The Cold Cash War

by Robert Asprin

  Fred dropped heavily into his seat in the move so characteristic of overweight men. As were many of his habitual moves and gestures, this move was theoretically exaggerated to irritate and mislead his opponents. Anyone observing him would dismiss him as a harmless, slightly comical character-that is, anyone who hadn't seen him sidestep an angry longshoreman, then ram the offending party's head through a wall. Fred Willard learned his diplomacy not in a fine old university but on the streets and dockyards of Chicago.

  "The meeting will come to order!"

  Fred sighed and punched the buttons on his console for his regular morning stimulants. The tray hissed into view bearing his ungodly trio: a glass of orange juice, a cup of black coffee, and a cold can of beer. Fred took private glee in his traditional can of beer among the bloody marys and screwdrivers of his colleagues. He knew it irritated them, and an irritated opponent is a careless opponent.

  "The chair recognizes the Third Negotiator for Oil."

  Fred groaned inwardly. Those bastards! Why did they always have to start their damn cute maneuvers so early in the morning? The cuter the move, the earlier they started, and this one promised to be a beaut. With a grimace, he punched the record button on his console. Better get this on tape. He'd want to study it later.

  The Third Negotiator for Oil was Judy Simmons, an attractive young girl fresh out of college. When she first joined the negotiations, many had ignored her, thinking her to be a "companion" of one of the men. This illusion was short-lived. She had proved herself to be as cold and merciless as any man on the team-maybe a little colder. No one could get a firm line on her background, but it was Fred's theory she had been recruited from one of the campus radical groups-the ones who execute hostages one at a time until their demands are met. Some of the men still speculated privately as to her availability as a bed partner, but Fred had long since reached an opinion: he'd rather sleep with a king cobra than let her near him, even if the opportunity presented itself.

  "Gentlemen: as you know we have been engaged for some time in what is essentially a war game-simulated combat. This type of fighting was agreed upon in the early phases of the war as both sides sought to reduce the cost of replacing equipment and troops lost in combat. Through the use of IBM belt computers and Sony 'kill suits,' it became unnecessary to actually kill a man or blow up an installation, but merely prove that you could have done it."

  Fred began fidgeting with his beer can as she droned on. He wondered where this history lesson was leading.

  "The only condition placed on the use of 'mock weapons' was that if the effectiveness of a weapon was challenged, the side employing the weapon had to be able to produce a functioning model to support its claims."

  She looked up from her notes to smile toothily at the assemblage.

  "Of course, the close adherence of the mercenary forces to the mock combat rules may be at least partially attributable to the knowledge that at the first sign of flagrant violation, the old style of 'live ammo' fighting would be immediately reinstated."

  A small titter rippled through the room. Fred wondered how many of them had ever been shot at with live ammo.

  "So far this system has proved more than an adequate method for allowing us to settle our differences while keeping costs at a minimum. However, it has been recently brought to our attention that there is a major shortcoming to this system."

  Fred was suddenly attentive. Behind the sleepy fat-man exterior he used, a little computer clicked on in his mind. Major policy change...initial proposal and justifications...record and analyze. Of course he was not alone. An intense silence blanketed the room as Judy continued.

  "The problem, gentlemen, is one of logistics. One of the oldest techniques of military intelligence is to watch the enemy's supplies. By watching the amount of supplies drawn and the direction in which they are transported, it's possible to second-guess the next attack and institute countermoves before the attack is actually launched."

  One of the closed circuit screens on Fred's console lit up, indicating an oncoming note from one of his teammates. He ignored it. No sense speculating on what she was about to say next when by waiting for a few more seconds you could hear it. Instead, he centered his attention on her presentation.

  "Then, too, there's the guns and butter choice where limited supplies are available. Ammo dumps aren't bottomless. If you've only got a million rounds of ammunition, you can't hit three major targets in one night. You have to choose which one you want the most and how much you're willing to venture on the attack. What we've done with our 'simulated war' is grant the field commanders carte blanche to fight as often as they want, wherever they want. Oil maintains that this is one of the major reasons neither side is able to win this war. We've made it too cheap, too easy to prolong."

  There was a low murmur going around the room now, occasionally accented by ill-muffled curses. She ignored it and continued.

  "Frankly, gentlemen, we're tired of having the same quote, bomb, unquote dropped on us a hundred times in three different locations four nights a week. To alleviate that problem, we propose the following: to effectively simulate the actual logistics problems found in any war, it ought to be necessary to establish a one-for-one depletion of ammunition and equipment lost in combat. That is, at the end of each conflict, an accurate count must be determined of each side's losses, and an equivalent amount of live ammo or real equipment destroyed. Furthermore, each side has to establish and maintain ammo dumps, and 'replenishment supplies' must be physically transported to the actual site of combat."

  "Mr. Chairman!"

  It was one of the negotiators for Communications. The Chairman nodded his recognition and the battle was joined.

  "We might as well go back to using live ammo. This proposal not only duplicates the cost of a live ammo war, it increases it because of all the necessary records-keeping and controls."

  "Not really!" Ivan fielded the challenge for Oil. "In a live ammo war, men are lost, and we all know how expensive they are to recruit and train."

