Test Pilot's Daughter II: Dead Reckoning

by Ward, Steve

  “What about him? He’s a friggin’ astronaut.”

  “Did you break in apartment?”

  “No,” she lied.

  He whapped her across the face again. The ringing in her ears grew louder, and her head pounded like it might explode.

  “Okay, okay. . .yeah, I went into his apartment, so what? I loaned him my copy of the Quran, and he forgot to give it back, so I decided to go get it myself.”

  They yacked at each other again.

  “Quran?” His eyes lit up. “What ‘bout Quran?” His expression suddenly turned mean, shouting, “You filthy sow, you lie!”

  Slapper dipped his head motioning to the others. They grabbed her, tied her feet together and wrapped her arms and torso with tape. They lifted her by the feet and pushed the rope over the meat-hook. She could hear someone cranking a hoist, click, click, click, as she was drawn up to the ceiling hanging upside down like a bat. All the blood rushed to her head, and she felt it would burst. They came at her with electrodes as she struggled. There was no use; she was completely helpless. They tore strips of clothing away so the wires could be attached to bare skin. There were four large alligator-clips, one clipped to her left breast, one between her legs and two across her face.

  “What do you want to know?” she said as the men laughed even harder.

  Apparently they were having too much fun to respond. The leader walked over to the equipment and threw some switches. He turned a large knob, and her whole body convulsed in a huge spasm. It hurt big-time. She never thought it was really possible for someone to be tortured in the United States of America. As the pain racked her entire body, she hoped death would come. The man turned the knob back, and the spasm subsided. He walked over to her with a big smile and one hand over his groin.

  Asshole, pervert.

  Another man positioned his face no more than three inches from hers, albeit inverted. His breath smelled like kerosene. Then came the speech in decent English, “Infidels know nothing about pain. Your spineless men are weak like woman. Your leaders pledge not to torture. Isn’t that nice. Ha! You think this is bad? Nothing! Your body will take big pain before you die. We keep you alive while you beg for death. You tell me everything I want.” He walked over to the machine again and put his hand on the control. She could see him out of the corner of her eye.

  “Okay. . . okay! I’ll tell you!” she gasped for air in short bursts. It was difficult to breathe, and she could see the blood from her nose pooling on the floor.

  He looked into her bulging, inverted face and grinned like the Cheshire Cat. “Allah wants you to convert to Islam, but first we must get the Son of Mary out,” he said calmly. He walked back to the table and cranked up the juice.

  The pain was beyond imagination. The smell of burning skin accompanied smoke that rose from each probe. Sparks flew from her body. All her muscles convulsed in continuous spasms, blood poured out of her nose, and her eyes bulged. She was like a fish suspended on a hook, flopping midair. She tried to scream, but it was not possible. Oh God almighty, take me. Take me now! She went black.

  * * *

  One eyelid cracked open as Christina awoke in the fetal position on the cold, concrete floor. Hands to her face, all she could do was cry, sobbing as tears ran between fingers. It was dark, and there was one single thought rolling through her head, only one viable strategy. How can I end this? She wanted to fight, but how? As hard as she tried to think of a plan, nothing materialized. Maybe it was the electricity, but it seemed impossible to concentrate. She could only worry how long they intended to torture her. It wasn’t even a matter of giving them information. She was willing to tell them anything, to admit anything, to make up anything, anything at all they wanted to hear. But it didn’t seem to matter. In their twisted minds she was the devil, the enemy of Islam: female, Christian, American, astronaut, everything that threatened their stupid, archaic beliefs. They weren’t interested in information, they wanted the worst kind of justice. They want to see me squirm, for God only knows how long. Her mind reiterated a mantra she remembered from the Quran:

  On that day, their treasures shall be heated in Hell-fire, and their foreheads, and their sides, and their backs shall be branded with them.

  She was ready to die, but the options were few. If I could only stand in that wet bucket and reach the light socket, she thought. But the ceiling was at least nine feet. She had even tried standing on the bucket, but it was still too high. Starvation was too slow. It seemed dehydration was the only choice. From her time on the island, she knew that such a fate would be horrid, but what could be worse than slow electrocution? They had pushed bread and water through the lower slot, but she hadn’t touched it. Unless they inject an IV, I can end the suffering in four days. She stared at the bottled water like it was toxic waste.

  As she lay on her side, it was difficult to listen for clues. The trauma of the beatings and electric shock had placed a squeal in her ears. It was constant, and it wouldn’t go away. She had heard of the horrible symptoms of tinnitus, ringing in the ears, a never ending chorus of one single, high pitched note. It made her more than anxious. Every muscle twitched with anxiety.

