”Talk to me, Nadya,” the second interrogator said, gently. He had a voice that would be the envy of most movie stars, one that would send shivers down the spine of any woman. “I cannot help you unless you talk to me.”
“She isn’t going to talk,” the first one snapped. His voice was harsher, threatening everything from torture to imminent death. “The unpatriotic bitch will not cooperate…”
Without warning, he slapped Nadya right across her face. Nicolas heard her cry out in pain, a trickle of blood appearing from her mouth. He blanched as the doctor was slapped again, this time on the other side of her cheek. Her face started to turn red, tears streaming down her eyes as she tried to avoid a third blow. The kindly interrogator looked away, affecting an unconcerned pose as the nasty interrogator clenched his fist in front of her face.
“Did you like that, bitch?” He demanded. “It will get worse if you refuse to share what you know.”
Nicolas braced himself as Nadya cried out again. Once, years ago, he had attended a course on Conduct after Captivity and the lecturer, a former SEAL, had explained that the male mind was not designed to remain unmoved by sounds of female pain. He’d illustrated the point by playing them recordings of women being hurt, from simple slaps to outright rape, and explained that it was sometimes used to break a suspect. An American serviceman who had been taken prisoner had been broken, not by torture or starvation, but by watching a young girl being raped in front of him. No matter what Nadya had done, Nicolas couldn’t remain unmoved.
He tried to push his feelings aside and concentrated on the scene playing out in front of him. Torture, despite the media’s hysterical claims, was rarely used by American interrogators, for it was not always reliable. If a person’s claims could be verified, it could be made to work, but otherwise a person who was being tortured would eventually say anything, just to make the pain stop. The Russians, on the other hand, had no scruples about using it and there would be no comeback, no lawyers suing the government, no political leaders throwing the interrogators to the rules to save themselves. He told himself that if it worked - that if it broke Nadya - it was worthwhile. Millions of people were threatened with death. Somehow, it didn’t make it any easier.
“He’ll do worse if you don’t help me,” the kindly interrogator was saying. His voice remained calm and composed, even as he rested a fatherly arm on Nadya’s shoulder. Her head seemed to be lolling from side to side. “Please help me save you and your family. They will all be tarred with your crimes against the state if you don’t help us.”
The first interrogator pushed his arm away and slapped Nadya again. “You will talk,” he said, angrily. “I promise you that you will talk.”
Nicolas looked over at the Russian General. “How long is this going to take?”
“It will take as long as it takes,” Zaitsev said, flatly. “I do not believe that she will hold out for long.”
Nicolas tended to agree. Nadya was the closest thing that the Russian Biological Warfare Program had to royalty, the daughter of two scientists who had worked at the centre and followed her parents into the family business. She had grown up as the Soviet Union was collapsing and had graduated, only to discover that she wouldn’t receive anything like the perks her parents had received, over the years. There would be no fancy car or holidays for her, yet she was too important to be allowed to emigrate or even to seek employment in the civilian sector. In hindsight, such a person was an obvious security risk, but so were most of the Russian scientists. Since the end of the Cold War, Russian weapons scientists had been turning up in the oddest places, including Iran, North Korea and Iraq. Nicolas’s predecessor from Wildfire had urged President Clinton to invite them to come live in the USA, where they could be debriefed and kept out of trouble, but the President had refused. He’d been too busy arguing over the details of presidential fellatio and hadn’t had the time to worry about a danger that might manifest in the future.
He watched as a third interrogator wheeled in a tray of devices and started to talk about them, explaining at great length what each of them would do to a person’s body, when they were used by a man experienced in making people hurt. One would remove teeth without anaesthetic; another, a simple pair of tweezers, would remove nose hairs one by one. One, looking rather like a spiky dildo, would do unspeakable things to a person’s vagina and rectum. Nicolas felt a sudden urge to be sick as the interrogator picked up one of the tools, just as Nadya burst into a high-speed torrent of Russian. Nicolas spoke Russian fluently, but the girl was speaking so fast it was impossible for him to follow her.
“A confession,” Zaitsev said, with heavy satisfaction. He grinned and slapped Nicolas on the shoulder, a blow heavy enough to make him stagger. The General seemed to be fond of acting like a bumpkin half the time, even though Nicolas knew better than to underestimate him. “I trust that this will please your superiors.”
Nicolas shrugged, mentally plotting to edit out the details from his report. Even with Henderson’s Disease carrying away hundreds of people per day, there was bound to be someone who would make a fuss over how the information had been obtained. It would have to be checked and verified, of course, just in case the girl was so scared that she’d made up a story on the spot, but it had the ring of truth. Combined with the report about the discovery of the Index Case in New York, it all added up to a terrifying picture.
