Invasion

by James Rosone

  As they approached the parking area, Roberto noticed a Bentley Mulsanne with blacked-out windows. When Francisco opened the trunk, Roberto let out a soft whistle. He’d prepared himself to ride in whatever town car this driver had brought.

  Francisco explained, “Your wife said you have always wanted to own one of these cars. It just so happens that our company purchased one a few weeks ago for VIPs such as you.”

  Roberto was practically speechless. I love my wife so much, he thought as he glided into the back seat of this work of art.

  Francisco made his way around to the front of the vehicle and climbed in the driver side. In no time, they were leaving the airport and heading in the direction of his home near the water.

  This car is beautiful. My wife has outdone herself this time.

  About ten minutes into their drive, Francisco announced, “Mr. Lamy, your wife has one more surprise for you. She has arranged for a special dinner party at one of her friend’s homes. The house is located in the Gávea neighborhood. It’s a beautiful place. It used to be a coffee plantation. I hope you don’t mind me driving you straight there—she was rather insistent.”

  Roberto saw Francisco look at him in the rearview mirror to gauge his response. He was sure his expression must have soured—he was exhausted. All he wanted to do was take a hot shower and go to sleep in his own bed.

  “Let me just verify that with my wife if you don’t mind.”

  Francisco smiled and nodded as he continued to drive them toward their destination.

  Pulling his smartphone out, Roberto hit the speed dial to his wife’s phone. A second later, he realized the call hadn’t gone through. He pulled the phone down from the side of his face to look at the screen and noticed that there was no cell reception.

  “I think we must be going through a dead zone,” Roberto remarked. Then he looked up at Francisco and noticed that his driver was suddenly wearing a small respirator mask that covered the lower half of his face.

  “What the hell?” he asked. That was all he managed to get out before a mist was blown in his face from the air vents in front of him. In a fraction of a second, his vision blurred into hazy red stars, and then he was unconscious.

  *******

  “Is he still out?”

  “Yeah. He’ll be out for at least another hour unless you want us to wake him up,” the medical doctor on staff replied.

  Smith shook his head. “No. Let him sleep a bit more. It’s best if he wakes up naturally to his new environment.”

  The doctor nodded and went back to watching the man’s heart rhythm on the nearby screen.

  Smith turned and saw Seth and Ashley nearby, looking at their prisoner.

  “Why is he naked and chained to the floor and chair like that?” asked Ashley, concern and curiosity in her voice.

  Smith could tell she was uncomfortable with the scene before her, but he just smiled disarmingly. “It’s called conditioning. We need to start the disorientation process before we begin the serious questioning,” Seth explained.

  Ashley looked at him with uncertainty written all over her face.

  “You know, you don’t need to be a part of this, Ms. Bonhauf,” Smith offered. “If you’d like, you can go back to the house and work with the analysts or observe from the monitoring room.”

  “That’s not a bad idea, Ashley,” agreed Ed. “What you’re about to see isn’t something you can un-see.”

  “Does the ambassador know we’re here, and does the legal attaché know what’s about to happen?” Then she put her hand to her forehead as if she suddenly felt stupid for asking that question.

  Smith sighed. “Ashley, this is a CIA black site. No, the ambassador has no idea we are here or what we’re about to do. It’s called plausible deniability. He can’t lie about something he doesn’t know is happening. As to the legat, that’s why we have you here. We need someone from the FBI here in case this guy starts to talk about a US person. If that happens, then you’ll liaise that with the Attorney General, the FBI Director, and no one else.”

  She bit her lower lip and nodded slowly. “I’m sorry, Smith. I didn’t mean to imply anything. I guess I’m just new to this kind of stuff. I didn’t know what to expect.”

  Ed placed a hand on her shoulder. “It’s OK, Ashley. I said the same thing back in Yemen. Don’t worry. These guys are a lot better at this stuff now than they were back then. They’ve worked the kinks out, so to speak.”

  “He’s starting to stir,” the doctor announced.

