Asteroid Diversion

by Bobby Akart

  “Strip him down!” the Russian bellowed. “He stinks like a rat in a sewer!”

  The guards quickly obliged. Gunner heard the sounds of switchblade knives opening. The men weren’t careful in their quick motions to tear his clothes off him. As his shirt was cut open, so was a long, thin line of flesh, causing more of his blood to begin running down the center of his chest.

  His jeans were torn apart with a series of slices of the sharp blade, jabbing into the fleshy part of his butt, and also, slightly puncturing his right thigh. The pain caused him to wince, and bite his tongue. But he didn’t yell out. He wouldn’t give them that satisfaction.

  They stood Gunner up, the salty sweat beginning to seep into the new cuts in his skin. Suddenly, the guards were forcibly shaking him. This was followed by an open-handed slap across his face, a sucker punch that he could never see coming.

  “Are you listening to me, Amerikanskiy? Are you?” The interrogator demanded Gunner’s attention.

  Gunner said nothing, which earned him a hard slap to the stomach. The pain raced through his body. His captors were expert at inflicting suffering and discomfort upon him without causing internal damage. They wanted him to stay alive.

  He was dragged out of the cell and his arms were yoked above his head. The guards clamped his wrists into large, three-inch wide handcuffs attached to a chain. He was now suspended in the air, stretched upward, completely nude.

  “Do it!” screamed the man in his Russian accent. Gunner knew what to expect, so he braced his body. He waited. Listening for the wheel to crank. Mustering the strength to stand on his toes, for hours, knowing that if he failed, both of his arms would be pulled out of his shoulder sockets.

  Gunner had been stretched to his limit, physically and mentally. But he held on. He kept visions of Heather in the forefront of his mind. Typically, when on a mission, he tried to block her out of his consciousness. He felt guilty about that as he loved her more than life. But a soldier who was obsessed with the person he loved couldn’t perform as a hardened warrior on the battlefield. Heather understood this, allowing Gunner to ease his guilt.

  This, however, was different. He needed her strength. He had to focus on their love to keep his sanity. He needed a vision of Heather, and her voice in his head, to endure the suffering he was going through.

  “Are you prepared to answer my questions, Amerikanskiy?”

  Gunner remained silent, as he had throughout the ordeal. No name. No rank. No serial number. They would get nothing out of him, not even an acknowledgement that they existed.

  It infuriated his captors. He was certain of it. They had a job to do—make him talk, break him, and then, declare victory as begged for mercy. Gunner Fox had no intention of giving them that satisfaction. On the contrary, all he could think about was surviving, escaping, and getting home to Heather. After he killed them all, of course.

  Gunner was holding on, but his mind was slipping. It had been hours since the interrogator made his final efforts to get Gunner to talk.

  “It’s time,” the interrogator bellowed. “I am tired of coddling this Americanskiy asshole!”

  The crank was turned and Gunner was lowered to the ground in a heap. He was unable to move his arms at first, stiff from the hours of being suspended above his head.

  Gunner attempted to cover his genitals as the men kicked him in the thighs and back several times. He curled up in a fetal position, allowing his body to relax as the kicks continued.

  “I will kill you right now if you don’t tell us what we want!” The man was screaming in Russian. Gunner couldn’t understand what he was saying, but the tone of the maniac’s voice spoke volumes.

  Then, the man became eerily calm. A massive swing in emotions that caught Gunner off-guard. For the first time, he truly expected to die.

  A calm, American accent appeared among his captors for the first time. “He won’t talk unless we make him. Let’s get on with it.”

  Two guards abruptly grabbed Gunner and began to drag him across the rough, concrete floor. His body went limp as the hard surface ripped the skin off his knees and tops of his feet.

  They lifted him up and rolled him over onto a wooden board. Two other sets of hands quickly bound his wrists and ankles with leather straps. Gunner fought them, writhing back and force in a futile attempt to avoid the restraints. Somehow, he knew what was coming.

