Transition

by Henry Charles Mishkoff

  “You shouldn’t be in here, Stan,” G.W. says firmly, grabbing Kennedy by the arm. “Let’s go someplace where we can talk.”

  But Kennedy will not be budged. Shaking off G.W.’s grasp, he points an accusing finger at the glass. “Those people… those people are being beaten. My God, they’re being tortured, nothing less. This is an outrage.” Ignoring G.W., he turns sharply to Karnaga, his round face flushed with anger. “This hideous abuse must stop at once! At once, do you hear me?”

  Karnaga says nothing. After an uncomfortably long silence, it dawns on G.W. that he is expected to intercede.

  “Stan,” he says, “it’s not what you think.” That sounds weak, even to G.W. “It’s not the way it looks.” That sounds no better.

  “What are you talking about?” Kennedy whirls to face G.W. “Don’t you have eyes? Can’t you see? Look what they’re… oh my God, that… that beast just hit that girl with that… that thing… and she’s all covered with blood… oh my dear God… This is an abomination!”

  “Stan, listen to me. Listen to me!”

  And Kennedy does actually tear his attention away from the window and look expectantly at G.W., as if he’s hoping that perhaps G.W. will be able to provide some kind of reasonable explanation after all.

  “Stan, I know it looks rough…” G.W. starts.

  “Looks rough! It’s positively barbaric, G.W. You know it as well as I!”

  And then G.W.’s composure cracks, and he clutches at Kennedy’s arm like a disconsolate child. “Stan,” he pleads, “it’s the only way to save Jill, don’t you see that? These people know where Jill is, but they won’t tell us. I’ve tried being nice to them, as God is my witness. But it doesn’t do any good, Stan, it just doesn’t make a damned bit of difference. They aren’t people, Stan, they’re scum, don’t you see? They don’t deserve to be treated any better than this. They…”

  “Are you telling me that you condone this… this barbarity?” Kennedy is incredulous. “G.W., have you lost your senses?”

  “God damn it, Stan!” G.W. screams. “Those animals kidnapped my daughter! She’s your goddaughter, Stan, don’t you remember that? We have to find out where she is before they kill her or… or God knows what. If we don’t…”

  But Kennedy’s expression only hardens. “G.W.,” he hisses, through clenched teeth, “I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that you have let your grief get the best of you. You are obviously not entirely rational, or you would never…”

  “Don’t you feed me that line of horseshit,” G.W. growls, and the two men face off like angry bears. “This isn’t some fucking game. There aren’t any rules here. They forfeited any rights they may have had to be treated like human beings when they took my little girl away from me. And if you had any balls at all…”

  “Oh, please, G.W., spare me your Texas macho baloney,” Kennedy says, through clenched teeth. “If you have been observing this… this savagery and have not objected to it, then you are no better than these ‘animals,’ as you call them. You’ve reverted to their level.”

  “It’s the only way to fight them, Stan, can’t you see that? If we don’t meet them on their own terms, we don’t stand a chance.”

  “We must become barbarians to fight barbarity?” Kennedy scoffs. “Stuff and nonsense. If we sink to their level of depravity, then we have lost the right to call ourselves civilized human beings. We are no better than they are. If they have committed crimes, they should be tried and punished…”

  “Now you spare me the liberal Boston bullshit,” G.W. counters. “I don’t give a flying fuck who’s better than who. You can call me anything you want. I just want my little girl back, safe and sound, and I’m willing to do whatever it takes to make that happen. And heaven help anybody that gets in my way.”

  And with that vague threat, G.W. balls his hands into tight fists and glares at Kennedy, who glowers right back at him. They stand toe to toe, face to face, the irresistible force and the immovable object.

  Finally, Kennedy shakes his head and sighs. “I’m sorry that it has come to this, G.W.,” he says, sadly. “But I simply cannot allow this to continue.” He turns to Karnaga, who has remained curiously impassive throughout the entire exchange. “You will instruct your men to cease this outrage at once,” he says, in measured tones.

  “Stan,” G.W. snaps, “you can’t just…”

  “You will arrange for these… these unfortunates to be examined by a physician…”

  “Stan, what the hell do you think you’re…” Angry.

