The Theory of Games (6 page)

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.

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.”

“And that is when Stanhope first broached the subject?” the Authoritarian Man asked.

Yup; that was it. About 2:45 in the afternoon of a blindingly sunny Alabama day in the O-Club at Maxwell AFB. That was the exact moment my life turned to shit. I had thought it was when Gilfoyle fired me but, nope, it was right there at Maxwell.

“A simulation for Homeland Security?” the Authoritarian Man repeated.

Yup.

“That employed the BILL equation?”

Yup.

“Of an assault on the White House and the members of Congress?”

Yup.

CHAPTER 2.2

Well, the backroom deal went down faster than most. It was what my old business manager would have called “a whorehouse deal.” It’s what they call in the oil fields of Beaumont, Texas, “a short-fuse deal.” It’s all the same. He wanted to buy and I wanted to sell and the Devil is always in the details.

“And the details?” the Authoritarian Man asked.

The details? I shrugged as best the restraints would allow. You probably have more of the details than I do; the bank routing numbers, the wire transfers. The twenty grand was a down payment. I was promised another 80 for development and another 100 upon completion. They still owe me 140. Do you know where I can file a claim?

“Sorry,” the Authoritarian Man smiled, “they weren’t working for our side. Now let’s get back to the details. What did they want for the two hundred thousand dollars?”

Well, Jim, just the usual: a million dollars worth of coding for one-fifth of the price, a two-year project done in three months. I got the impression that they had been working on the project with their own people for a while – how long I couldn’t guess – but their code was hopelessly munged. I’ve been called in before under similar circumstances; once by a certain well-known defense contractor infamous for bribing congressmen. They were over budget and behind schedule so they called for ol’ Jake Grant the relief pitcher. For once I would like to get a fat government contract with a reasonable timeline from the git-go and not get the call in the bottom of the ninth when I have to deal with somebody else’s mess.

“Was there anything – now think, Jake – was there anything
unusual
about what they wanted?”

You mean other than that it was a full first-person shooter assault on the White House and Congress? Oh, and the computer Artificial Intelligence had to be driven by the BILL equation? I paused for dramatic effect. Nah, I guess it was a pretty standard computer game deal, well…

“Yes?”

I mean they obviously didn’t care about distribution; there was no copy-protection in the deal; you know these days every game deal includes a shitload of copy protection schemes (usually fairly stupid algorithms that it’s the developer’s responsibilities to implement). You know I’ve been around this business for longer than I care to think about and I’ve seen them all: manual protection (where you have to look up a word from a booklet they throw in the box), key disk protection, dongles, online registration; they’re all stupid. The only pirates I ever worried about were the fucking game publishers. They never paid the royalties they owed me. I suppose this deal wasn’t any different.

“Okay, aside from the lack of copy-protection, and the BILL equation, was there anything else
unusual
about this deal?”

You mean other than the circumstances: cutting a whorehouse deal with a fake major general in the backroom of the O-Club at Maxwell? Of course you do. Well, there was one other thing: they wanted us to use their topographical database. You know, their 3D files. I mean, it’s not like I had access to the blueprints for the fucking White House.

“Okay,” said the Authoritarian Man, “please continue.”

Most of the details for the project came from Finley and Jacobson. I’ve worked with them before; I’m sure they’re both legit. Jacobson was at the War College. I’m sure of it. He once sent me a copy of his Master’s thesis on a proposal for an automated Course of Action program.

The Authoritarian Man picked up Jacobson’s brown OMPF (Official Military Personnel File) and started flipping through it. I thought I caught a glimpse of a DD-214 form; that’s a Military Discharge Document. If Jacobson wasn’t active duty and Stanhope was a fraud what were they doing at Maxwell? How deep was this thing?

The Authoritarian Man must have seen me sneaking a peek at the DD-214 because he abruptly snapped the OMPF shut and turned his back to me.

Jacobson was legit, right? He was at the War College, wasn’t he?

“I can’t comment on that,” the Authoritarian Man replied. “What about Finley?”

After the meeting at the O-Club broke up, Finley drove me back to the motel to get my bag and then out to the airport. The same twin-engine plane was already warming up on the runway. That’s about all I remembered about Finley from that day (except the West Point ring:
Duty
,
Honor
,
Country
; USMA Class of 2006).

The journey home is always longer. In retrospect it doesn’t seem that way; you look back and barely remember it at all. But when you’re there, bumping through the clouds, refueling in St. Louis, it takes forever and all you can think of is the homecoming. The new security – since 9/11 – keeps your family far from the jetways and the airport gates. In the old days you walked off the plane and straight into your family’s arms. Of course there was never a time you could have snuck old Bill into an airport arrival gate. Bill as a guide dog; now there’s a joke.

Kate tried; God bless her. She actually found (borrowed? stole?) a guide dog harness from somewhere and tried to pass Bill off as a leader dog for the blind. But you know a dog’s tell, Bill just gave it away, or maybe it was Kate with her designer shades and white cane. I can imagine the security guards forcibly escorting them out and Kate furiously protesting. I found them outside sulking. What a homecoming!

The rusted VW bug was double-parked in a no loading zone. And Bill and Kate and Kate and Bill! I love coming home with a contract; a fat contract in my old red leather attaché. It’s like the case is bulging with money and promise: food, rent, a steak for Bill and a bottle for me. We have beaten the Angel of Death once more. Tonight we’ll feast on the fatted calf.

“Oh, I know that one!” the Authoritarian Man said, “That’s Elton John!”

You know that one? “Bennie and the Jets,” Elton John.
All right!

“Can you play that on the piano?” the Authoritarian Man asked sincerely.

Nope. I have a rule: I don’t play “Bennie and the Jets”, “Piano Man” or “Free Bird” and I never do requests unless they’re written on the back of a twenty dollar bill (or a ten if times are tough).

“That’s too bad,” the Authoritarian Man said, “that’s a good song.”

I had an image of the Authoritarian Man singing “Bennie and the Jets” in a karaoke bar packed full of other Authoritarian Men on a Friday night when they were all off duty (as if Authoritarian Men were ever off duty) and I resolved, then and there, that for the good of the world, even if it was the last thing I ever did, I would slip free of these restraints and personally rip his throat out before Bill could do it and then Bill and I would make good our escape through that window that must have led to a formal garden gone to weeds, just outside of my view.