  First, he heard the water. The sound of a towel being dipped into a sink or bucket, being sloshed around to soak it thoroughly. He prepared himself for the ultimate form of human torture—waterboarding.

  His captor leaned over Gunner’s face and hissed—the sadistic man’s hot breath felt in his nostrils. “You will break. You will not make me look like a fool. I will give you this one last chance. Speak, or prepare to die.”

  Gunner did not give in. Instead, he spontaneously smiled. Give it your best shot, pal.

  And the man did. He forced the soaking wet towel over Gunner’s nose and mouth. One of the guards slowly began to pour water over Gunner’s face, further saturating the towel. The dousing lasted around fifteen seconds during which time Gunner tried to turn his head away from the onslaught of water. It took three men to hold him still, until it was time to assess their progress.

  Gunner was still smiling.

  “Talk! Talk, dammit!”

  Gunner refused. He laid perfectly still, his eyes wide open, staring at the black cloth that had become part of his body since his arrival.

  The interrogator reapplied the towel and the process continued. Waterboarding was first used during the fifteenth century. The Spanish Inquisition, instituted by Catholic Monarchs in Spain, was intended to ensure converts to the faith of Christianity from Judaism and Islam remained true to their new Christian faith. A similar technique to waterboarding was just one of the many tools used by the Monarchy. For some, simply burning the heretics at the stake was a more favored option.

  The former Soviet Union perfected the art of waterboarding. It was often used against American spies during the height of the Cold War. The KGB found that sleep deprivation, exposure to extreme heat and cold, and hours upon hours of placing their captives in uncomfortable, stress-filled environs was effective at breaking a spy.

  When the normal tactics didn’t work, the Soviets adopted waterboarding as a technique. At first, the interrogators let their emotions get in the way of the task at hand. Many spies were killed by the torture. The technique was intended to create a feeling of suffocation. In practice, prisoners were drowning.

  Gunner’s captor, however, was a professional. He knew how much torture to administer to break a prisoner. He’s saved the best for last—waterboarding.

  Yet, it wasn’t working, causing the leader to become increasingly frustrated. On the last attempts, the bucket of water turned into two, and then to three. For nearly a minute, water was poured over Gunner face, and, at times, he was certain the interrogator loosened the pressure on the towel so water could find its way into Gunner’s mouth and nose.

  He wants to drown me!

  Gunner was at his lowest point. His hope was almost lost, but he didn’t outwardly manifest it to his captors.

  Frustrated, the interrogator ripped the towel away from Gunner’s face and slapped at the last bucket, sending it careening across the concrete floor.

  The man’s frustration got the better of him, and his fit of rage gave Gunner an opening. His blindfold had been moved so that he could see the floor and the feet of his captors. He also could sense a glimmer of hope which gave him newfound strength.

  “Take him back!” the Russian yelled in English.

  The guards brusquely unstrapped Gunner who played the role of faint, semi-conscious prisoner. As they had done for days, they dragged his lifeless body over the concrete floor and down the hallway toward his cell.

  The further he traveled into the bowels of the prison, the less he could hear the voices of the interrogator. After past torture sessions, he’d counted in his head each ti
me he was returned to this cell.

  One-Mississippi. Two-Mississippi. Three-Mississippi.

  It was a throwback to his days as a kid when his friends, including Cam, would get together to play a pick-up football game in the backyard. The rule was that the defense couldn’t rush the passer for three seconds—counted out in Mississippi’s.

  Gunner knew it took about thirty seconds to be returned to his cell. Despite his sleep-starved brain preventing him from thinking clearly, he’d remained singularly focused on one task—escape.

  It was a prisoner’s duty.

  Now, he could see the floor. He could study and anticipate the guard’s movements. He’d prepared for that moment, that brief opening in which one of the guards would release his grip on Gunner to prepare the door to be locked while the other carried the burden of shoving Gunner into the cell.

  Gunner’s body tensed, a change in his demeanor that was noticed by the guard. But, it was too late. Gunner spun and thrust the palm of his hand upward striking the guard in the throat. He was immediately released and without hesitation, he spun around and kicked the other guard’s legs out from under him.

