America One - The Launch

by T I WADE

  Cuba is nice at this time of year

  The aircraft came in fast. This time nobody asked to land. They just came in, paratroopers from a dozen C-130s exploding all over the airfield. Ryan, now relaxed and smiling, looked over to see if the red light on the camera in front of the old-fashioned duel-directional Hughes satellite dish was on. It was and he waited refreshing his cup of coffee.

  Minutes later the first white jet came in from the west, braked hard and rushed onto the apron. The paratroopers already had the large apron surrounded and all watched the lone civilian man, in the middle of the apron drinking what looked like a cup of coffee. He was unarmed.

  Through their glasses they saw the extension cord of a land telephone and what looked like a handheld radio on the ground by his side.

  Bishop’s voice came across the radio. “Make sure he is unarmed, then I want every hangar opened. Shoot to kill anybody you see armed inside. I want no loose ends.”

  A team of men rushed Ryan who put his arms up, still holding onto his coffee.

  “He’s clean,” the leader stated into his head mike. Ryan watched as a second jet headed in from the east this time. Dozens of aircraft of all types circled above. A very overweight Joe Bishop walked up to Ryan with Tom Ward next to him. They wore evil grins on their faces. As they reached Ryan the handhelds across the apron became noisy.

  “Sierra Bravo III now on first orbit. Kick that prick Bishop in the nuts for me, Ryan. I’d do it myself if I were there. Colonel John Jones signing off. Out.”

  “Where is that son of a bitch?” Bishop asked looking around. Ryan smiled.

  “Oh! I think right above us and aiming several dozen lasers right at your head, and at the engine compartment of every aircraft you have here. Didn’t you hear him acknowledge your presence?” Bishop hit Ryan hard in the stomach, once and then twice before Ryan folded. Then both men decided to kick him hard while he was down. The soldiers just looked on. When they were done, one man whispered that he had seen a camera filming them from the roof of one of the hangars. Ward gave the order and several grenade launchers blew the corner of the hangar to bits.

  Twenty miles away, a shocked Joe Downs told his crew to wrap up. The recordings were done and the camera was no more.

  “All the hangars are empty,” shouted the soldiers one by one as they reported in. General Mortimer arrived in civilian dress and kicked Ryan hard in the stomach as he was still writhing in agony on the ground. Bishop told him that they were being filmed and Mortimer refrained from more punishment.

  Ryan could hardly breathe. He was gasping for air as two soldiers grabbed his arms and dragged him along the apron to Mortimer’s waiting jet. They dragged him bumping up the stairs and threw his body onto one of the chairs. “Get him on the floor!” ordered Mortimer. “I don’t want blood all over my seats.” He shouted at the pilot to take off.

  It took him half an hour before he could sit up. His ribs didn’t feel good. “No cameras where we are going?” suggested Ryan to the general now relaxed and having breakfast.

  “Where we are going there are not many Americans,” laughed the general. “You are not even going to see the good old U.S. of A. anymore, ever. Our next stop is Guantanamo, as we promised. I have a friend there, my youngest brother, to look after you.”

  “Must be a pretty long range jet for a round trip,” Ryan replied.

  “Latest Gulfstream V with extended range,” Mortimer smiled. “We only have the best tools; money is no object at our level.”

  Ryan slept, there wasn’t much to do, and Mortimer wasn’t worth talking too. He just hoped they had an infirmary or hospital there.

  The Gulfstream landed several hours later. Ryan was seized from behind and pushed forward to the closest building, stripped searched, and told to put on the orange prison jumpsuit. Every time he tried to open his mouth the guard slapped him hard. He gave up. Once he was dressed and shackled, he was dragged unceremoniously along the asphalt to the medical unit. Here the doctor inspected him.

  “A little worse for wear,” the American military doctor stated.

  “Just the usual government greeting given to U.S. citizens,” Ryan replied.

  “You’re American?” asked the doctor quite shocked at Ryan’s accent. “We have very few American prisoners in here, three to be exact.”

