred threw his wallet at the mugger's face. The boy instinctively flinched away, raising his hands, and Fred was on him.
Th
ere was no style or finesse to Fred's attack. He snared the boy's gun hand with one ham-like fist, grabbed his shirt with the other, picked him up, and slammed him to the pavement. The boy arched and let out a muffled scream from the pain of impact. The scream was cut short as Fred hammered him into unconsciousness with two blows from his fist.
Breathing heavily, he pried the gun from the boy's fist, rose, retreated a few steps, then turned to look for Ivan. He was lying where he fell, unmoving, a large pool of blood oozing from beneath his loose-jointed form. Fred scrambled crab-wise over to look at him. His eyes were open and unseeing.
Shit! So close! So damn close!
For a moment, Fred was filled with an urge to stand up and kick the unconscious mugger.
You son-of-a-bitch! You've ruined everything!
He was still swearing to himself two and a half hours later when he left the police station. It had taken him almost half an hour to flag down a cop, a glowing testimonial to police efficiency. Now the body had been carted away, the mugger was safely locked up, and Fred was left with nothing.
Shit! Of all the bad breaks! Just when Ivan was about to bust open! Now he'd have to start from scratch with another negotiator. Well, maybe not from scratch. C'mon, Fred. Think. You're supposed to be able to make an advantage out of anything, even a disaster like this. Think!
He ignored the hail of a taxi driver and started the long walk back to his hotel. He covered nearly eight blocks lost in thought, when suddenly an idea stopped him in his tracks. He stood there as he checked and rechecked the plan mentally, then looked around and ran back half a block to a pay phone.
He fumbled for some loose change, then fed a coin into the phone and hurriedly dialed a number.
“Mark? Fred here. I've got a hot assignment for you...I don't give a damn...Well, kick her ass out, this is important...All right, I want you to get down to the police station and bail out the mugger that just killed Ivan...That's right, Ivan Kramitz...Yes, he's dead...Look, I don't have time to explain now. Get down there and spring that mugger. I don't care how much it costs-spring him! And Mark, this time don't be too careful about covering your tracks...That's right. I said don't be...right, let them know you work for Communications...Look, I don't have time to explain now. Just do it.”
He hung up the phone and sagged against the side of the phone booth. For several minutes he sat there, smiling. It was not a pretty smile.
“Before any business is transacted today, the negotiating team from Oil would like it read into the record that we are attending today's meeting under protest. We are both shocked and disappointed that Communications has insisted on convening today's meeting despite the death last night of one of our teammates. We only hope you will at least have the decency to keep today's business brief so that we might attend the funeral this afternoon.”
A low growl of assent rose from the rest of the Oil team.
“We thank the First Negotiator of Oil for his comments. They will be duly noted in the records. The Chair now recognizes the Third Negotiator from Communications.”
“Thank you, Mark.” Fred rose to face the assemblage.
"May I assure you I will try to keep my proposal as brief as possible.
“Ivan's death last night was a serious blow to the Oil team. We share your grief and will miss him greatly. But, gentlemen, this should serve as another example of the hazards of war!”
There was a sudden stirring in the Oil team.
“Just as you pointed out in your one-for-one proposal that logistics is a real part of military strategy, so is assassination!”
“Are you trying to say you had Ivan killed?”
Fred smiled placidly at the interrupter.
“I have said no such thing. I merely point out that assassination of key personnel is as much or more a part of military tactics as moving boxes of ammo. Because of this, Communications proposes a conditional rider to your one-for-one proposal: that in a similar effort to insure realistic combat, all key personnel of both corporations be required to wear kill-suits at all times and be subject to the same rules of combat as the mercenaries. If we want realism, let's go for realism throughout. If not, we junk both ideas. Gentlemen, the time has come to put up or shut up!”
The Cold Cash War
-10-
The men and women of the force were kneeling in the traditional student's position, backs straight, hands open, and palms resting down on their thighs. To all appearances they were at ease, listening to the morning's instruction.
This morning, however, the assembly was different. This morning, the raised instructor's platform held a dozen chairs filled by various corporation dignitaries. More importantly, the subject at hand was not instruction, but rather the formal transfer of command from Kumo to Tidwell.
Tidwell was both nervous and bored. He was bored because he was always bored by long speeches, particularly if he was one of the main subjects under discussion. Yet there was still the nervousness born from the anticipation of directly addressing the troops for the first time as their commander.
