"He’s intent on not making the mistakes Hitler made. He’s determined to get to Moscow before winter hits. But he’s still fighting World War Two, not playing the game."
"How so?"
"Historically the Russians just sat there and let themselves be surrounded during the early months of Hitler's invasion. They held their lines and wouldn’t retreat. Stalin traded men for time. You were doing the same thing."
Gant thought about it. Maybe he had fallen into that trap. The speed of Campion's advance had taken him by surprise, and while his Russian armies were plentiful in number, they lacked combat effectiveness. Throwing his numbers at the Germans was akin to throwing meat in the grinder, but he had hoped to throw enough of them in to jam that grinder.
She went on, "He plots every single move with tremendous care, doesn’t he? He probably tricked you plenty early on. Outsmarted you at every turn."
Gant said nothing. She was right.
The chopper bucked again.
"Now he’s being aggressive because he sees victory just a move away. He sees German armor blasting through Russian infantry. He probably can hear the artillery in his mind. To his way of thinking, he’s mopping up a defeated enemy and heading for the gates of Moscow. So what did I do? I asked him about the game. I asked him about rules. Then I moved pieces around and counted spaces. If I had really been a Russian general Stalin would have shot me for pulling front line forces into reserve. The Germans would have rushed and filled those gaps without thought, without even consulting the bigger picture."
Gant started to catch on. "But Campion can see the big picture. And he heard you asking about the rules and the game — forcing him to remember that this was a game."
"Yes, and what did I remember that he forgot while he was living in fantasy land on the Eastern Front?"
"I do not know. What did you remember?"
She smiled "Nothing. Not a damn thing. Like I said, you’re toast. But he doesn’t know that."
He glanced out the side window, seeing little more than rain and fog, although it seemed they traveled over an endless field of forest.
"What happened historically?" she asked.
Gant told her what she already knew: "Instead of taking Moscow in the summer Hitler moved his tanks south to surround and destroy several big Russian armies. That took time. When they finally returned to attack Moscow the rain and mud set in. After that came winter."
"Yes," she said. "Hitler's move delayed his armies long enough for reinforcements and General Winter to stem the German advance. Moscow was saved in '41 and the rest is history."
Gant told her, "My opponent has gone to great lengths to avoid that same mistake. He's ignoring everything except for Moscow."
"You're right, but this time it’s not a bad decision by Hitler to attack a Russian army in the south that is going to delay the Germans — it’s indecision. You wait and see. If I read his personality right he’s going to get nervous now, tentative. He could finish it in a move or two, but he’s afraid I’ve laid some sort of trap."
Gant asked, "And if he realizes it was all a ruse?"
"Better learn to speak German."
To Thom Gant's eyes, The Tall Company's New York facility resembled a military installation more than a commercial complex. For starters, it sat far away from civilization in a valley surrounded by a chalky white forest of bent and broken trees seemingly suffering from some cancerous blight.
The compound included three windowless rectangular buildings standing four or five stories, apparently designed by an architect who consulted shoeboxes and bricks for inspiration.
As they flew in, he spotted fences topped with razor wire, cameras, and rooftop walkways equipped with spotlights. The helipad on which they landed actually descended on a lift into an aviation hanger.
A thin man with thick glasses from the public relations office escorted them across the grounds, including through an underground tunnel where Thom spotted armed guards and numerous "Security Is Everyone's Responsibility" signs.
Whatever ruse Liz had used to gain access had worked; their guide kept babbling on about how the company appreciated working with the military and how Uncle Sam was more a partner than a customer. The man professed his admiration for men — and women — in uniform a half-dozen times during their walk despite Gant and Thunder wearing casual civilian attire.
Finally they reached a laboratory situated in a quiet corner of one of those big brick-shaped buildings. Their accommodating host led them around rows of silent computers and electronic equipment in various states of repair to a lonely office, at which point he left the visitors to their business.
Inside that office waited a woman whose strong muscle tone helped hide her age. She wore a lose-fitting white jacket over a black turtleneck. Thin glasses hung from a strap and dangled to her chest, and she kept her gray and blond hair in a tight bun.
"Dr. McCaul?" Thunder started the conversation.
"Yes," the woman answered. "You must be Lieutenant Colonel Thunder and Major Gant. Please come in. And my name is Doreen."
Unlike General Friez's office at Darwin and Thunder's new home at Red Rock, Doreen McCaul's corner of The Tall Company featured numerous personal touches.
The color green dominated the decorum in the form of plants — some hanging, others crowded on shelves. Thom did not have an eye for such things, but he did recognize several ferns, a Chinese evergreen, a couple of arrowhead plants, and a row of lucky bamboo. His wife, Jean, had cultivated similar plants during their first year of marriage when they lived in an apartment in North Carolina with small windows and a lack of natural light.
"Please, take a seat," McCaul invited.
Thunder accepted the invitation and took advantage of a wood bench with cast iron legs positioned beneath a window looking out at the laboratory. Gant remained on his feet and drifted around the office. Collections of figurines, photographs, a child's finger painting, and all manner of books grabbed both his eye and his curiosity.
Their host rolled a swivel chair out from behind her quaint antique desk to the center of the small office, as if preparing to lead a discussion group.
"You’ve come a long way for a short story," she told them.
"Dr. McCaul — I mean, Doreen," Liz said in a friendly tone, matching their host's demeanor. "I was recently placed in charge of the facility at Red Rock."
"Red Rock? The big hole in the ground in Pennsylvania. Nice countryside, though. I remember a little restaurant not far away down on the main road. Of all the places, do you know what they had?"
Gant smiled and told her, "A fantastic roast beef melt sandwich."
McCaul flashed a similar smile and nodded. "Yes, it was always a favorite with the soldiers. The Rooster restaurant, or something like that."
Liz seemed eager to get to the point. "I found your name in files regarding an experiment run in 1992 by a Dr. Ronald Briggs. From what I read, you were a member of his research team prior to the actual experiment. I should add that both myself and Major Gant have all the necessary clearances."
McCaul waved a dismissive hand. "I'm not that impressed by clearances. I find all of that rather silly, to be honest."
Liz pressed, "But you were on his team?"
McCaul sighed in what sounded like disappointment. Judging by the isolated location of her office, Gant figured she received few visitors and might have enjoyed some chitchat.
"Yes, yes, I was on his team. Still, there’s not much to tell. Dr. Briggs removed me before the big day."
Gant listened but his eyes drifted across a line of books covering subjects from ancient civilizations to mathematics, so wide a range of topics that the collection of reading material did not reveal the doctor's area of specialty.