  She had done a lot of praying in the dark, besides there wasn’t much else to do. But her undying pragmatism made it difficult to ask for miracles. She was taught to make her own miracles. Her dialogue sounded more like that of Job. God, why are you doing this to me? What did I do to deserve this? Could it be Dr. Steve Weston? she wondered. Could it be that I dumped him in the Atlantic Ocean in a Cessna. But he was a scumbag, Lord, a child molester. It was simple justice. Okay, maybe it wasn’t up to me, but he was going to get off Scot free. Lord, you don’t have to save me, just let me go. I beg you for only one miracle, the miracle of death. Why hast thou forsaken me? Don’t let these vermin have the upper hand. They hate Christians, Lord; they hate your people, the Jews. You saved Jerusalem over and over, even when they messed up. Why can’t you save me? I’ll do whatever. I’m good for it. Why me?

  Christina came to attention in a panic. Over the ringing in her ears she heard the horror of footsteps. Oh no, Jesus, please no, not again. The upper slot opened and closed, and the door blew open just as before. It was the same four. She pulled at her wrists trying to free herself. Swinging her bound fists, she hoped to hit something, anything, anyone. She felt like a wild animal, trapped and wounded, but alive. She wanted to sink her fangs into someone and make them bleed. They scrambled around trying to stay out of her way.

  Something else from the Bible flashed through her mind, There will be much weeping and gnashing of teeth. It was Jesus describing hell. He got that right, she thought. She reeled in a circle like a mad dog and caught Slapper by the arm, sinking her teeth to the bone. The wounded man ripped it back shouting Arabic curses in agony. Blood flew all over the room. The other men roared in laughter, punching each other and making Slapper the brunt of their jokes.

  “You’re gonna have to kill me, you bastards.” She meant it. “You’re gonna have to kill me right now!”

  One man lunged from behind and tackled her to the floor. Two others piled on top until she couldn’t move. They taped her once again like a large cocoon, grabbed her feet and drug her down the hall. She squirmed with the little energy that remained trying to pull free, but they just jabbered on.

  No! she thought, as they pulled her into the room. It still smelled of seared skin, hers. The hook had been removed and there was a large chair in its place. It looked just like the electric chairs she had seen in old movies, wired to the hilt with a metal cap extending from the top. Good, she thought, they’re gonna kill me now. Thank you, Lord.

  “Eyes,” the man who could speak English chortled. “Time to see those filthy eyeballs pop out. Just enough ‘lectric to feed you the eyes.”

  She was in full terror mode as they separated her arms and legs and strapped her to the chair. Mouth taped over, she gasped for air through bloody nostrils. They forced the metal cap over her head and secured more s
traps under her chin. Completely restrained she could only move her facial muscles. Straining her eyelids she thought, Gonna hold ‘em in, not gonna give those bastards the pleasure. As the man walked over to the control unit, she gripped the lids tightly over her eyes and strained all the muscles in her face. Determined to resist, she held them for as long as she could wondering what was taking so long. After what seemed like an eternity, she slowly cracked her lids. The scene was blurry, but there seemed to be no one there. Where the hell did they go? she wondered. What the?

  She sat there the longest time awaiting the return of her executioners, but there was only dead silence. After a while limbs grew numb, and she drifted in and out of consciousness. She began to dream of ghosts, evil creatures and the depths of hell. There will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.

  Suddenly she heard the strangest noise, click. Very faint, it was a metallic sound like the cocking of the hammer of a pistol. Startled and tensing once again, she heard another, click, click, then click, click, click. It was the sound of footsteps far, far away. But there was a difference. She was sure she had heard that sound before. Couldn’t be. It was the unique, brisk clink of high-heals on concrete. High-heals? Click-click, click-click in rapid sequence grew louder. It got louder and louder accompanied by more footsteps. Then a mirage, a ghostly apparition floated in the doorway. The image was blurry but it seemed so very real. It hung there the longest time staring at her. Time stopped in the confusion, and she thought she could hear a church choir in the background. Thank you, God, finally I’m dead. A hymn floated through her brain, Amazing grace how sweet. . .Holy Jesus, it’s an angel!

  “Christina?” the angel called. But the voice was familiar, definitely female. “Christiiinaaa.”

  Impossible to comprehend, at first she thought it was her mother dressed in white robes. She squinted trying to focus. Suddenly she recognized the form. Emotion overcame every ounce of her being as she broke into tears, sobbing. My God, oh my God, it’s Heather!

  “Heather?” she could only mumble behind the tape.

  It wasn’t just Heather. It was Heather, Billy and Michael! She couldn’t speak, only sob. She wailed while they ran to her side and loosened restraints. Footloose and fancy free, she threw her arms around Michael and squeezed him so tightly she feared he might burst. She cried and cried as all three stroked her head and blanketed her with warm, wonderful, adoring love. She had never known such affection, nothing in her life compared to the loving aura of her three rescuers.

  Christina thought of her prayers. Was it a miracle? Yes, it had to be. She felt culpable for her defiance. Oh ye of little faith. Dear Lord, I’ll never doubt you again. I do believe in miracles! She fell unconscious.