The interrogation dragged on for hours. Now that she’d broken, Nadya couldn’t stop talking and had outlined everything she’d done to make money, from sleeping with some of her fellow scientists to offering several of the most dangerous biological weapons for sale to the highest bidder. Nicolas couldn’t believe his ears – it defied belief that someone could be so irresponsible, no matter their upbringing or the details of their life – yet it too had the ring of truth. He looked over at the General and shook his head. What kind of country created such dangerous people and then refused to treat them well?
Once the interrogation was complete, at least for the moment, Nicolas rode with the prisoner van back to the airport. One of the unmarked aircraft would hold her prisoner until she was flown back to the states, where she would be interrogated and drained dry, before she was charged with mass murder and terrorism. The Russians had made noises about charging her themselves, but they’d backed down when Nicolas had flatly refused to allow them to keep her. They knew that she could tell the United States far too much about their program, quite apart from the details of Henderson’s Disease. It still defied belief. Who in their right mind would allow someone to just walk out of the building with a vial of smallpox?
He returned to Air Force Two, passed the Marine guard on duty and entered the secure communications room. An ELINT scan checked that he hadn’t picked up any Russian surveillance devices – the Russians had been largely behaving themselves, but two of the team had gone out to paint Moscow red and had come back with several bugs affixed to their persons – before he activated the secure link to Washington. It took only five minutes before he was connected with the President.
“I think that we now know most of the truth,” he said, once he had given a brief rundown of their findings. They’d been making reports back every day, but there hadn’t been anything so significant. In the long term, the details of the Russian program were important, yet it didn’t help with the crisis. “And, Madam President, I think we know who to blame.”
His eyes narrowed. “We know who did this to us,” he added. “And, now, we can prove it in any court of law. We can go get them.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Societies exist in a precarious state between oppression and anarchy, where the government runs everything and there is no law, but the rule of the strong. Our society has been falling towards a strange combination of the two, where the federal government is all-powerful, yet anarchy is rising on the streets. When the law becomes a tool for political advantage, the underlying basis of the law is weakened and swept away. The surest way to do this is to
allow the politicians to evade the laws that they have created.
-Jim Revells
Near Mannington VA, USA
Day 22
“Fucking niggers.”
Jim looked over towards Fran Revells in surprise. Fran was his brother’s wife, a middle-aged woman with spectacles and something of a squint. She certainly was not the kind of person one would expect to come out with something like that, although he understood where she was coming from. Fran had grown up in a multicultural area and had boundless contempt for the inhabitants and the politicians who coddled them, rather than admit that decades of social engineering had failed to produce a stable society.
“That’s enough of that,” Brian said, firmly. “There are children present.”
Fran nodded, but refused to apologise. Almost all of the farm’s population was gathered in the living room, watching television. The trial of the Reverend Johnston – although Jim would not have willingly given the man any religious title – was in its second day. Johnston was trying to defend himself against charges that he had deliberately spread Henderson’s Disease and impeding the vaccination program, which the effect – the prosecutor claimed – of infecting over two hundred additional people with Henderson’s Disease. The long-term impact of his actions might remain impossible to calculate.
Jim shot his two sons a glare when they started to chatter away, before turning his attention back to the television set. The two boys had been acting up ever since the remainder of the family had arrived, going slowly stir crazy cooped up on the farm. It felt large to Jim, even though he knew their farm was tiny compared to some of the others in the area, but the younger children found it restrictive. They wanted to go off and explore the local area as they had during holidays to the farm, yet Jim had forbidden it, warning them that if they got out of the farm, they might not be let back in. God alone knew what they would bring with them.
The television cut to an interview with one of the talking heads and Jim listened with interest. “It has been stated,” the interviewer said, “that the Reverend Johnston and his people are being placed on trial far too early, with only one expected outcome. Would you agree with that?”
Senator Sam Hamlin frowned. Jim distrusted the man – he was a known liberal who had voted in favour of gun control and increased federal oversight over businesses – but he had to admit that the man was honest. Jim considered him misled, of course, yet that didn't make him an outright villain. America had been founded on the ability of many different people – of all political views – to come together as one. It would be a sorry day when holding the wrong political views became grounds for execution.
“The argument could go both ways,” Hamlin said, after a pause for thought. “There is no question of their guilt; they have admitted as much. Further, they have refused to lodge a plea and have even insisted on being recognised as prisoners of war, something that automatically limits their rights under American law. The prosecuting council is demanding the death penalty and I believe that the judge and jury will definitely agree.
“Yet at the same time, I do feel that events are moving too swiftly,” he added. “We do not yet have a fuller understanding of what happened to make Johnston and his men abandon the political process and launch a campaign of violence...”
“Change the channel,” someone snapped, from the rear. “I can’t face listening to that pompous baboon blathering on about something he knows nothing about, not even the basics. They’re guilty, we know they’re guilty, they admitted their guilt...hang them from the nearest tree and have done with it.”