  They all turned to look into the interrogation room. Mr. Lamy slowly moved his head and mumbled a few unintelligible sounds.

  “I guess that’s my cue,” Seth said. He walked out of the room with the one-way mirror and entered the hallway. A few seconds later, he was opening the door to the interrogation room.

  *******

  Seth made his way over to the table and the only other chair in the room. He picked up the chair, placed it on the ground next to Roberto and sat down.

  Roberto slowly started to come to. As he did, he realized he was naked and moaned. He tried to move his arms and discovered they were chained to the floor. There was just enough slack in the chains for him to bring his hands up to the table, but not enough slack for him to rub his eyes unless he bent his face down to his hands.

  Roberto blinked several times as he looked around the room. It was a dirty and dingy little hole, with paint peeling off the walls. Two lightbulbs hung at opposite ends of the room, which cast ominous shadows everywhere. Then, as if his eyes had finally regained the ability to focus, he noticed Seth, who was wearing a sports jacket and denim jeans and sitting only about two feet away from him.

  Roberto’s voice was hoarse as he whispered, “Where am I? What is this place, and who are you?”

  Seth cocked his head to the right as if pondering how he wanted to answer his question. “My name is irrelevant. As to where you are…you’re still in Brazil. In Rio, to be more precise. As to what this place is—well, it’s a quiet place where you and I can have a conversation.”

  In the middle of Seth’s answer, Roberto startled, as if the fog in his mind had cleared enough for him to realize the mystery man before him was speaking English. “I’m a Brazilian citizen on Brazilian soil. You can’t do this to me,” he frantically stammered. “I’m also the Director-General of the World Trade Organization. You can’t just kidnap me like this. There are people who will know I’m missing.”

  “Mr. Lamy, we have some questions we’d like to ask you, and the sooner you answer them, the sooner we can get this whole situation resolved. I’m sure it’s just some sort of big misunderstanding,” Seth explained.

  Roberto’s eyes darted around the room briefly as he listened to Seth. Then he nodded his head. “Yes, I’m sure this is some sort of misunderstanding,” he agreed. “I’m sure we can work out whatever it is. What is it you want to know?”

  Seth smiled slightly as he scooted his chair in closer, invading Roberto’s personal space. Seth leaned in even further, placing his face within a few inches of Roberto’s. “Let’s talk about Senator Marshall Tate.”

  Roberto’s eyes shot open a little wider before he regained his composure. “You mean President Marshall Tate? What about him?” he asked.

  “That’s a nice try,” said Seth, “but let’s talk about how he became President. A week ago, you placed a call to Peng An, saying that Senator Tate was ‘holding up his end of the agreement, but China wasn’t.’” He read the quote from a piece of paper he’d almost magically produced. “I’d like to know what you meant by that.”

  Roberto Lamy suddenly became visibly nervous. Sweat beads formed on his forehead, and his cheeks blushed, despite the room temperature hovering around seventy-four degrees. His fingers started to tremble. His eyes darted around as if calculating a method of escape, but there was no way out. He’d been caught.

  Seth watched all of these reactions with a calm smile. After a moment, Roberto’s eyes looked up and to the ri
ght; Seth recognized this as a tell that he was trying to think of something creative or imaginary as opposed to something factual. Seth even observed that Roberto’s pulse had increased substantially, to the point that he could see the carotid artery pulsing beneath the skin in his neck.

  Roberto stammered as he tried to answer Seth’s question. He finally spat out, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. The only dealings I have with Peng are trade-related. He’s head of the China Investment Corporation. They are a substantial and influential sovereign wealth fund.”

  Seth nodded at the nonresponse, then pressed from another vantage point. “OK, then let’s talk about how Senator Tate fits into all of this. What deal has he made with the WTO that involves China?”

  Roberto’s body was having a hard time trying to control his emotions. Finally, he whispered under his breath, “I, um, President Tate was wanting to work out a new trade deal with the Chinese when this war was over.”