The speech was in English, as were all the speeches and instructions. One of the prerequisites for the force was a fluent knowledge of English. That didn't make it any the less boring.
He grimaced and looked about the platform again. The corporation officials were sitting in Tweedledee and Tweedledum similarity, blank-faced and attentive. If nothing else in this stint of duty, he was going to try to learn some of the Oriental inscrutability. Depending on the Oriental, they viewed Westerners with distaste or amusement because of the ease with which their emotions could be read in their expressions and actions. The keynote of the Orient was control, and it started with oneself.
Craning his neck slightly, he snuck a glance at Clancy, standing in an easy parade rest behind him. There was the Western equivalent to the Oriental inscrutability: the military man. Back straight, eyes straight ahead, face expressionless. Behind the mask, Clancy's mind would be as busy and opinionated as ever, but from viewing him, Tidwell did not have the faintest idea what he was thinking. In fact, Tidwell realized, he himself was currently the most animated figure on the platform. Suddenly self-conscious, he started to face front again when his eyes fell on Kumo.
Kumo was resplendent in his ceremonial robes. Protruding from his sash, at an unlikely angle to the Western eyes, was a samurai sword. Tidwell had heard that the sword had been in Kumo's family for over fifteen generations.
He held the weapon in almost a religious awe. Its history was longer than Tidwell's family tree, and it seemed to radiate a bloody aura of its own. Anyone who didn't believe that a weapon absorbed something from the men who used it, from the men it killed, anyone who didn't believe that a weapon couldn't have an identity and personality of its own had never held a weapon with a past.
He suddenly snapped back into focus. The speaker was stepping away from the microphone, looking at him expectantly, as were the others on the platform. Apparently he had missed his introduction and was on.
He rose slowly, using the delay to collect his scattered thoughts, and stepped to the edge of the platform, ignoring the microphone to address the force directly. A brief gust of wind rippled the uniforms of his audience, but aside from that, there was no movement or reaction.
“Traditionally, Japan has produced the finest fighting men in the world. The Samurai, the Ninjas, are all legendary for their prowess in battle.”
There was no reaction from the force. Mentally he braced himself. Here we go!
“Also, traditionally, they have had the worst armies!”
The force stiffened without moving. Their faces remained immobile.
“The armies were unsuccessful because they fought as individuals, not as a team. As martial artists, you train the muscles of your body, the limbs of your body, to work together, to support each other. It would be unthinkable to attempt to fight if your arms and legs were allowed to move in uncontrolled random motions.”
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br /> They were with him, grudgingly, seeing where his logic was going.
“Similarly, an army can only be effective if the men and women in it work in cooperation and coordination with each other.”
He had made his point. Time to back off a little.
“Different cultures yield different fighting styles. I am not here to argue which style is better, for each style has its time and place. What must be decided is what style is necessary in which situation. In this case, that decision has been made by the executives of the Zaibatsu. As a result of that decision, I have been hired to train and lead you.”
Now the crunch.
“You are about to enter a highly specialized war. To successfully fight in this war, you must abandon any ideas you may have of nationalism or glory. You are mercenaries, as I am a mercenary, in the employ of the Zaibatsu complex. As such, you must learn to fight, to think in a way, which may be completely foreign to what you have learned in the past. To allow time for this training, the date for our entry into the war has been moved back by two months.”
“I disagree, Mr. Tidwell.”
The words were soft and quiet, but they carried to every corner of the assemblage. In an instant the air was electric. Kumo!
“I disagree with everything you have said.”
There it was! The challenge! The gauntlet! Tidwell turned slowly to face his attacker. Kumo's words were polite and soft as a caress, but the act of interrupting, let alone disagreeing, carried as much emotional impact in the Orient as a Western drill sergeant screaming his head off.
“In combat, the action is too fast for conscious thought. If one had to pause and think about coordination of one's limbs, the battle would be lost before a decision was made. It is for this reason that martial artists train, so that each limb develops eyes of its own, a mind of its own. This enables a fighter to strike like lightning when an opening presents itself. Similarly, we train each man to be a self-contained unit, capable of making decisions and acting as the situation presents itself. This means he will never be hamstrung by slow decisions or a break in communications with his superior. As to your 'specialized war,' a trained fighting man should be able to adapt and function in any situation. Your failure to recognize this betrays your ignorance of warfare.”
The Cold Cash War Page 6