  “…and you will continue the questioning in a civilized manner, in accordance with standards of human decency…”

  “For the love of God…” Pleading.

  “…or I shall be forced to report this matter to the appropriate authorities…”

  “Stan, I’m begging you not to…” Desperate.

  “…and to the press, if necessary.”

  “Oh, Jesus, Stan, you’re killing her, don’t you understand?” Resigned.

  “Now you listen to me,” Kennedy says, whirling to face G.W. “You know that I love Jillian as if she were my own daughter. And I would gladly risk my own life to protect her. But I cannot stand idly by while these depraved lunatics subject their prisoners to horrendous torture in a misguided attempt to extract information. The ends do not justify the means. Even though they may be criminals, they are human beings.”

  “But they’re terrorists, don’t you see? They’re disgusting, dirty pigs. They don’t…”

  “And if we leap into the same slime in which they wallow we are no better than they are. By condoning this treatment, G.W., you have become a terrorist yourself. That wretched girl is someone’s daughter too, you know.”

  G.W. visibly sags, defeated. No, she’s not anyone’s daughter, he thinks. Not anymore. She’s just another victim of the never-ending cycle of violence. Her parents are murdered by the government, so she takes her revenge by joining a group of kidnappers, so she gets herself beaten to a bloody pulp…

  Crimes upon crimes. Horrors upon horrors. What’s next? Where does it go from here? Where does it end?

  He feels utterly helpless, like a man who goes out for an afternoon swim in a placid lake when a sudden storm springs up out of nowhere and he’s caught up in a whirling vortex, inexorably dragging him down, down…

  “Now,” Kennedy announces, turning back to Karnaga. “You will stop the violence against your prisoners at once. I will walk down the hall for a few moments to allow you to clean them up and treat their wounds. When I return, I shall speak with them. You will provide me with an interpreter. If you do as I say, I shall not reveal what I have seen to anyone. If you do not do as I say…”

  Leaving the remainder of his threat unspoken, Kennedy casts a final glance at G.W., then he turns and leaves the room.

  There’s a long silence. G.W. stares at the floor. Karnaga gazes impassively through the two-way glass into the interrogation room.

  “Well, hell,” G.W. finally says, softly. “I guess that tears your little plan all to shit, doesn’t it?”

  He looks hopefully at Karnaga. Surely the commander has an alternate plan, an ace up his sleeve? But Karnaga, his face inscrutable, merely shrugs and follows Kennedy through the door, leaving G.W. alone in the viewing room. A moment later, one of Karnaga’s men pokes his head into the interrogation room and speaks a few words. The interrogators glance at each other with obvious disappointment, reluctantly stop what they’re doing, and walk out of the room.

  Staring through the two-way glass, G.W. is filled with conflicting emotions. The two prisoners sit side by side, bound hand-and-foot to identical metal chairs. Harakeem’s face is swollen beyond recognition. Anna has fared somewhat better, but she’s barely recognizable as the pretty young girl who had staggered into the room only an hour ago. Sitting nearly motionless, they seem to be barely conscious. Their eyes, while open, do not appear to be focused. Anna’s head sways slowly from side to side, as if she were
keeping time to some unheard music. Harakeem shakes his head spasmodically, in what seems to be more of an involuntary shudder than a conscious movement.

  They don’t realize it’s over, G.W. thinks. They don’t even know that they’ve won.

  And then, to G.W.’s surprise, the interrogation room door swings open and Commander Tanaqo Karnaga strides in, revolver in hand. My God, G.W. thinks, with a jolt. My God, he’s going to go through with the plan after all! But how can he do that? Surely he knows that Stan will blow the whistle on him. The press will have a field day with it. At best, he’ll lose his job. At worst, he could spend some time in jail. Or worse.

  But then, curiously, Karnaga walks over to the far side of the room and places the gun carefully on a small, cluttered desk that stands in the corner. Then he turns and walks back to the door. But before he leaves the room, he stops and stares directly at G.W., his eyes narrowed to slits.

