by Ezra Sidran
So we drove into Maxwell. The meetings were held in the O-Club; the Officer’s Club.
“We know,” the Authoritarian Man said.
Okay, I said, I’m not going to tell you another fucking thing until I see Bill. I had just reached my breaking point. This was my line in the sand. You got that you sonofabitches? I wanna see Bill first. It was the only card I had left to play. You tell your bosses I’m not saying another fucking thing until I see Bill and have a fucking smoke.
The Authoritarian Man cupped his hand around his right ear and listened to a distant voice. “Okay, you can see Bill tomorrow.”
“Okay,” I said, “I’m gonna shut up now. When you bring Bill in I’ll start talking again. And I want a smoke.” Talk about your last, best bluff. Man, I mentally looked at my hand and it was nothing but garbage:
two, three, four, five, off-suited nine kicker.
About fifteen minutes later they brought Bill in.
CHAPTER 1.3
Bill gave me the high sign with his eyes and his tail. Dogs can’t hide their tells you know.
Just a nod from me and Bill was ready to slip his lead and rip the Authoritarian Man’s throat out. Bill had killed before. I was there and I saw it. It wasn’t a feline kill. It wasn’t a big cat kill. It was a canine kill; and it was ugly all the way down. Bill was looking for a sign from me and he was ready to do it again. Every muscle in his big body was taut and the fuzzy logic in his CardioTronic 413 pacemaker had already kicked up to about 150 BPM and he was ready.
They had him on a choke collar. Bill’s not stupid. He knew that one snap of the leash from that sonofabitch handler that had him and those pronged links would crush the leads that ran from his pacemaker down through his carotid artery to his heart. Bill didn’t give a damn. That’s the way he is. I saw the look in his eyes: he was ready to go for it now. Just give me the sign and I’m at his throat.
I was still strapped down to the fucking gurney. If I could only get just one hand free.
Bill looked at me.
I looked at Bill.
Bill gave me the sign, again.
Bill, if I could only just get one fucking hand free.
Bill gave me the high sign, again.
I can’t get a hand free, Bill. I’m strapped down, solid, Bill. I can’t take the other guy out.
Bill looked at the Authoritarian Man’s throat and licked his chops. He knew how he had tormented me and Bill was ready to even the score.
“I wanna pet Bill,” I said deviously.
You know we can’t let you loose.
“I just wanna pet Bill,” I repeated.
“Look,’ the Authoritarian Man said, “I’m not stupid. We let you loose and that fucking dog is at my throat in a pacemaker heartbeat and you’re both out the window. That is not going to happen.”
“I wanna touch Bill,” I said, “I touch Bill or no deal.” Talk about negotiating from a position of weakness.
The Authoritarian Man motioned with his head and the asshole that had Bill on a short lead let him come up to the gurney that I was strapped to. I could barely, just barely, scratch Bill’s left ear the way he liked.
“You know if you would only give us a fair shot,” I muttered half under my breath, “and this would be a done deal.”
“I’m not an idiot,” the Authoritarian Man said, “I give you a fair shot and I’m a bloody corpse.”
I looked up from Bill’s simple, honest face that was now flecked with long, white whiskers and said to the Authoritarian Man, “I’m glad we finally understand each other.”
“Why do you think we’ve kept you strapped down?”
They took Bill out and then they fed me next and, I have to admit, it wasn’t half bad. Eggs Benedict served on metal plates. The Authoritarian Man had to cut the eggs, Canadian bacon and English muffin, dip it into the Hollandaise sauce, spear it on a stainless steel fork and place it, gingerly, on my tongue. I did, indeed, feel like Alex in A Clockwork Orange. Steaky-wakes and Eggi-wegs. I ate like a baby bird being fed by his servile parent. The Authoritarian Man even dabbed at the corners of my mouth with a linen napkin before the dishes were cleared and today’s interrogation began.
This time he only half-filled the syringe with benzodiazepine. The ritual was repeated: the swabbing of the arm, the sting of the needle, the warm rush of artificial calm from the drug and then the questions began.