Jim frowned, considering the issue. He had no qualms about executing the surviving terrorists, although he had never killed anyone himself and sometimes wondered if he would be able to pull the trigger, when the time came. They deserved death, if only because they had caused the deaths of hundreds of others, directly or indirectly. But he saw Hamlin’s point; perhaps there was no need to execute them quickly and, if the government was willing to execute them under the emergency protocols, it sent a worrying sign that normal law and order had been suspended. The survivalists had watched every change in the law with growing alarm, tracking the increasing number of federal agencies with the power to carry guns and make arrests, yet this was different. He could argue it both ways, leaving him unsure of which side to support.
“....Heavy fighting broke out again along the Texas-Mexico Border as the Mexican Civil War enters its second day,” the CNN newsreader said. She looked easier on the eye than the Senator, although she only said what she was given to say. “The chaos in Mexico has caused thousands of Mexicans to flee to the United States, despite the presence of armed border guards and shoot-to-kill orders issued by the President and the State Governors. The refugees have been armed and have even attempted to shoot their way through the border guards; some of them have even been escorted by straggler units of the Mexican Army. Governor Seguin of Texas has stated today that she does not intend to allow any refugees into her state, citing the danger of spreading Henderson’s Disease further into the United States.”
The scene changed to an image of the border line, with armed American soldiers and National Guardsmen battling against what seemed like an infinite number of refugees, some armed, others being used as human shields. A helicopter swooped overhead, laying down suppressing fire from its two machine guns, seemingly immune to anything the refugees had. A burning Mexican tank, hit by a missile from one of the helicopters, could be seen in the distance.
“Doctors, upon examining the bodies of some of the refugees, concluded that several of them were carrying Henderson’s Disease,” the newsreader added. “The State Government has issued warnings to the effect that taking in refugees, no matter their status, carries the risk of spreading Henderson’s Disease still further. The State Legislature will meet tomorrow online to discuss a proposal for the execution of anyone caught hiding an illegal immigrant. The proposal is not expected to pass, but has already sparked anger among the Hispanic community in the Southern United States.”
Jim blinked as he felt his cell phone buzzing against his hip. When he looked down at it, he saw a text message that read, simply, 4534. It was a code for one of many contingencies the survivalists had practiced over the years, a single car heading up the driveway towards the gate. He shared a look with Brian, who stood up to follow him as they headed out the door, picking up their weapons as they moved.
“Dad, we could come with you,” Robin said. The older boys looked eager for action, even after all the lectures on just how dangerous even a short gun fight could be and how easy it was to end up dead. “We could...”
“Hell, no,” Jim snapped. A single car wasn't going to be much of a problem; besides, he didn't want to expose the children to danger anytime soon. “You stay here and mind the store. I see you coming after us and I’ll tan your hides.”
Leaving them behind, he followed Brian out of the door and down the driveway to the gate. It had been built with malice aforethought; it looked no stronger than the average gate, but anything that attempted to break it down would know that it had been kissed. A tank could probably flatten it without taking too much damage, yet if a tank came along, they were probably dead anyway. The driver of the car would have to stop outside the gate, which just happened to have been designed as a death zone for anyone who wanted to fight. The guards could pour fire down from concealed positions into the vehicle.
“That’s the sheriff’s car,” Brian said, in some relief. Jim looked up at him sharply. He'd only met Mannington’s elected law enforcement officer once and hadn't been sure what to make of him. The man hadn’t seemed too impressed with the survivalists in his general area. “I’d better warn the guards not to shoot.”
Jim watched as the white car pulled up outside the gate and a single man got out, glancing around as if he knew just where the watchers were hidden. Jim’s family had strung all kinds of electronic security devices around the farm, but there was nothing quite as g
ood as a live pair of eyes. The sheriff looked slightly overweight, yet he was clearly competent, wearing his uniform as if he’d been born to the badge. He wore no mask, let alone a HAZMAT suit. Jim hoped that that was a good sign.
“Billy,” Brian called, waving to him. “I trust you will understand if I ask you not to come any closer?”
“I have been vaccinated,” the sheriff said, rather tartly. Jim and Brian exchanged glances, but neither of them were prepared to allow the sheriff through the gate, not if it could be helped. He could be carrying the disease even though he was vaccinated, as far as they knew, and there was no point in taking chances. “I have also been tasked with going around the farms and passing on a message.”
“Everyone’s battened down the hatches since the disease started to spread,” Brian muttered, when Jim looked puzzled. Jim could have kicked himself. It simply hadn't occurred to him that others would have gone to ground as well, even though it was precisely what his family had done. “You poor bastard, Billy; has the Mayor still not forgiven you for sleeping with his wife?”
The sheriff shrugged. “I don’t have time to chat,” he said. He reached into his car and produced a message cylinder, which he placed at the side of the gate. “I suggest that you read this message carefully and then act on it. I’ll be working from the office in Mannington for the foreseeable future, so if you have any questions just give me a call.”
The Coward's Way of War Page 23