by Ts Alan
The orders of the British government were final; there were no diplomatic channels to go through to work out an amicable settlement nor was there any way to appeal its decision. The United States Armed Forces was to be disassembled and its aircraft, vehicles, weapons, and supplies confiscated. Eighty-seven men and women, not including a few children, were being forced out of the only refuge they had left. The British government had slapped them in the face by offering them refugee status or inscription into their military without the courtesy of equal rank or pay.
When notice arrived by government courier, not even showing respect enough to send a military commander to deliver the news, an emergency meeting of the Joint Chiefs of Staff was convened. This staff meeting consisted of the four highest-ranking officers of what was left of the U.S. Forces. It consisted of Major Russ Ramsey, Air Force; Colonel Jake Westfield, Army; Lieutenant Colonel Jacob O’Reilly, Marine Corps; and Captain William Baker, Navy. The meeting was called to see if there was anything that could be done to dissuade the British government in their decision. Having failed to get the Brits to rescind their orders, all subsequent meetings were conducted in secret in the late hours of night. They had come to the only decision that could be made, and that was to protect the citizens of the United States in the best way they could, and that would be to guarantee their God given rights and the rights their forefathers had fought so hard for in the Revolutionary War. They would leave, taking with them as many supplies as possible.
The British government had given RAF Croughton seven days to pack up their personal items, prepare for inspection, and depart, all under the watchful eyes of the occupying British Forces. Of those seven days, the Joint Chiefs had used two in a fruitless effort to convince the Brits to change their minds, but they weren’t even given an acknowledgement by the British Home Office. Once they realized that drastic measures had to be taken to assure the safety and well being of personnel and civilians it took them another two days to work out the plans for their escape.
This plan could only be accomplished successfully if they could sequester, without incident, the 27 British Airmen who were jointly running the base and not having Her Majesty’s Armed Forces made aware of their plans. Secrecy was of the utmost importance, so it was decided that at 0300 hours on the sixth day seven men would be summoned, armed, and given instruction to subdue the 27 British subjects and place them in holding. Once this was accomplished all troops would be called to duty and fueling operations would commence, followed by loading of weapons, medical supplies, food supplies, and finally passengers onto five Boeing C-17 Globemaster IIIs, because they were the United States Air Force’s air transportation workhorse—having broken 22 records for oversized payloads—and two Lockheed C-5 Galaxy aircraft. Only seven airlift transportation planes were to be used, because there were only seven pilots remaining who were certified and trained on the large airlift aircraft.
Of the 27 Royal Air Force members, most were enlisted pilots who were billeted in the same sleeping barracks, while five administrative officers were living in an officers’ quarters on the opposite side of the base. The plan called for the five officers to be subdued first, then the rest.
The plan had been scrutinized down to every detail possible in the short time they had to come up with it. However, several items of importance were the last to be decided, the first being should they destroy all remaining U.S. military property on the base or let it fall into British hands, and also where on the United States east coast should they land to refuel and what would their final destination be? They had discussed many options but in the end, they chose the closest air force base to Cheyenne Mountain Air Force Station—Andrews AFB—as their final destination. Though they had not heard from any military base in the U.S. since the fall of the Western half of the country, a British military satellite had detected a heat signature at Cheyenne Mountain. It was possible, since the mountain complex was a fortress, a military force may have survived.
When discussing their refuel destination there was clearly only one logical place in Major Ramsey’s mind, and it was McGuire AFB in Wrightstown, New Jersey. Though Stewart ANGB in Newburgh, New York was almost the same distance from New York City as McGuire the location was quickly eliminated from consideration. Stewart ANGB had been the base they used when they had come to pick up Doctor France’s data nearly a year ago. They had already salvaged most of everything worth taking. McGuire was the only choice in Ramsey’s opinion, for it was also larger and better equipped, and was more likely to have fuel. It was also five minutes away from Fort Dix, another place that might still contain large amounts of resources—including vehicles, which meant they didn’t have to take ground transport with them. They did decide on taking one U.S. Army AH-64 Apache attack helicopter and one USAF HH-60 Pave Hawk with them just to be on the safe side.
In the end the Joint Chiefs decided it was better to leave what they couldn’t take intact as not to piss off the Brits. It was their hope that the Royal Air Force would not stop the transport planes from leaving the UK once in the air, unless they had a reason; blowing things up might just be that reason.
As planned, in the early hours of the morning on the sixth day, far before the dawn broke the horizon, their plan was put into action. It was Kermit who lead the subduing strike team in a decisive military engagement, swiftly taking the sleeping British airmen by surprise and without incident. It had helped that Her Majesty’s enlisted personnel were all billeted in one building, and the two British officers who resided in a nearby building were easily subdued by another, smaller team. Major Ramsey also headed a team that subdued those RAF personnel on night duty.
Once word came that the base was secure the exodus quickly commenced. When all cargo was loaded, military personnel aboard, and civilians safely seated, the large planes taxied into position. The operation had taken less than three hours. With darkness waning they departed.
