"I thought it was their idea to use Brazil for the fighting."
"It was, but we got it in writing first. That puts it in our pocket as far as history or the press is concerned. We've got 'em cold."
"That's well and good, but what's that got to do with government intervention?"
"If word of this thing gets out, the real battle is going to be with the government. You know Uncle Sammy-anything he can't tax he doesn't like, and anything he doesn't like he meddles with. It's within possibilities that he'll try to make us compromise with the Combine and divvy up the mines. If that happens, there will be a brawl, both in the courts and in Congress. If we're going to win that fight, we've got to have public support solidly behind us. That's where the saturation campaign comes in. If we can get the spark started before the specific case becomes public knowledge, it will be easy to fan it and point it in a direction. Hell, Eddie, you were the one who pointed it out in the first place."
"Well, I was just..."
"You were just asking questions that we answered in the first week we had this assignment. Now I thought we had a pretty good working relationship going, Eddie. I could always count on you for a straight answer no matter how unpleasant it was. I'm asking you plain-what's going wrong? If you can't tell me, say so and I'll back off, but don't give me a smoke screen and pretend it's an answer!"
Bush was silent for a few moments, his eyes not meeting Pete's glare. Finally he sighed.
"You're right, Pete. I should have leveled with you sooner."
He opened a drawer on his desk and withdrew a sheath of papers, tossing them on the desk in front of Pete.
"Here, look at these."
Pete picked up the sheets and started leafing through them. They were photocopies of the rough drafts of some documents. Crossed-out paragraphs and note-filled margins abounded. Whatever they were, they were a long way from presentation state.
"What are they?"
"That's some of the rough drafts of Marcus's presentation."
Pete raised his eyebrows in inquiry.
"Don't ask how I got them. Let's just say they got detoured past a copier on their way to the shredder."
"Do you have stuff from Higgins too?"
Eddie made a disparaging gesture.
"Some, but not as much. He's pushing for a joint effort with the Oil people to save cost. Frankly, I don't think it has a snowball's chance in hell of being accepted. Marcus is the man I'm watching."
"Okay, what's he got here?"
"It all boils down to one assertion. He says we should win the war."
"Win the...really? Just like that?"
"Oh, there's lots of back-up. He works off the same supposition that we do-that if the war lasts long enough, the word will leak out. But instead of trying to cover up afterward, he wants to finish it before it leaks."
"Does the boy wonder bother to mention how we're supposed to do this?"
"Rather explicitly. We're supposed to outgun them."
"Hire more mercenaries? We've already..."
"No, outgun them. Better equipment. So far everybody's been fighting with government surplus weapons modified for simulated combat. Anything really new the governments are keeping under top security wraps. He's saying we should go directly to the designers and manufacturers and outbid the governments for the new stuff. That would give us enough of an edge to finish the fight once and for all."
"That'd cost us an arm and a leg!"
"Not as much as you'd think. He points out how much the corporations pad any bill going to the government and suggests by exerting a little economic pressure, we could drive the price down considerably. Then again-pull page four out of that stack for a minute."
"Got it."
"What you have there is a document he intercepted. Apparently the bastard has inside information from the negotiating sessions."
Pete was scanning the page.
"What's a 'One-for-One Proposal'?"
"It's some new rule the Oil types are trying to push through. Basically it means the mercenaries would have to destroy equipment and Ammunition as if it had actually been used."
"That's insane!"
"Our negotiating team is giving it an eighty percent probability of passing. If it does, cost estimates for continuing the war go as high as fifty thousand dollars a day."
Pete whistled appreciatively.
"With that tidbit under his arm, Marcus' proposal doesn't sound nearly as expensive."
"So where does that leave us?"
Eddie pursed his lips.
"That's what's been bothering me. This proposed program has a lot of sparkle and romance to it. It's going to get a lot of support. If we decide to fight it, it's going to be an uphill battle."
A warning bell went off in the back of Pete's mind.
"Did you say 'if we decide...'?"
Eddie sighed.
"There's one more bit of information that I haven't told you. It seems that Becker, Mr. Big himself, has been talking with Marcus at least once a week, sometimes daily. If he's taking a personal interest in seeing Marcus get ahead, we might want to think long and hard about our own careers before we set out to try to make the golden boy look bad."
8
The cliff towered grim and foreboding, fully the height of a three-story building. Except for a few scrawny weeds dotting its face, indicating outcroppings or crevasses, it was a sheer drop onto the rockslide. It was enough of an obstacle that even the strongest of heart would take time to look for another route.
The man at the top of the cliff didn't look for another route or even break stride as he sprinted up to the edge of the precipice. He simply stepped off the cliff into nothingness, as did the three men following closely at his heels. For two long heartbeats they fell. By the second beat their swords were drawn-the world-famous Katanas, samurai swords unrivaled for centuries for their beauty, their craftsmanship, and their razor edges. On the third heartbeat they smashed into the rockslide, the impact driving one man to his knees, forcing him to recover with a catlike forward roll. By the time he had regained his feet, the others were gone, darting and weaving through the straw dummies, swords flashing in the sun. He raced to join them, a flick of his sword decapitating the dummy nearest him.
The straw figures, twenty of them, were identical, save for a one-inch square of brightly colored cloth pinned to them, marking five red, five yellow, five white, and five green. As they moved, each man struck only at the dummies marked with his color, forcing them to learn target identification at a dead run. Some were marked in the center of the forehead, some in the small of the back. It was considered a cardinal sin to strike a target that was not yours. A man who did not identify his target before he struck could as easily kill friend as foe in a firelight.
The leader of the band dispatched his last target and returned his sword to its scabbard in a blur of motion as he turned. He sprinted back toward the cliff through the dummies, apparently oblivious to the deadly blades still flashing around him. The others followed him, sheathing their swords as they ran. The man who had fallen was lagging noticeably behind.
Scrambling up the rockslide, they threw themselves at the sheer cliff face and began climbing at a smooth effortless pace, finding handholds and toeholds where none could be seen. It was a long climb, and the distance between the men began to increase. Suddenly the second man in the formation dislodged a fist-sized rock that clattered down the cliffside. The third man rippled his body to one side and it missed him narrowly. The fourth man was not so lucky. The rock smashed into his right forearm and careened away. He lost his grip and dropped the fifteen feet back onto the rockslide.
He landed lightly in a three-point stance, straightened, and gazed ruefully at his arm. A jagged piece of bone protruded from the skin. Shaking his head slightly, he tucked the injured arm into the front of his uniform and began to climb again.
As he climbed, a small group of men appeared below him. They hurriedly cut down the remains of the straw dummies and began lashing new ones to the supporting poles. None of them looked up at the man struggling up the cliffside.