  For a moment, G.W. has the eerie impression that Karnaga can see him through the two-way mirror. But no, G.W. thinks, he can’t see me. But he probably has a pretty good idea of where I am. But why is he staring at me like that? And why did he leave the gun on the table…

  And then, in a flash, he understands. It’s warm in the small viewing room, but a sudden chill rushes up G.W.’s spine and explodes in his brain. He breaks out in a cold, clammy sweat. His knees begin to shake. He staggers backward, as if blown by a sudden gust. Oh my God, he says, in a terrified whisper. Oh my dear, sweet Jesus.

  The plan is still in effect. That’s why the gun is on the table. That’s what Karnaga’s stare means. He wants to make sure I know what’s going on.

  Now I know why Karnaga’s been letting me in on all this. I was his ace-in-the-hole, his fail-safe if something went wrong. He’s known all along that something like this could happen. He’s kept me around as his insurance policy.

  He’s had this plan in mind from the very beginning. Maybe he hoped that he wouldn’t have to use it, but he’s had it simmering on the back burner, just in case.

  And just when he felt that the time to execute the plan had finally arrived, J. Stanton Kennedy busted in and threw a monkey wrench into the works.

  But Stan didn’t change anything, after all. Not really. All he did was make Karnaga resort to his ace-in-the-hole. And so, despite Stan’s interference, Karnaga’s plan is still on.

  But now, it’s not Karnaga that gets to execute the plan.

  It’s me.

  5.2.22: Tanami

  For a long minute, G.W. stands motionless. He’s in a trance, as if he’s suspended in time. He watches as Karnaga finally opens the door and leaves the interrogation room. He watches as the prisoners begin to stir, shifting slowly, painfully in their chairs.

  I’ve got to act quickly, he thinks. He tries to will himself into action. Stan’s going to be back in a few minutes. If I’m going to do it, I have to do it now.

  But can I do it?

  It would have been one thing to stand by and watch Karnaga do it. Difficult, yes, but certainly possible. Especially after all I’ve witnessed today. But taking matters into my own hands is another thing altogether.

  He tries to imagine it. He pictures himself walking into the interrogation room. He sees himself picking up the revolver, spinning the cylinder to check for cartridges, and then… and then…

  And then he knows that he can’t do it.

  He bows his head and covers it with his hands. To his surprise, he discovers that he’s shaking. God help me, he thinks, I just can’t do it. Karnaga’s just going to have to understand. He’ll think that I’m weak. And maybe I am. But I just can’t bring myself to do it. It runs against everything I believe in, everything that I’ve ever been taught in my entire life. I’d never be able to justify or rationalize it. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself.

  It would be like… like I had forfeited my soul. I wouldn’t even know who I was anymore.

  I just can’t do it.

  But…

  But what about Jill?

  Where is she now? What are they doing to her? What’s going through her mind? Has she given up? Or is she holding on to some last ray of hope because, deep down in her heart, she knows that her daddy’s going to save her? Is she gaining strength from the knowledge that her daddy’s doing everything (everything!) in his power, everything (EVERYTHING!) that is humanly possible – and then some – to find her?

  G.W. groans, a piteous sound that flows from his lips like a deathbed wheeze.

  It’s no use, he thinks. It’s not in me. I just can’t do it.

  But from somewhere in the corner of his brain an image fights its way to the surface. And in his mind’s eye he sees her, his lovely daughter, she’s as radiant as the sun. But her beautiful face is scarred from terrible beatings, and her clothes are in tatters. But while her body is broken, her spirit is strong, unbowed. And she’s looking at him. She’s staring at him. She’s counting on him!

  And her lips move, and she says, Daddy? Daddy? Help me, Daddy. I don’t know how much longer I can hold on! Her eyes are boring into him, and she knows that he will save her, she’s absolutely, unequivocally certain that he’s coming to get her, he’s on his way, because he loves her with all his heart and with all his soul. And nothing can stop him, nothing can protect those who would do her harm.

  And suddenly, it’s all so clear. His trembling stops. A palpable sense of peace washes over him.

  No, he can’t do it.

  But yes, he will do it.

  Because he has to do it.

  For Jill. He has to do it for his little girl.

  It’s really just that simple.