  * * *

  She woke up that afternoon in a bed that was so comfortable she could hardly comprehend it. After lying on concrete for days, the lush bedclothes were like clouds in heaven. She stretched beneath the covers and basked in the glory of newfound freedom. Was it all a bad dream? A quick look under the sheets told the story, black marks on her breast. The signs were there, marks of terror all over her body. The pain was there too. The events of the past few days flew threw her mind. She had the strangest feeling like she wasn’t alone. Glancing toward the window she gasped in fear when she saw a man. He was sitting in a rocking chair, nodding in a light sleep. When she sat up, he awoke with a start.

  “Wha. . .what. . .”

  “Michael. How long have you been there?”

  “Dunno,” he mumbled, “a few hours I guess. Here, you need to drink some water, Christina, you’re dehydrated.” He handed her a plastic bottle.

  “Thanks.” Her mouth felt like a pile of burnt embers. Dying of thirst she emptied half the bottle in several large gulps. “Ahhhh, now, where the hell are we? What am I doing here? Where’s Heather? You have to tell me. . .everything. What happened? How did you find me in just two days?”

  “Two days? Been longer than that, Christina, almost a week. Don’t you remember?”

  “No,” she looked around the room trying to regain her wits. “Don’t remember much.”

  “That’s a good thing. God, it must’ve been horrible.” Michael pulled his chair over to the bed and put his hand on her head.

  “You can’t imagine. . .not in your worst nightmare.” She sighed as unwelcome tears filled her eyes. “How did you find me?”

  “They threw me out of the van with a bunch of bodies. Took me for dead. Left me there in the middle of the street. When they drove off, I identified the pickup and the license plate. That didn’t help much though; the truck was stolen, and the license plate a fake.”

  “Well then, how. . .”

  “You’re not going to believe this, Christina. Now, try not to get upset. NASA had a homing beacon, well, actually a transponder implanted under your skin.”

  “What? How. . .without. . .” she struggled for words.

  “That’s right, they put a tiny subcutaneous disk in the small of your back.”

  “My back?”

  “Yep, right under Mars.”

  “Holy crap! Are you kidding me?” She sat straight up and reached around pressing the fingers of her right hand into her lower back. “It’s there all right; can’t believe I didn’t notice it before. No wonder they were able to track us so easily. Those bastards; I know when they did it too. It was prep for 7-3-3. I vaguely remember a sharp pain when that tech was attaching sensors. But, that doesn’t explain. . .”

  “Listen, right after the terrorists took you away, I found a payphone and called the Director.” Michael grimaced preparing for her onslaught.

  “Are you nuts? You know he was in on it.”

  “No he wasn’t, Christina. Look there’s a lot you don’t know, a lot to explain.”

  “But the money. . .all that dirty money?”

  He grabbed her shoulders and forced her back against the pillows. “Would you just lie down? Let me talk for a bit. Both the Director and Rhani are working with the CIA. Rhani’s a plant. He’s on our side.”

  “Can’t be! The Quran. . .don’t you remember the Quran?”

  “Just shut up; I’m trying to explain. That money came directly from the White House, and it was shuffled through Rhani who is working with the CIA to bribe Iranian contacts. He’s been gathering information about the planned attack. I know it was a lot of money, but how much do you think it would be worth to protect this country from nukes?”

  “You mean the CIA knows about it.”

  “Yeah, they know; they’ve spread millions in cash trying to determine where and when.”

  “It’s Eid Al-Adha, Michael, I’m certain. December seventeenth.” A feeling of panic overwhelmed her. “What’s today?”

  “The forth.”

  “Shit, less than two weeks.”

  “No, they believe the actual attack date to be a week later. There’s some spooky meeting in Tehran on Eid Al-Adha to give the go ahead. The CIA has the actual launch on December 25, a Christmas present, you might say for their American friends. That gives us a whopping three weeks.”

  “Well, what are we waiting for. . .where’s the preemptive strike?”

  “It’s not all that simple. We don’t know exactly where their missiles are located. We do know they’re deep underground. The only way we can destroy them is to let them launch.”

  “Are you completely out of your. . .”

  “There’s more. The CIA says Iran is working with the Russians, so we have to expose both parties to the world by catching them red-handed.”

  “But if they launch. . .”

  “It’s complicated, Christina. I don’t know all the details, but it’s a multi-tiered defense. We’ll have armed drones in the area along with Patriot. Then we have NORAD and DROID as backups. If we can nail down the launch time, sounds like our defenses are solid, and the whole world will know what they did.”

  She had a hard time comprehending his logic, and thoughts started to wander back to her captivity. She put her right hand
on his arm and looked in his eyes. In a low, husky voice she asked, “How did you get me out of that hellhole, Michael, and who were those people?”

  “Al-Qaida. There’s been a cell tracking your every move for the past two months. Apparently they were about to join us at the lake, but the CIA got there first. Then as we were in transit, they attacked. Some fifteen agents killed along with three innocent bystanders.”

  “Oh no!”

  “The terrorists were about to go public with pictures of you being tortured, when Rhani worked through channels and made the contact.”