  Both men groaned in pain, a guttural noise that could be heard down the all-concrete hallway. At this distance, to the interrogator and the unknown American in the torture room, it sounded no different than Gunner’s usual moans after a brutal session of abuse.

  He ripped the blindfold off and quickly adjusted to the light, thankful that the hallway was dimly lit. He pounced on top of the first guard who was holding his throat in agony. Gunner reared back and slammed his fist into the side of the man’s head, instantly knocking him unconscious.

  The turned his attention to the other guard. He clamped his hand over the man’s mouth. The guard’s eyes grew wide at the sight of Gunner. He hadn’t shaved in a week. His hair was matted with vomit. He naked body wreaked of bodily fluids and feces. He was more animal than human.

  And the formerly caged animal’s eyes were maniacal. He felt the man’s utility belt for a weapon. There was nothing. His captors must’ve anticipated Gunner’s capabilities, knowing it would be a deadly mistake to have a gun or knife in his presence at any time.

  Attached to the guard’s belt, Gunner found a key ring—a large, brass oval that held skeleton keys and vehicle FOBs. He ripped it from the Velcro attachment and forced the skeleton key, the one used to open and close his cell, toward the guard’s eye.

  “You can either shut up, or lose your eyes, or you can die. Your choice.”

  The man couldn’t speak. He shook his head violently from side to side to avoid the key jabbing into his right eye.

  “I need your uniform, asshole,” hissed Gunner as he dragged the man into the cell. The guard was much thinner than his chubby partner, and his uniform would fit Gunner just about right.

  Gunner turned the man around with his hand clamped over his mouth. The man began to unbutton the Russian military uniform and quickly dropped the clothes to the floor.

  Gunner then gathered the strength to administer a choke-hold. He looped his right-arm around the guard’s neck and began to squeeze. He lifted his left arm and pressed against the side of the guard’s head, creating the figure-four appearance.

  Then he squeezed. He resisted the urge to kill the man. He wanted to, but didn’t. Cutting off the blood flow to the man’s brain was sufficient to render him unconscious, thus giving Gunner the opportunity to escape.

  With the man incapacitated, Gunner quickly dressed, and dragged both guards into his cell, making sure to dump their bodies in the pools of urine and vomit on the floor. After checking the other man for weapons, a radio, or anything else of use, Gunner gently locked the cell door and eased down the hallway.

  He could no longer hear the voices of the interrogator and the American that had witnessed the torture. As he gathered himself, he contemplated his next move. He wanted to inflict the kind of pain he’d endured on them. On everyone.

  However, his need to escape took precedent. Gunner slowly made his way through the concrete hallways of the building where he was being held. He searched frantically for an exit. Any door that led to the outside.

  Finally, a steel door with a single window that was eight inches square appeared at the end of another darkened hallway. There were other cell doors on both sides. His mind raced.

  Were there other prisoners? Were they being tortured like I was? Should I take the time to save them?

  Gunner took the skeleton key and began to unlock the doors, one by one. Each cell was empty, spotlessly cleaned with the fresh smell of Lysol.

  Puzzled, Gunner shook his head and made his way to the door. He slowly glanced through the window and saw a stand of trees. A faint street light illuminated a portion of the woods. After surveilling the surroundings for a moment, gauging the activity of any perimeter security, Gunner took a chance and opened the door.

  A rush of cold air enveloped his body, an environment that stood in stark contrast to the hot, humid cell that he’d become accustomed to. It was refreshing and odd at the same time.

  Reinvigorated by the prospect of freedom, he glanced around the outside of the building and dashed into the woods. Minutes later, he was walking alone down a dark road under a canopy of trees, wondering where the hell he was and how in the world he would make his way home.

