Chapter Four
“Hey, Fred! Wait a minute!”
Fred Willard stopped with one hand on the glass doors and turned to see Ivan Kramitz waving at him from the sidewalk. Forcing a smile, he waved back and waited to see what the son-of-a-bitch wanted.
He hated Ivan with a passion, and knew it was reciprocated. Their dislike for each other was not particularly surprising as the men were physical and cultural opposites competing successfully in identical positions. Ivan was a recent immigrant to America—some said a refugee from the Russo-Chinese War—while Fred was from a long line of fringe-poor Americans. Where Ivan was the image of a Hungarian fencing master in appearance, poise, and arrogance, Fred knew his rounded figure and rolling gait brought to mind a beer-swilling, red-necked cop. Add to this their age difference—Fred in his mid-fifties, Ivan in his early thirties—and the fact that they were employed by rival corporations, and it was inevitable that each saw his rival as the personification of everything he hated and fought against.
However, you couldn’t ignore a chance to talk with the second-in-command of Oil’s negotiating team outside of the conference room, particularly if you’re third in command of the Communications negotiating team. So Fred waited while Ivan closed the distance between them at a leisurely saunter.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, my friend, but I did want to speak with you before you headed in.” Ivan smiled through his accent.
Fred returned his smile with an equally insincere toothiness. He had discovered several weeks ago that when he wanted to, Ivan could speak flawless English and only used the accent to irritate Fred.
“No problem, Ivan. What can I do for you?”
“I was merely curious if your team was still interested in that four million barrels of fuel?”
Interested? Damn straight they were interested. They had forty fighter planes grounded until they could get reserves back up.
“I’m not sure, Ivan. I’ll have to check with the boys. Why? Are the Oil czars loosening up a bit?”
“Possibly. I’ve heard a few rumors I might be able to follow up on. Just because they refused your first few offers doesn’t mean they aren’t interested. Maybe if you offered an exchange instead of a simple purchase. I have relatively reliable information that they might be willing to release the fuel if Communications were willing to share the plans for the throat-mike communicators currently in use.”
Bingo! Those bastards wouldn’t be so ready to deal if those throat-mike systems weren’t giving them real problems. Time to twist the old knife a little.
“I dunno, Ivan. The boys are mighty touchy about those little toys. I don’t think they’d be too wild about our trading them off that easily.”
Ivan grinned like a barracuda.
“As a matter of fact, Frederick, the rumor I heard stated specifically that your troops were not to be notified of the exchange. You know, a little…‘under the table’ deal between old friends.”
You son-of-a-bitch! You want us to sell our own men down the river! You want us to turn your Oil Slicker wolves loose with those hookups without warning our own troops!
“N-F-W! No fucking way, baby!” He maintained his smile even though it hurt. “No way will we turn those toys loose unannounced for a few crummy gallons of fuel!”
“You disappoint me, my friend. Certainly my superiors are aware that such an exchange would require some additional bonuses for Communications.”
“Such as what?”
“Unfortunately those figures are not available at this time. Perhaps we could continue our discussion over lunch?” Without waiting for an answer, he stepped past Fred and disappeared into the depths of the building.
Those figures are not available—damn! That bastard had the pat phrases down cold. In corporate jargon, he had just said, “Eat your heart out, sweetheart. I’m not saying anything more until I’m good and ready!”
Shit! It was times like this you hated being a negotiator. It was clear that the Oilers wanted those hookups and on their terms. And they’d get them. Ivan was far too confident not to be sure his offer would be beyond refusal.
The irritating part was that he had specifically chosen Fred to make his offer to. Not only did he know his offer couldn’t be refused, he also knew Fred hated like the plague to give in. If Fred had his way, Oil could offer their entire North American—hell, their whole western hemisphere holdings before he sold their own men down the river.
But he followed orders just like everyone else, and if the Lord High Muckity-Mucks decided it was a good idea, he’d have to knuckle under and accept it. Ivan knew that and was doubtlessly glorying in it.
Not for the first time, Fred contemplated what Ivan’s face would look like mashed to a bloody pulp. With a deep sigh he entered the conference room.
It was a spacious room, even with two dozen men in it. Fred smiled at the two groups huddled at their respective ends of the room, murmuring together and casting dark glances at their opposing numbers. He was greeted by the traditional assortment of grunts and vague waves. Really friendly bunch, this. But then again, they weren’t being paid to be friendly. Like everyone else in the world of corporations they were paid for results.
The unfortunate part about being a negotiator was that no one was ever satisfied with your results. Everyone could have done better. Small wonder the rate of casualties due to nervous breakdowns and/or suicide was so high. Of those that survived, most retired young. Fred was the exception, at fifty-three, he was one of the oldest and most respected negotiators in the business.
“Gentlemen, could we get started now?”
It was the Senior Negotiator for Oil, it being Oil’s day to chair the meeting. One by one the team members drifted to their seats. There was no hurry as it would take at least fifteen minutes from the time the room was sealed before the electronic detectors could confirm the room was free of listening devices.
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.