  “Well I was American until I was abducted from my company premises in Nevada eight hours ago,” Ryan replied.

  “That’s funny the other three all said the same sort of thing. What possible crime have you committed to end up here?” the military doctor asked inspecting his ribs. Ryan winced as they were touched gently.

  “Running our businesses, employing Americans and paying our taxes. That seems to now be a crime in the United States,” Ryan replied grimacing with pain.

  “Sounds fishy to me. I believe you have two cracked ribs. I need to run an x-ray,” and the doctor told the guards waiting by the door that this man would be admitted for further examination.

  Ryan spent a week in the hospital ward. He was the only patient and the doctor kept the guards from hauling his butt to the confinement cells. Once he could stand and walk with little pain, he was roughly pulled out of the ward and marched to a new building. Here he was thrown into a small cell, and the door locked behind him.

  The cell had one blanket on the floor and a hole in the cement an architect somewhere called a toilet.

  For three days he received no food, no one visited him and the only sound he ever heard was faint singing several times a day; sounds that would be heard in the Middle East, near a Mosque.

  On the third day, he was about to pass out from hunger when his cell door was opened, a thin slice of moldy bread and a glass of water was thrown in, and the door closed. The same happened the next day.

  A day later, two guards dragged him out to a larger room with a chair and a table. He sat in the chair, the guards behind him and waited.

  A military policeman, a lieutenant, walked in and stood over Ryan.

  “Name, nationality, country of origin,” the tall thickly set soldier demanded.

  “Ryan Richmond, U.S. citizen, born in the United States,” Ryan replied.

  “Crap! You are a captured terrorist from Iran. Now state your name or we will water board it out of you.”

  Ryan repeated his name over and over again, and the lieutenant slapped him every time he said it.

  For two more days this interrogation was re-enacted.

  On the third day Ryan got angry. He looked up at the lieutenant. “Lieutenant Mortimer, the next time I am in Washington, I will give your name and rank to the powers that be.”

  Ryan received another harder slap which this time opened his lip, and he was dragged back to his cell.

  The next visitor was the doctor who managed to get the thinner prisoner back to the infirmary for two more days. Mortimer tried twice to get him out, but the doctor, a captain, told him to go to hell. Ryan ate everything that was put in front of him. On the second day, he was told by the doctor, that the doctor had spoken to friends, and he could expect to receive visitors soon.

  Three days passed with Lieutenant Mortimer opening up his lip again each day. On the fourth he was awakened by his cell door opening.

  To Joe Everson, who opened the door, Ryan looked and smelled as bad as any of the other prisoners he had seen here in his three prior visits to Cuba. Ryan was helped up by two men in civilian clothes who removed his shackles and helped him along the hallway. The group was confronted by Lieutenant Mortimer, who wanted to know what was going on. Before Everson could reply, Ryan’s right leg connected hard between the Lieutenant’s legs at full force, and the man screamed like a pig and fell into a ball on the floor.

  Ryan already felt better. It had been a good solid kick. Joe laughed and Ryan was helped outside.

  There were two jets on the runway and two men talking to the doctor who had treated Ryan. Ryan, his eyesight pretty bad without his glasses, which had been taken away from him wi
th his clothing, could see that three other prisoners were also being helped to one of the aircraft.

  Martin Brusk and the former president were the best faces he had ever hoped to see.

  “I should have closed this place when I had the chance, Ryan. I personally apologize for what our country has put you through. Martin is taking you to a safe place. I will take the other three with me. The CBS documentary we filmed together is going to air this Sunday, a special one-hour program, and I was afraid that somebody might want to make sure you were really history once it aired. There is a copy of the documentary for you to view on your flight. From Sunday onwards, Ryan, the U.S. will be a different place. With the changes and upheaval about to take place in this country, I think going with you would have been the better bet, but somebody has to clean up the stable. My friend, look after yourself and make that call to me from space when you get there.”