“The Lanchester Equations,” the Authoritarian Man rolled that rock straight out. I guess if they knew what room I stayed in down on Jeff Davis Highway they would certainly know the topic of discussion in the backroom of the Officer’s Club at Maxwell that day.
Then, again, it shouldn’t have been a surprise. This was one of the areas that I was supposed to be an expert in.
“Yeah,” I began, “they were interested in mathematical properties of the Lanchester Equations,” but I tried to explain to them that this old school shit had been discredited years ago. I wrote my (unpublished) dissertation on the subject: “An Alternative to the Lanchester Equations”; it’s available online; you want the URL?
The Authoritarian Man shook his head ‘yes’; I could hear him nervously clicking the ballpoint pen as he waited for the URL. I gave him the address – hell, it was on my web site – and I could hear him scribble it down.
I was wearing the Versace double-breasted pinstriped suit; my power suit. I bought it – jeez when was it? – fifteen years ago after my first big hit (the kiddy dinosaur game I did back when?), still fits like a glove; okay a tight glove. Silk shirt, silk tie, Italian shoes that hurt (I like wearing the Italian shoes that hurt because they are a constant reminder that I’m standing on adversarial ground).
The coffee was served in glass cups (which I always think are classy) by silent waiters. Did you know all the waiters at Maxwell are enlisted men?
“Of course,” the Authoritarian Man replied.
Well, it was a surprise to me. I thought I hadn’t seen an enlisted man the first three days I was down at Maxwell until I discovered that all the waiters, barbers, maitre de’s and groundskeepers were the enlisted.
“So they wanted to know about the Lanchester Equations,” the Authoritarian Man asked.
No, actually, they didn’t give a rat’s ass about Lanchester. This was just some sort of test. They knew Lanchester was crap. They wanted to know that I knew that it was crap.
“They wanted to know about the BILL equation, yes?” the Authoritarian Man asked.
The BILL equation. The Bidirectional Integrated Lateral Lineal equation. I must admit I jumped through a few hoops to get the acronym to come out just right. I wanted Bill to be immortalized in scholarly works. I didn’t want it be known at the “Grant equation”; so, forever, it is the BILL equation.
Do you want to know the one flaw in the BILL equation?
The Authoritarian Man subtly moved an inch closer to my gurney and put a comforting hand on my shoulder.
There isn’t a flaw in the BILL equation! You stupid sonofabitch! Go fuck yourself! Ha! Ha! When you’re strapped to a gurney kicks just keep getting harder to find.
The blow came out of left field. I didn’t, couldn’t see it coming.
The Authoritarian Man had hit me with a roundhouse left.
So it’s the BILL equation they want. Okay, fucker, now I know your tell. If you smack me upside my head you want the BILL equation. Got it. Point made.
I drifted off to a far away place where the air was always sweet with fresh-cut grass and old dogs with pacemakers pissed on rich men’s putting surfaces.
Whack! The fist out of left field, again.
No, you stupid sonofabitch, they didn’t want to know about the BILL equation. You stupid, stupid sonofabitch. It was all just a test.
But, I didn’t know that until much, much later.
CHAPTER 2.O
The Maxwell Air Force Base Wargaming Center.
Man, it’s a sweatbox in Alabama.
You can have all the air conditioning units in
the world running full-tilt boogie straight-out and Alabama is still just a sweatbox.
The lines from an old gospel song came back to me: “I am no ways tired.”
The good Lord has not taken me this far just to leave me now.
You poor, sorry sonofabitch.
I’m beginning to drift. I’m losing my already tenuous grasp on reality. I’m quoting gospel song lyrics. I’m strapped to a gurney. I’ve got to get back on top for Bill.
“So, you’re at Maxwell,” and today’s interrogation began.
Yeah, I’m at Maxwell. I had been there for about three days, living out of my bag back at the motel on Jeff Davis Highway; I thought we had pretty much covered the Lanchester Equation; guess not.