  Seth snickered at the response. He sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Mr. Lamy—can I call you Roberto?” The man nodded, and Seth proceeded. “Roberto, you and I both know that’s not true. You expect me to believe that you and Peng were talking about a trade deal Senator Tate wants to have between the US and China after the Chinese get done invading America? I mean, seriously. Listen to what you just said and how preposterous that sounds. How about you level with me and answer my questions truthfully so we can let you go.”

  The two of them went back and forth for probably five more minutes before Seth finally made the first ultimatum. “Listen to me, Roberto. If you’re unwilling to talk with me here and now, then I’m going to move you out of Brazil, and it may be a very long time before you return home…if you are returned at all. Now, tell me about this plan you and Peng were discussing about Senator Marshall Tate and how he fits into it.”

  “You can’t do this!” Roberto screamed in frustration, stress and his emotions finally getting the better of him. “I’m the Director-General of the World Trade Organization! You can’t just kidnap me in my own country like this. I demand you let me go!”

  Without breaking eye contact with Roberto, Seth snapped his fingers, letting the others know it was time to move to the next phase.

  “I tried to be reasonable with you, Roberto. I’m sorry, but we’re going to have to take you with us to talk in a more conducive environment,” Seth explained. Two other men in black 5.11 tactical clothes walked into the room.

  One of the men placed a pair of noise-canceling headphones on Roberto’s head while the other man placed a sensory device over his eyes. They turned the two systems on. Seth knew that Roberto’s ears were being bombarded with a disorienting noise, and his eyes were being flooded by a myriad of flashing and strobing lights. Together, this input would overwhelm the sensory receptors of the detainee’s body. His mind would now lose complete track of time and space.

  Next, they placed a hard, rubberized ball with several small air holes over his mouth and then snapped the straps behind his head so he couldn’t talk or even scream above a whimper. Roberto’s entire world now consisted of whatever Seth wanted.

  A minute later, the Agency doctor walked into the room. Craning his head around to make sure the subject couldn’t hear them talking, he asked, “When do you want us to give him the shot?” In his hand was a hypodermic needle filled with some sort of medication.

  Seth looked at his watch. “Give him exactly three minutes, and then give it to him.”

  He turned to the guards. “Once he’s out, I want him moved to the other room. Make sure he’s strapped into the chair and it’s hung from the ceiling. I want him to feel as if he’s floating in space.”

  The guards nodded, and Seth got up. He headed out of the interrogation room and back to the observation room Smith and Ashley were sitting in. When he walked in, Smith clapped his hands a couple of times. “Well done, Seth. You have him completely terrified of what’s coming next.”

  Ashley looked a little green. She continued to observe the guards as they carried Roberto’s limp body out of the room with the sensory deprivation equipment still attached. Then Ashley looked at Seth. “Where are you guys taking him?” she asked.

  “Here. Come take a look,” Seth replied as he motioned for her to follow him.

  They walked down the hallway as they followed the guards to the next interrogation room—a room that looked like it could have come from a completely different building. The walls, floor, and ceiling were a bright white. It looked like a very sterile twelve by sixteen-foot room. In the center of the room was a small table, where a piece of equipment was being fastened down.

  “What’s that?” she asked, pointing to the device.

  “That, my friend, measures all of the detainee’s biological tells: their pupil dilation, perspiration, and pulse,” explained Smith. “When Mr. Lamy is hooked up to it, we’ll be able to easily validate whether what he’s telling us is truthful or deceitful in real-time.”

  While Smith was telling Ashley how the equipment worked, the guards carried Roberto’s limp body into the room and strapped him into a soft, plush chair. Next, they grabbed a chain that was attached to the front of the chair between Roberto’s legs. They lifted the chair with him in it about six inches off the ground and attached the chain to a hook that was hanging from the ceiling. In a matter of minutes, Roberto was hanging from the chair, suspended in the air. Seconds later, the chair turned in a slow circle.

