Robert Asprin: The Cold Cash War

"Just shelved. If you want my guess, someone's using this assignment as an excuse to dump him. I'd be willing to bet that whatever he turns in, it gets rejected. I'm guessing he'll be out by the end of the year."

"It's about time. Who's Marcus?"

"Never met him. He's supposed to be some kind of genius, but the word is he rubs a lot of people the wrong way. If he thinks you're an ass, he'll say so. You can imagine how well that goes over in the brainstorming sessions."

Pete lit a cigarette and exhaled thoughtfully.

"So our competition is a three-time loser and a loudmouthed whiz kid. If we can't beat that, we should hang it up."

"That's the way I see it. But don't short-sell Marcus. If he's lasted this long, he must have something going for him. There's a chance someone's watching for some real dynamic ideas from him. We'll have to watch close, and if things look like they are leaning his way, decide if we go for the kill or if we want to cover."

"How much time have we got?"

Eddie grimaced.

"Quote, as much time as you need to do a good job, unquote. In other words, whoever submits first is going to be holding up their presentation for the other two teams to tear apart. On the other hand, if we take too long, we're going to look like a bunch of old women who can't make up their minds."

Pete thought it over for a few minutes, then shrugged.

"If that's the rules, that's the rules. We play the cards as they're dealt. Okay, what's the assignment?"

"Are you ready for this? Our everlovin' communications conglomerate has got a war on its hands."

"Come again?"

"You heard me. A war. You know-soldiers, bullets, tanks-a war."

"Okay, I'll bite. What are we supposed to do about it?"

"Nothing much. Just keep a lid on it. We're supposed to come up with a bunch of ideas to keep the public from finding out about it, and at the same time start conditioning the public so that they'll accept it if the word ever leaks out."

"Are you serious? C'mon, Eddie, we're talking about a war! People are bound to notice a war!"

"It's not as wild as it sounds. This thing's been going on for nearly a year-have you heard anything about it?"

"Well...no."

"What's more, there are supposedly three other wars going on at the same time-one in Iceland over the fishing rights, one in Africa over the diamond mining, and one in the Great Plains over oil. Corporate wars are nothing new. At least that's what Becker says."

"So who are we fighting?"

"That's where it gets a bit tricky. We're up against one of the biggest oil companies in the world."

"And we're supposed to keep a lid on it?"

"Cheer up. It's being fought in Brazil."

Pete studied his cigarette for a few moments.

"Okay, I'll ask the big one. Who do we get for the task force? Our choice, or assigned?"

"Pretty much carte blanche. Why? Do you have anyone specific in mind?"

"Well, I'll want a personnel listing of anyone in the plant who's been in the service or lost a member of his family in a war; but there is one I'll want if we can get him."

"Who's that?"

"Terry Carr."

"The radical freak back in shipping."

"Him? C'mon, Pete. That kid's got a police record for antimilitary activities. What can he give us besides trouble?"

"Another point of view. I figure if we can sell this war to him, we can sell it to anybody."

Now it was Eddie's turn to look thoughtful.

"Let me think about that one. Say, doing anything for lunch?"

"Not really."

"Let's duck out and grab a bite. There're a few ideas I want to bounce off you."

The two men stood up and started for the door. As he walked, Eddie clapped a hand on Pete's shoulder.

"Cheer up, Pete. Remember, no one's ever gone broke overestimating the gullibility of the general public."

The sound of automatic weapons fire was clearly audible in the Brazilian night as Major Tidwell crawled silently the length of the shadow, taking pains to keep his elbows close to his body. Tree shadows were only so wide. He probed ahead with his left hand until he found the fist-sized rock with the three sharp corners which he had gauged as his landmark.

Once it was located, he sprang the straps on the jump pad he had been carrying over his shoulder and eased it into position. With the care of a professional, he double-checked its alignment: front edge touching the rock and lying at a forty-five-degree angle to an imaginary line running from the rock to the large tree on his left, flat on the ground, no wrinkles or lumps.

"Check."

This done, he allowed himself the luxury of taking a moment to try to see the scanner fence. Nothing. He shook his head with grudging admiration. If it hadn't been scouted and confirmed in advance, he would never have known there was a "fence" in front of him. The set posts were camouflaged to the point where he couldn't spot them even knowing what he was looking for, and there were no telltale light beams penetrating the dark of the night. Yet he knew that just in front of him was a maze of relay beams which, if interrupted, would trigger over a dozen automount weapons and direct their fire into a ten-meter-square area centering on the point the beams were interrupted. An extremely effective trap as well as a foolproof security system, but it was only five meters high.

He smiled to himself. Those cost accountants will do it to you every time. Why build a fence eight meters high if you can get by with one five meters high? The question was, could they get by with a five-meter fence?

Well, now was as good a time as any to find out. He checked the straps of his small backpack to be sure there was no slack. Satisfied there was no play to throw him off balance, his hand moved to his throat mike.

"Lieutenant Decker!"

"Here, sir!" The voice of his first lieutenant was soft in the earphone. It would be easy to forget that he was actually over five hundred meters away leading the attack on the south side of the compound. Nice about fighting for the ITT-iots-your communications were second to none.

"I'm in position now. Start the diversion."

"Yes, sir!"

He rose slowly to a low crouch and backed away from the pad several steps in a duck walk. The tiny luminous dots on the comers of the jump pad marked its location for him exactly.

Suddenly, the distant firing doubled in intensity as the diversionary frontal attack began. He waited several heartbeats for any guard's attention to be drawn to the distant fight, then rose to his full height, took one long stride, and jumped on the pad hard with both feet.

The pad recoiled from the impact of his weight, kicking him silently upward. As he reached the apex of his flight, he tucked and somersaulted like a diver, extending his legs again to drop feet first; but it was still a long way down. His forward momentum was lost by the time he hit the ground, and the impact forced him to his knees as he tried to absorb the shock. He fought for a moment to keep his balance, lost it, and fell heavily on his back.

"Damn!" He quickly rolled over onto all fours and scuttled crabwise forward to crouch in the deep shadow next to the autogun turret. Silently he waited, not moving a muscle, eyes probing the darkness.

He had cleared the "fence." If he hadn't, he would be dead by now. But if there were any guards left, the sound of his fall would have alerted them. There hadn't been much noise, but it didn't take much. These Oil Slickers were good. Then again, there were the explosives in his pack.

Tidwell grimaced as he scanned the shadows. He didn't like explosives no matter how much he worked with them. Even though he knew they were insensitive to impact and could only be detonated by the radio control unit carried by his lieutenant, he didn't relish the possibility of having to duplicate that fall if challenged.