That’s the Lanchester Equation. Do you know what it says? You boil it all down and it’s, “R and B represent the numerical strength at time t of opposing Red and Blue forces, and kB and kR the killing rate of a Red/Blue individual.
A look of panic flashed, briefly, across the face of the Authoritarian Man. He indicated with his eyes and his hands to the guard at the door that he needed a pad of paper and pen to write down these pearls of wisdom that he had finally extracted from my fevered brain.
Listen, buddy, you don’t need to write this down.
I said, “Can I call you Jim? I don’t have a friend named Jim. Can I call you Jim?”
The Authoritarian Man quickly nodded, ‘Yes’; I could call him Jim.
“Okay, Jim,” I said, “you don’t need to write this down. It’s all in my paper. It’s available online. I gave you the URL. Okay? Take a chill pill.”
The Lanchester Equation is irrelevant. Okay? I knocked it down in my dissertation. It assumes that military forces are homogenous. Okay? It’s absurd.
You know, Jim, it looks like a nice day outside. I sure would like to see it. Any chance you could crank this bed up a bit so I could get a peek outside?
Jim looked a little suspicious; yet grateful that I had spilled this well-known flaw of the Lanchester equation.
Jim you can keep me in the restraints, okay? I just want to see the sun, okay? No big deal.
More discussions ensued between Jim and whoever was at the other end of his hidden microphone. This went on for a good five minutes before a big bouncer-type guy came in to the room through an unseen door, turned my bed 45 degrees to the left and gave the upper part of the gurney four turns on the hand crank until I could just barely see over the window ledge.
“Thank you, Jim, I really appreciate it,” I said.
It’s a beautiful day Jim; sure would like to take Bill for a walk in the garden.
I couldn’t see any garden. I just assumed a place like this would have one; maybe even a formal garden gone to weeds. I could picture it just outside of my peripheral vision. You know what they tell you in sales: ‘You can’t close the deal unless you ask.’
No sale.
Just then there was an extraordinary clap of thunder. Maybe it wasn’t winter. Maybe it was still late Fall wherever they had me. I dunno.
Then the rain began to come down in sheets; splashing up against the window pane so hard that Jim ran over to slam the window down with a bang. I could hear distant Teutonic kettle drums. I could smell the static electricity. I took a deep breath. It smelled of rain, late fall. Not the rain of my youth in the Midwest. It smelled further east. Isn’t it funny? They lock you up in a room, tie you down to a gurney, and all-of-a-sudden you have powers and abilities to place the smell of rain. It smelled like Eastern rain. Of course, it could be Eastern Russian rain for all I knew.
And then the rain came down with a power.
“Bill doesn’t like the rain,” I said, “It makes him uncomfortable. I know you’ve got him penned up somewhere. Would you please bring him to me?”
The whole room went white with electricity as a bolt of lightning struck close. Time held still for a split-second and then shuddered and then the bang came quick. Jim jumped in his fifteen-hundred dollar suit.
“Bill doesn’t like rain,” I repeated, “would you please bring him to me?”
Jim nodded; no confirmation from his earpiece this time and less than a minute later they brought Bill in. His head was low, his eyes were high in his skull; the hair on the ridge of his back was standing straight up.
“It’s okay Bill; jus’ the rain the tall grass needs,” I said. I could just barely scratch the top of Bill’s head. I tried to be reassuring; I knew that this wasn’t the time to make our move; Bill wasn’t focused at all. I skritched Bill behind his left ear, “Jus’ the rain, Bill; we’ve seen it a million times. Never been no harm to us. Soon we’ll be back on our porch, again, watching the rain. Okay, Bill?”
Bill looked up – and, oh, what I would give at this moment to put my soul into Bill and his into me – so that he would know that the rain was no threat. Don’t fear the rain and lightning Bill; focus on the bad men all around us. But we all have our irrational fears and, for Bill, it was storms.
