The Theory of Games (5 page)

He didn’t say a fucking word so I continued.

It was early fall when I took off but when I arrived it was mid-summer: a one hundred and ten in the shade summer. They put me up in a motel on Jeff Davis highway.

Jeff Davis highway runs straight into Maxwell.

“We know.”

Just out of curiosity, I asked, do you know what room they put me in?

“It was room 215,” the Authoritarian Man said.

You bastards don’t miss a thing, I thought.

In the morning a black SUV picked me up and drove south down Jeff Davis Highway to the security pillbox that guarded the only break in the razor wire fence at the northern edge of the compound. There a sergeant in dress blues examined the driver’s papers and then turned on a dime - not quite as sharp as John the Howler, but it was a pretty damn good for a white boy - and he snapped off a smart salute and ushered us in. He was wearing a chrome helmet, too. I remember that; how polished it was and how it reflected the blue Alabama sky.

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 k
_B
and k
_R
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.’