  Fred jumped into the fray.

  "I don't suppose you have any rough figures handy as to how much this proposal would cost if accepted?"

  "That all depends on how straight your men can shoot and how effectively they're deployed. That and how much money Communications is willing to spend to win the war."

  "How much ammunition has Oil already stockpiled prior to the proposal of this change in the agreed-upon rules?"

  "Those figures are not available at this time."

  Fred leaned back and shut his eyes thoughtfully as the battle raged around him. That was that. If Oil had already stockpiled, they'd never back down from this proposal. They couldn't, or all the money spent stockpiling would have to be written off as a loss. Communications would be starting with a handicap, but one thing for sure, they wouldn't let themselves be bought out of the war. It was more than pride-it was survival!

  If word ever got out that Communications let themselves be run out of a clash because of high costs, the other corporations would be all over them like wolves on a sick caribou. Everything would suddenly cost triple because the opposition would be trying to back them down on costs. No, they couldn't back out. And the accountants thought that costs-to-date on this war were high now! They hadn't seen anything yet. Fred's only hope was that they could stall accepting the proposal long enough to let Communications catch up a bit on the stockpiling. If they didn't, their forces in the field would be caught short of ammo and overwhelmed.

  Move to adjourn!" he interrupted without opening his eyes.

  5

  The bar was clearly military, highclass military, but military nonetheless. One of the most apparent indications of this was that it offered live waitresses as an option. Of course, having a live waitress meant your drinks cost more, but the military men were one of the last groups of holdouts who were willing to pay extra rather than be served the impersonal hydrolift of a Servo-Matic.

  Steve Tidwell, former major, a
nd his friend Clancy were well entrenched at their favorite corner table, a compromise reached early in their friendship as a solution to the problem of how they could both sit with their backs to the wall.

  "Let me get this round, Steve," ordered Clancy, dipping into his pocket. "That severance pay of yours may have to last you a long time."

  "Hi Clancy, Steve," their waitress smiled, delivering the next round of drinks. "Flo's tied up out back, so I thought I'd better get these to you before you got ugly and started tearing up the place."

  "There's a love," purred Clancy, tucking a folded bill into her cleavage. She ignored him.

  "Steve, what's this I hear about you getting cashiered?"

  Tidwell took a sudden interest in the opposite wall. Clancy caught the waitress's eye and gave a minute shake of his head. She nodded knowingly and departed.

  "Seriously, Steve, what are you going to do now?"

  Tidwell shrugged.

  "I don't know. Go back to earning my money in the live ammo set, I guess."

  "Working for who? In case you haven't figured it out, you're blacklisted. The only real fighting left is in the Middle East, and the Oil Combine won't touch you."

  "Don't be so sure of that. They were trying pretty hard to buy me away from the ITT-iots a couple of months ago."

  Clancy snorted contemptuously.

  "A couple of months. Hell, I don't care if it was a couple days. That was before they gave you your walking papers. I'm telling you they won't give you the time of day now. 'If you're not good enough for Communications, you're not good enough for Oil.' That'll be their attitude. You can bet on it."

  Tidwell studied his drink in silence for a while, then took a hefty swallow.

  "You're right, Clancy," he said softly. "But do you mind if I kid myself long enough to get good and drunk?"

  "Sorry, Steve," apologized his friend. "It's just that for a minute there I thought you really believed what you were saying."

  Tidwell lifted his glass in a mock toast.

  "Well, here's to inferior superiors and inferior inferiors-the stuff armies are made of!"

  He drained the glass and signaled for another.

  "Really, Steve. You've got to admit the troops didn't let you down this time."

  "True enough. But only because I gave them an assignment worthy of their talents: cannon fodder! 'Rush those machine guns and keep rushing until I say different!' Is it my imagination or is the quality of our troops actually getting worse? And speaking of that, who was that clown on guard with you?"

  Clancy sighed.

  "Maxwell. Would you believe he's one of our best?"

  "That's what I mean! Ever since the corporations started building their own armies, all we get is superstars who can't follow orders and freeze up when they're shot at. Hell, give me some of the oldtimers like you and Hassan. If we could build our own force with the corporations' bankroll, if we could get our choice of the crop and pay them eighteen to forty grand a year, we could take over the world in a month."

  "Then what would you do with it?"

  "Hell, I don't know. I'm a soldier, not a politician. But damn it, I'm proud of my work and if nothing else, it offends my sense of aesthetics to see some of the slipshod methods and tactics that seem to abound in any war. So much could be done with just a few really good men."

  "Well, we're supposed to be working with the best available men now. You should see the regular armies the governments field!"

  "Regular armies! Wash your mouth out with Irish. And speaking of that..."

  The next round of drinks was arriving.

  "Say Flo, love. Tell Bonnie I'm sorry if I was so short with her last round. If she comes by again, I'll try to make it up to her."

  He made a casual pass at slipping his arm around her waist, but she sidestepped automatically without really noticing it.

  "I'll tell her, Steve, but don't hold your breath about her coming back. I think you're safer when you're sulking!"