When I first met Bill he was already a year-and-a-half old. I know he had been badly treated; left out in the rain. He hated the rain as only a soul who had been left out to drown in a thousand storms chained to a lead could. Bill, I can’t go back in time; I can’t undo what has been done.
I did what I could for Bill and they took him away.
“You keep him dry,” I said, “and warm or I won’t tell you another damn thing.”
Jim tried to reassure me.
“And his medicine, too,” I said.
Jim said that they had vets on duty; the first time he had said that. I don’t know if they really had licensed veterinarians on duty or if he was just bullshitting me to get more information. Like I said, it’s not like I was negotiating from a position of strength. I don’t know.
I don't feel no ways tired.
The good Lord has not taken me this far just to leave me now.
Sometimes you can get strength from words. Sometimes it’s the words themselves that hold the power and sometimes it’s just the syllables like chanting brings focus, and with focus comes the strength.
And then today’s interrogation began.
In my mind I heard the distant squeal of a cork wrenched from the great cosmic whiskey bottle. Far away I heard the comforting burble of whiskey pouring into a thick-walled glass. Far, far away I was home. Far, far away I was safe and Bill was safe and Kate was safe and Nick was safe and I was playing the Blues in a warm, dry juke joint and John the Howler was there and Clyde the Foot was there and we were all bellied up to the bar and the owner brought the good whiskey out from deep under the bar and we were all safe. Oh, dear sweet Lord can’t we just be fucking safe for one fucking moment?
And then – whack! – that roundhouse left from Jim and it was the start of another day in restraints at the house of horrors.
Look, Jim, I’m getting real tired of you hauling off and whacking me. Obviously you don’t give a rat’s ass about the Lanchester Equation and you don’t care about the BILL equation anymore. I’m gonna go out on a limb here, Jim, but what I think you want to know about is General Stanhope.
With that, Jim stopped whacking me so I guess it was General Stanhope that he wanted to know about.
Stanhope walked into the Officer’s Club, the O-Club, about 2:30 in the afternoon on the third day I was at Maxwell. There was something about him that didn’t smell right from the start. His dress blues were just a little too pressed, the creases too sharp. The fruit salad (the service ribbons) over his left breast was just one row too long. I thought I saw a Vietnam Service Medal third from the left on the fourth row down and there wasn’t a gray hair on his head.
We were sitting – LTC (you know, Light Colonel) Finley, Major Jacobson and me at this big oak table in the back over a late lunch at the O-Club and they all seemed to know him. Finley and Jacobson pushed their chairs back and snapped to attention.
Well, I’m a civilian. All I could do was fold my napkin in my lap and offer him a seat.
&n
bsp; You know the old blues line, “handful of gimme and a mouthful of much obliged?”
“No,” the Authoritarian Man said.
Well, Stanhope had a handful of gimme and I needed a deal real bad just at the moment.
CHAPTER 2.1
The twenty grand didn’t come from DARPA (Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency), no surprise there. It’s six months minimum to approve a DARPA grant. This was private funding. Or off-the-books funding.
We – Finley, Jacobson and I – had finished our lunch and the waiters brought more coffee. Stanhope toyed with his unused place setting. I remember the way that he positioned the heavy silver knife between the tines of his fork as if he was constructing a model trebuchet and he was about to launch a stranded crouton across the table. Mentally I put him down as an artillerist.
“He’s not.” The Authoritarian Man said. “At least not as far as we know,” then suddenly he put his right hand up to his ear and cocked his head as he listened to his Master’s Voice but the damage had already been done. Apparently they didn’t know everything.
So, are they American? Was Stanhope one of theirs gone rogue? No, they would have his complete files if that was the case. Mental note: whoever they are, Stanhope wasn’t on their side. Got it.
Stanhope finished his trebuchet of cutlery, cleared his throat, had a sip of coffee and then got straight to business, “Mr. Grant we would like to commission,” (I remember distinctly the way he enunciated the word), “one of your special computer simulations. It is for Homeland Security” (he actually spoke the words with capital letters; the words weighty with importance), “and it must employ the BILL equation.”