Everything that led up to the loud rumble of the departing winged giants taking flight—leaving only the smell of fuel exhaust clinging in the chilly, damp English morning air behind—had been an MRX, a Mission Rehearsal Exercise. The real mission was to leave British airspace alive.
The planes had been in the air less than two minutes when an edict had come from RAF High Wycombe, which were the Command HQ and the Combined Air Operations Centre for the British.
There had been no politeness in the Royal Air Force’s request for the United States to return to base, and though Major Ramsey wanted to tell the Brits to go fuck themselves, he restrained that verbalization and went with diplomacy. When discretion failed and a squadron of RAF Harrier GR9 fighter aircraft—mostly armed with AIM-9 Sidewinder missiles—intercepted them, Major Ramsey informed British Command HQ that if it were their desire and intent to deliberately target non-combatants and shoot down unarmed aircraft, then it was a moral decision they would have to make. The United States was not going to surrender under any condition, and they were going home.
Seeing that the Americans were not going to be intimidated and not finding a justifiable reason to murder civilians, especially children, British civility returned and common sense prevailed. The Brits had gotten what they wanted—the Americans gone and their airbase returned. As the jet fighters departed, High Wycombe gave warning. If any United States aircraft attempted to enter into British air space ever again, they would be considered hostile and immediately fired upon.
The sun had risen, the sky was clear, and the promise of a new life lay beyond the horizon. It was a good day for America.
3
Fury of the Dragon
August 19, Day 499.
The hooded man lay stomach down, strapped over the length of a long table. He was naked. His feet touched the floor, his genitals dangled below the edge of the table. His hands were strapped behind his back, and his torso bound to the table. He was cold, hungry, frightened, and disoriented from the drug he had been injected with—just
the way J.D. wanted him. The room was dark for added sensory deprivation, which accented the uncertainty of the captive’s situation.
Captured prisoners had previously been taken to the 9th Precinct for interrogation, far away from where the team made their home. This started the night J.D. had captured the man with the scar across his face. It was J.D. who had come up with the idea of using the 9th Precinct for conducting interrogations. This was for the sole purpose of keeping the vile business of information extraction from civilians and anyone with a moral conscience—for Chief Warrant Officer Dunne was very inventive in his methods of obtaining intelligence on the enemy.
J.D. knew the precinct well; his father had been a police officer with the 9th for 22 years, before retiring to Arizona. J.D. had often come to visit his father and most of the senior officers knew him. Even though the police station had been renovated after his father had retired, the layout still remained nearly the same, and J.D. knew where the most isolated part of the building was that could mute the noises of Peter’s extraction techniques from the outside world.
There were only a few who had first known what went on at the police station. James and Ryan were indifferent toward their commander’s tactics and ethics in regard to information acquisition and punishment. They knew in order to survive, extremes were necessary when it came to Stone and his men, and they were glad J.D. had championed the cause, because they both knew neither had it in them to do what J.D. could do.
Paul, though, who had been imprisoned and forced to do hideous tasks against his moral character under Stone’s control, was in total agreement with his commander’s ways, though he was unsure if he could actually torture and kill, however, he was all for eliminating Stone and his men in any manner necessary.
The police precinct had been abandoned in late July, when the final civilian population was relocated to Mechanicsville. With no longer a reason to hide what was being done—J.D. had told his remaining staff that he was not above doing whatever it took to find the children—there was no reason to continue using it. There had never been a guest in the new interrogation facility that was setup in the basement, for it had become more increasingly difficult to capture Stone’s men alive. However, this morning, a warm early August day, a very special visitor was being held, one that Peter and J.D. were both acquainted with—the stuttering man. This man was not only the stutterer who had stood by Barlow’s side at the gate that fateful day when Stone made his appearance; he was also the other man who had held the broom handle against Peter’s throat.
J.D. never conducted the “interviews” himself. That special pleasure was reserved for Peter, for to torture a bound prisoner was not J.D.’s style; there was no sport in it. Only the chase was fair and challenging. The hunt gave him the exhilaration and the thrill his transmute side desired. Nonetheless that was not to say that he did not participate in the event. J.D. was the warm up act, the ringmaster, the carnival barker, and he was very adept in terrorizing a prisoner using psychological techniques.
Each prisoner was different, and each prisoner was handled accordingly. Those that were of a strong will and defiant in nature were approached more matter-of-factly, for to menace a person with threats and a crazed personality would appear comical and be ineffective. However, for those who were scared and weak of spirit, crazy worked well, and today was one of those days for J.D.’s maniacal sense of humor.
J.D. slowly pulled the door open, allowing the full effect of the squeaking hinges to resonate into the dark room. He stepped through the archway, closing the door behind him. As he casually strolled up to the table’s edge, he played a haunting melody on his bell accordion. J.D. stopped playing, squatted and began a light and rhythmical tapping of his talons on the tabletop.
The prisoner could not see J.D.’s approach or that he had squatted in the blackness of the room at the opposite end of the table with his chin on the table’s edge, for his head was covered. The prisoner called out in a frightened tone, “Who—who—who’s there? What do—do—do… do you want?”