  PART ONE

  Friday, April 27

  The Best Day Ever …

  Chapter 1

  Present Day

  April 27

  Unknown Location

  Gunner Fox tried to fight his way back to consciousness. He was alive, or at least he thought he was. He looked for a sign that he wasn’t dreaming. A sound. Movement. Anything familiar that would bring him into the present.

  For a while, his surroundings were deafly silent, as if some large control knob had turned down the volume of life on Earth. Then, gradually, a concert of humming, buzzing, and chirping sounds filled the air. An orchestra consisting of frogs, cicadas, howler monkeys, and tropical birds performed their songs over one another, completely ignoring the conductor, if there was one.

  His eyes opened a narrow slit, allowing just enough sunlight in to let him see his surroundings. The sudden light stung his irises, forcing him to blink several times, trying to open them fully yet squinting in a futile attempt to shield the brightness.

  He rolled his head back-and-forth, as if to confirm that it was still attached. His brain was pounding from the trauma it had suffered during the crash. The movement of his neck sent a sharp, stabbing pain through his body. Gunner became alarmed as he instantly thought of partial-paralysis. He checked his extremities—fingers, wrists, toes, and ankles. All intact, all moving on command.

  A sense of relief washed over him. Nothing appeared to be broken, yet he felt beat all to hell. He dared reach up to his forehead, using the flat of his hand to feel for a fever. His temperature was normal, but the thick, sticky liquid that covered his scalp was not.

  Finally, his eyes adjusted, allowing in the initial glimpses of his surroundings. The first thing he saw was a tree branch—twisting and slicing through the air. Gunner tilted his head to study it. Ordinarily, something as commonplace wouldn’t garner a second glance, but as his eyes continued to shift from side to side, allowing the light to illuminate this foreign environment, he noticed how odd it was.

  The bark was smooth, grey-green in color, almost as if it belonged to a large, hairless creature. Gunner closed his eyes and visualized a green hippopotamus with smooth, tentacle-like features. He shook his head, trying to remove the absurd notion from his consciousness.

  The sun was rising, beginning to reveal itself through the black palm trees that surrounded him. He muttered the words, chunga palm. He’d seen them before, in Southeast Asia, on a mission with Cam and Bear.

  Or was it in Venezuela? His mind raced trying to make sense of it all. Where am I?

  Gunner forced himself to focus. His head was throbbing and his body felt like it had be
en pummeled by a herd of buffalo. Nonetheless, he was pleased that he had remembered Cam and Bear. His memory loss was only temporary. Their words filled his head.

  Day by day. Minute by minute, Ride or die. We stick together.

  He wished they were with him.

  Gunner was still strapped in his seat. Something tickled his hand. It was small, but it was clearly walking up his fingers and toward the underside of his wrist where it hovered for a moment at his ulnar artery, the main blood vessel providing oxygenated blood to his hand.

  He flexed his fingers in an attempt to remove the creature, whatever it was, from his body. It was too large to be an ant. It was cold, bug-like, not like a mammal.

  It moved again. In Gunner’s semi-conscious state, his mental acuity was somewhat stifled, but he knew the feeling of a bug on his skin. His mind processed the sensation and he recalled being stung by a jungle scorpion while on a mission. Most were extremely painful and some can be deadly.

  He was in enough pain without a scorpion bite. He flailed his arm about, shaking the creature off his wrist until it was flung off his body. The interaction revealed to Gunner that he was in a dangerous place.

  He felt around and found part of the Starhopper’s controls. He reached above his head and grasped for the ceiling of the cockpit. He stretched his fingers, wiggling them in an effort to find the top, but it was gone. The command center had been ripped in half, the top torn to shreds as it rolled over-and-over during the crash back to Earth.

  “I’m still in the spaceship,” he muttered aloud, though no one could hear him.

  He glanced to his left and saw Chief Rawlings lifeless body slumped over, held in place by the Commander’s seat restraints. A feeling of remorse washed over his him as he remembered what happened to the man who’d mentored him throughout the mission. It was starting to come back to him now.

  Gunner tried to get his bearings, and then he was distracted by warmth dripping onto his face. More blood?