  5.2.23: Tanami

  “Tell me,” he says. “Tell me where my daughter is.”

  G.W. pulls back the hammer and presses the muzzle of the revolver firmly against the side of Harakeem’s head, just above a bloody ear. The surprised prisoner swivels his head around slowly to see who has come up behind him. The face that stares blankly at G.W. barely resembles a human face at all. Two sunken eyes peer at G.W. from a sea of flesh that is puffed and bruised, raw and bleeding, almost beyond recognition.

  G.W.’s resolve wavers, but only for an instant. Then he grabs Harakeem’s head with one meaty hand, spins it back away from him, and presses it down firmly. With the other hand, he shoves the business end of the revolver against Harakeem’s forehead.

  “Tell me where she is,” he repeats. “Tell me where she is or I’ll blow your fucking head off.”

  The sound of his voice sounds unreal to him, as if he were listening to someone else instead of speaking himself. His words are flat, lifeless, as if they’re being absorbed by the soundproofing material that covers the walls nearly as soon as they leave his lips. An instant after he’s spoken, he’s not even certain that he’s actually said anything at all.

  The room had seemed forebodingly silent when G.W. entered it. He was barely able to hear his own footsteps as he retrieved the gun and walked up behind the two chairs that sit side by side, facing the mirror through which he had been looking just moments – or was it hours? days? – ago. Until he spoke, there had been no sound at all, nothing but the eerie silence that rang hollowly through his fevered brain.

  But now Harakeem is speaking, but not in English. He’s asking Anna what I said, G.W. thinks. And indeed, seconds later, Anna responds with a short burst of speech that G.W. assumes is a translation.

  “Tell your friend,” G.W. says, “that if he doesn’t tell me where my daughter is right now, I’m going to splatter his brains all over the walls.”

  Anna is silent.

  “Tell him!” G.W. screams.

  He regrets raising his voice almost immediately. Got to stay calm, he thinks. Can’t lose it now.

  Then again, maybe it’s not such a bad idea to let them think that I’m a little crazy. Maybe then they’ll believe that it’s not just an idle threat.

  But when Anna translates G.W.’s words, Harakeem merely laughs and spits out a few sneering phras
es.

  “He says that he will never talk,” Anna says defiantly. G.W. glances at her grotesquely swollen face. “He will never talk,” she repeats, with a smug self-assurance that G.W. finds to be supremely unnerving. “So you can save your pathetic threats.”

  Harakeem squirms under his hand, but G.W. holds his head firmly in place. Finally sagging under G.W.’s relentless pressure, Harakeem shouts something unintelligible, then he’s still once again.

  “He says,” Anna translates, “that you will not shoot him. He says that you are bluffing.”

  “He’s wrong,” G.W. sighs. “He’s dead wrong.”

  The shot booms like a cannon blast, shattering the deadened air like an explosion. The horrible sound seems to reverberate endlessly, echoes upon echoes, filling the small room with a deafening roar that goes on and on. And then G.W. realizes that the roar has become a howl, and it’s Anna, she’s wordlessly shrieking her lungs out, a primal scream of pain.

  Harakeem, after one terrible spasm, pitches forward lifelessly in his chair, a small, neat hole in one side of his head and a terrible gaping red wound in the other. Anna is splattered with his blood and bits of bone and flesh and slabs of what G.W. thinks might have been Harakeem’s brain, like so many tiny scraps of raw meat.

  “You bastard!” Anna is screaming. She struggles frantically against her bonds, but with no effect. And then she’s shouting at him in a language that he doesn’t understand, with occasional flashes of English – “…Murderer… American pig!… Don’t touch me… Get away from me… You killed him…” The screams gave way to wrenching sobs. Her body shakes like she’s nothing more than a rag doll.

  “Now you,” G.W. says. Got to do this fast. Don’t give her time to think. “Where is she? Where are your friends holding my daughter?” He holds her head still with one hand and he presses the gun firmly to her temple with the other.

  It’s not going to work, he thinks, with rising panic. She’s so furious about me shooting her boyfriend that she’d rather die than talk. I killed a man for nothing. In fact, it may have hardened her resolve.