  Ashley looked at Seth and Smith with a quizzical look. Smith motioned for them to walk over to the observation room and sit down.

  “What is all of that?” she said as she waved her hands in the direction of the interrogation room.

  “Before we hooked Roberto up to the sensory deprivation equipment, I told him we were going to take him to another country where we could talk more,” Seth reminded her. “Then we placed the devices on his eyes and ears. Five minutes attached to that thing feels like an hour or more. It completely messes with your mind and eliminates the ability to tell time.

  “All of this will make him believe he’d been moved to a new location. In an hour or so, we’ll have the doctor slowly wake him up. He’ll still have the devices attached to him, doing their work. We’ll come back and question him after dinner. By the time we do, he’ll believe he’s been in that device for several days, maybe even a week or more.” Seth paused for a second before he concluded, “Ashley, it’s all about preparing his mind. The more we control and prep his environment and his internal perceptions, the more effective this next interrogation will be.”

  “Wow. I’ve heard of a lot of crazy interrogations, but this takes the cake,” Ashley remarked. “Why do you have him hanging from a chair that’s turning in slow circles like that?”

  “It helps with the disorientation process,” Smith explained. “The subject essentially feels like they are floating through time and space. It completely and utterly disturbs their mind to such a point that they are practically numb and going crazy when it’s taken off.”

  “All right, enough questions,” said Seth. “Before we move him to the next stage of the interrogation, it’s time to get some grub.”

  Chapter 17

  Partisans

  April 2, 2021

  Flint, Michigan

  Bishop International Airport

  Nearly a thousand men and women stood around inside the hangar, waiting for Luitenant-Kolonel Maarten van Rossum of 105 Commando Company and the local Michigan Civil Defense Force leader to address them. The local commander, a man by the name of Treyvon Robinson, appeared nervous.

  “Are you sure the German division in Chicago surrendered?” Robinson asked, wringing his hands.

  “I’m afraid so,” said van Rossum. “A lot of my own countrymen surrendered as well.”

  Robinson crossed his arms. “What are we supposed to do now? How are we going to stop the federal forces when they head this way?”

  Van Rossum didn’t know how to respond. He felt
bad for the guy. Robinson wasn’t a trained military officer—he was a union foreman at the local General Motors plant in town. He’d been appointed to his position as colonel of the Michigan CDF because he’d rallied a few thousand people to take up arms against the federal government. The initial goal had been to allow these militia forces several months to get trained up before they were thrown into combat, but with the Germans surrendering, that was not going to happen now.

  After several seconds of silence, Robinson sighed loudly. “How’re you and your guys going to help? Will you be fighting with us?”

  Van Rossum tilted his head to the right. “Before the Germans surrendered, they made sure my unit got access to a lot of their weapons and ammunition,” he said. “We’re going to hand over five thousand Colt C7s—they’re basically Canadian versions of your AR-15 assault rifles. I’m told many of your militia members are familiar with these rifles, so we’re going to give them to you. We also have roughly fifty million rounds of ammo to go along with them.”

  Robinson’s eyes went wide when he mentioned how much ammo and rifles they were being given.

  Van Rossum held a hand up before the man could pepper him with questions. “We’ve been hiding the ammo and some of the rifles in different weapon cache locations all over Genesee County and nearby counties. We’re also going to hand over around a thousand hand grenades, six hundred Panzerfaust 3 rockets, and about eighty launchers. We placed them in different caches as well. This way, if the federal forces capture one, they don’t nab your entire supply.”

  “What about mortars or Stingers?” asked Robinson.

  Since Robinson had formed up his militia force nearly nine weeks ago, they had largely been training with their personally owned AR-15s and hunting rifles. They didn’t have a lot of ammo to burn, so they hadn’t spent a lot of time at the rifle ranges honing their skills. Roughly five weeks ago, van Rossum’s unit had started providing them with a lot more individualized training, so they’d had the opportunity to learn how to use the Panzerfaust 3 antitank rockets and the 60mm and 81mm mortars.