J.D. was only six inches from the man’s face, and could hear the fear in the man’s erratic breathing and his alarmed squirming, trying to wriggle free from his bindings. He removed the pillowcase that had been placed over the man’s head and afterward remained silent for a moment, just two feet away from the man’s face.
A beam of flashlight illumination abruptly played across J.D.’s face. “Boo!” J.D. said, looking straight into the man’s eyes, his head propped up under his chin by a small pillow.
The man screamed out in horror at the ghastly sight of the creature before him, and as he did he urinated. He fought desperately to free himself, but could not get free of his bindings.
What had given the stuttering man such a fright was J.D.’s appearance. Besides the black eyes staring at him, he was greeted with a most unusual guise. J.D. had not only painted his face with camouflage make-up in an unconventional manner, but had also shaved the sides of his head, shaping his hair into a Mohawk in order to give himself a more fierce and menacing look. His overall facial appearance was a cross between Wez from the film The Road Warrior and the character Eric Draven from the film The Crow. His manifestation and demeanor was that of a depraved madman, and he was.
“Are we seated comfortably?” he greeted the naked man with a large grin.
The man stuttered out a response. “Wha—Wha-wha—”
J.D. grabbed the man’s face and squeezed his checks together, causing the man’s lips to purse.
“Wah, wah, wah! Stone got your tongue, too, Stutters?”
“You, you, f-f—f—freak.”
“Quite the little speech impediment you have there. Let me introduce you to someone else who has a spee—spee-speech impediment,” he told the man, taunting him.
“Drum roll, please,” J.D. requested, and then began a rhythmic strumming of the tabletop. The room suddenly lighted with the warm illumination of the overhead light.
“Tah-dah!” J.D. proclaimed, and then stood aside as he hand gestured to Peter dressed in full green surgery garb, his face masked as not to reveal his identity.
“Holy shit!” J.D. exclaimed with great astonishment and glee. “Look. It’s Doogie Howser!” J.D. ran up to Peter. “Mr. Howser, Mr. Howser. I’m your biggest fan. Can I have your autograph? Wow, I’m so excited that I got a semi.” J.D. turned back to his captive, who had a look of confusion on his face. “Aren’t you excited, too?” He then turned back to Peter. “Wait a minute. You’re not Doogie Howser. Doogie Howser is dead! He died in that Harold and Kumar movie. So, who are you?”
Peter responded with a shrug and a hand gesture that indicated he didn’t know. He then began hand motions that appeared to be the game charades.
“Charades?! Oh, I love charades,” J.D. announced.
Peter stood with hands on hips.
“Person!” J.D. shouted. “I know, I know—Hearts, stars, clovers, blue moons, gold and rainbows, and red balloons!” he said in a fake Irish accent. “Oh, Stutters, it’s your lucky day. He’s the Lucky Charms leprechaun!”
Peter gave him the “fuck you” finger, and then made a few more charade gestures.
“Ooh! Ooh! Ooh! I know, I know!” J.D. exclaimed. “You’re Buddy the Elf.”
Peter gave him a double “fuck you.”
“Man,” J.D. spoke with disappointment, “I really suck at charades… Your turn, Stutters,” he told their prisoner. The man shook his head no. “Ah, don’t be like that, Stutters.” J.D. leapt up on to the table and sat by the man’s face. He leaned sideways and placed his elbow in the middle of the captive’s back and then placed the palm of his hand under his chin as he reclined. J.D. took his index finger and ran his talon on the canal opening of the man’s ear in a teasing but painful manner. “Please?!”
The man grimaced. “Wha-what d-d—do you want?”
“A lot of tha-tha-things, actually.
A cup of vanilla hazelnut coffee. A Black & Green’s toffee chocolate bar. A really good blowjob. Stone’s location!”
“I—I-I can’t do—do that.”
“Damn!” J.D. exclaimed disappointed. “I was really looking forward to that blowjob… Well, I guess I’ll just have to settle for Stone’s location then.”
The man again shook his head no again. “He’ll k-k-k-kill me.”
J.D. stood up and withdrew one of his Eskrima sticks and cracked the man across the top of his skull. “Don’t be a dipstick, Stutters,” he said angrily. Stutters cried out in agony and began to weep. J.D. drew a breath and sympathetically apologized. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Stutters. Sometimes I forget my own strength. Can you forgive me?” he asked, as he gently rubbed the man’s injury.
“It h-h-hurts.”
J.D. kissed the man’s head and whispered in his ear, “One man’s pain is another man’s pleasure, and right now I got a chubby. Now, I’m going to ask you one more time, and if you tell me, I promise I won’t kill you.” The man sobbed, but would not answer the question. “You see that man there, Stutters. Do ya?” He turned to Peter. “Show him who you are, Peter. Show the man what he had a hand in. Show him your pretty face!”
The man averted his eyes as Peter revealed his scarred features.
J.D. leapt off the table. “You see that fucked up face? Take a good look. Look at the man, Stutters!” J.D. shouted in an enraged tone as he shook his captive’s head by his red colored hair. “Look at him good,” J.D. demanded. “Don’t you remember? It wasn’t that long ago… Maybe a visual? Would a prop jar your memory?” J.D. called to Peter, “Props my good man, props. Bring in the props!”