  She turned to go and received a loud whack on her backside from Clancy. She squealed, then grinned, and did an exaggerated burlesque walk away while the two men roared with laughter.

  "Well, at least it's good to see you're loosening up a little," commented Clancy as their laughter subsided. "For a while there, you had me worried."

  "You know me. Pour enough Irish into me and I'll laugh through a holocaust! But you know, you're right, Clancy-about the men not letting me down, I mean. I think that's what's really irritating me about this whole thing."

  He leaned back and rested his head against the wall.

  "If the men had fallen down on the job, or if the plan had been faulty in its logic, or if I had tripped the fence beams, or any one of a dozen other possibilities, I could take it quite calmly. Hazards of the trade and all that. But to get canned over something that wasn't my fault really grates."

  "They couldn't find any malfunction with the throat-mikes? "

  "Just like the other two times. I personally supervised the technicians when they dismantled it, checked every part and connection, and nothing! Even I couldn't find anything wrong and believe me, I was looking hard. Take away the equipment failure excuse, and the only possibility is an unreliable commander, and Stevey boy gets his pink slip."

  "Say, could you describe the internal circuitry of those things to me?"

  In a flash the atmosphere changed. Tidwell was still leaning against the wall in a drunken pose, but his body was suddenly poised and his eyes were clear and wary.

  "C'mon, Clancy. What is this? You know I can't breach confidence with an employer, even an ex-employer. If I did, I'd never work again."

  Clancy sipped his drink unruffled by his friend's challenge.

  "You know it, and I know it, but my fellow Oil Slickers don't know it. I just thought I'd toss the question out to make my pass legit. You know the routine. 'We're old buddies and he's just been canned. If you'll just give me a pass tonight I might be able to pour a few drinks into him and get him talking.' You know the bit."

  "Well, you're at least partially successful." Tidwell hoisted his glass again, sipped, and set it down with a clink. "So much for frivolity! Do you have any winning ideas for my future?"

  Clancy tasted his drink cautiously.

  "I dunno, Steve. The last really big blow I was in was the Russo-Chinese War."

  "Well, how about that one? I know they shut down their borders and went incommunicado after it was over, but that's a big hunk of land and a lot of people. There must be some skirmishes internally."

  "I got out under the wire, but if you don't mind working for another ideology, there might be something."

  "Ideology, schmideology. Like I said before, I'm a soldier, not a politician. Have you really got a line of communication inside the Block?"

  "Well..."

  "Excuse us, gentlemen."

  The two mercenaries looked up to find a trio of men standing at a short distance from their table. One was Oriental, the other two Caucasian. All were in business suits and carried attach_ cases.

  "If you would be so good as to join us in a private room, I believe it would be to our mutual advantage."

  "The pleasure is ours," replied Tidwell, formally rising to follow. He caught Clancy's eye and raised an eyebrow. Clancy winked back in agreement. This had contract written all over it.

  As they passed the bar, Flo flashed them an old aviator's "thumbs-up" sign signifying that she had noticed what was going on and their table would still be waiting for them when they returned. To further their hopes, the room they were led to was one of the most expensive available at the bar-that is, one the management guaranteed for its lack of listening devices or interruptions. There were drinks already waiting on the conference table, and the Oriental gestured for them to be seated.

  "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Mr. Yamada. " His failure to introduce his companions identified them as bodyguards. Almost as a reflex, the two mercenaries swept them with a cold, appraising glance, then returne
d their attention to Yamada.

  "Am I correct in assuming I am addressing Stephen Tidwell?" His eyes shifted. "Michael Clancy?"

  The two men nodded silently. For the time being, they were content to let him do the talking.

  "Am I further correct in my information that you have recently been dismissed by the Communications Combine, Mr. Tidwell?"

  Again Steve nodded. Although he tried not to show it, inwardly he was irritated. What had they done? Gone through town posting notices?

  Yamada reached into his pocket and withdrew two envelopes. Placing them on the table, he slid one to each of the two men.

  "Each of these envelopes contains one thousand dollars, American. With them, I am purchasing your time for the duration of this conversation. Regardless of its outcome, I am relying on your professional integrity to keep the existence of this meeting as well as the content of the discussion itself in strictest confidence."

  Again the two men nodded silently. This was the standard opening of a negotiating session, protecting both the mercenary and the person approaching him.

  "Very well. Mr. Tidwell, we would like to contract your services for sixty thousand dollars a year plus benefits."

  Clancy choked on his drink. Tidwell straightened in his chair.

  "Sixty thousand..."

  "And Mr. Clancy, we would further like to contract your services for forty-five thousand dollars a year. This would of course not include the eighteen thousand five hundred dollars we would have to provide to enable you to terminate your contract with the Oil Coalition."

  By this time, both men were gaping at him in undisguised astonishment. Clancy was the first to regain his composure.

  "Mister, you don't beat around the bush, do you?"

  "Excuse my asking," interrupted Steve, "but isn't that a rather large sum to offer without checking our records?"

  "Believe me, Mr. Tidwell, we have checked your records. Both your records." Yamada smiled. "Let me assure you, gentlemen, this is not a casual offer. Rather, it is the climax of several months of exhaustive study and planning."