by Greg Gotti
John said nothing. His gaze lowered to the table as his mind raced. He saw where Martinez was going, and he didn’t like it.
“Because the Soona Special Service showed up,” Martinez continued. “They delayed your supplies and reinforcements. You were given orders from your High Council not to proceed until you had reached a certain strength. They held you up to buy us the precious time we needed to reinforce our troops. You were winning too much, Captain. You were never supposed to get this far south. Your campaign violated an understanding between the leaders of our respective peoples. Now they suddenly had a real war; a war they could not control. It set off an absolute panic among the powers-that-be on both sides of the border separating our people. Contingency plans became active operations. Battles stopped following scripts. Uncertainty swelled up in the markets and all hell broke loose. Now some very powerful people stood to lose everything they had, and it was all because of you. The Soona sent diplomats who swore you were operating on your own and not under orders, but our leaders did not believe them. Both sides went into preparation for a full-blown escalation of the war. Sleeper agents were activated and assassinations began happening. Something had to be done quickly.” Martinez’s voice grew more excited as he talked.
“When you finally received authorization to cross the Arcangel, the SSS was involved with every last detail. Your old friend even accompanied you on the mission but was sure to split off from you before you walked into our ambush. Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.”
“Schwarz,” John remembered out loud.
“Was that his name? They always send someone who doesn’t outrank you. It gives you the illusion of being in control. Anyways, you crossed the river and attempted to take out our radio communication capability throughout the region. You did not know you were walking into a trap, but your superiors did. They sent you there to die. You were the sacrifice necessary for them to appease their Soona counterparts and restore the status quo. Your best and brightest soldiers were given as a human sacrifice, and the SSS went with you to make sure you died. Why else would they have separated from you right before you marched into our trap? They made sure you went where you were supposed to go, and they got the hell out of there.”
“Why would anyone fight a war and try not to win, Colonel?” John angrily protested; his face now a bright red to match his hair.
“Because war is a business, Captain Wallace! It is a big, profit-making, powerful business that has made certain people wealthy beyond their wildest dreams! They can’t have the war ending. Peace is bad for the war business! They need the war to continue without end, but in a controlled manner. You were the price for restoring that control. A lot of very powerful people wanted you dead. If you had any family, they may very well have killed them out of spite. That is how much you stirred the hornet’s nest, Captain Wallace.”
John sat in stunned silence. He wanted to believe this was all a game, but something in the back of his mind would not let him dismiss it so easily. The things Martinez was saying made a lot of things that had been bothering him suddenly make sense. He didn’t want it to be true. He didn’t want to believe he had spent his life fighting for nothing but bigger profits for the ridiculously wealthy. He didn’t want to believe he had taken lives for that reason. He didn’t want to believe any of this. Was he just a pawn in something that was nothing more than a game? Had his son followed him into the army just to…? He looked up from the table and his eyes glowed like two angry pools of vengeance as he thought of his beloved little boy.
“Paulie,” he uttered in barely a whisper.
Martinez’s face softened. He frowned and leaned over a bit as he spoke.
“Listen, I spent much of my life fighting this same war. I believed in a glorious cause, only to find out it was all a lie. For several years, I cursed the day my illusions were shattered. Our illusions are things of comfort, Captain Wallace. We are told it is “us and them” and made to hate the enemy. Because the enemy is bad, we think ourselves to be good. It is an effective method of controlling the masses. I used to wonder why our radios could not pick up the Soona transmitters. I knew your people used radio, but we could not receive it. As I advanced within the RID, I realized you could not hear our transmissions. I discovered neither of us could hear anything from outside of our two nations. America IS still there, whether you believe it or not, but we cannot hear their radio, watch what they call ‘television” or receive absolutely anything from outside our ‘zones.’ Information is a dangerous thing. Information can breed revolution, and revolution is bad for business. The common people can never know the truth, or they will rise up and revolt. The elite who control everything make sure resources are kept scarce. They make sure people have just enough to survive, and they provide the masses with entertainment such as sports, lotteries and the one resource they make sure never becomes scarce: alcohol. They give the people a life of bread and circuses, and the people march off to their deaths singing the songs of their country as they fight a war they will never be allowed to win.”
Martinez’s face grew intense as he continued:
“Everyone thinks you are dead, Captain Wallace. A fragile easing of authentic tensions has taken hold as a result of you and your men being sacrificed. I thought you were dead as well, so imagine my surprise when one of my agents informed me a lowly river patrol had captured the great John Wallace. It was pure chance, dumb luck really, that one of the many agents the RID keeps embedded among the enlisted ranks was a member of that patrol. I had you brought here under the greatest of secrecy, and I had steps taken to ensure nobody else would find out. Unfortunate steps sadly enough, but war is an ugly business. Right now, there are exactly eight people on the face of the earth who know you are still alive, and the other seven report directly to me. This floor we are on does not even officially exist. It was not included in the blueprints we keep on record. Nobody outside the RID knows about this facility, and only eight people in the RID know about this floor. You are quite literally ‘buried alive,’ Captain Wallace. I am your only hope of ever walking out of here and having any sort of normal life. So why don’t we start having some respectful exchanges as officers, if not as friends?”
“There is absolutely no way I can know how much of what I am being told is a lie and how much is true,” John said resignedly. “You would feel the same way.”
“Yes, I know I would. We are officers and leaders of men. We possess information the enemy wants and will do anything to get. However, I am not going to ask you about troop strength or where the Soona have weaknesses. I am simply interested in talking about things we have never really known. I want to talk about freedom. I want to discuss things like understanding and forgiveness. Certainly we can talk about these things, John?”
John sat expressionless as he tried to process things. His mind was overloaded, and he tried to organize his thoughts. Martinez took his blank expression for defiance and shook his head.
“One question I have to ask myself: How does a man who has escaped death so many times and outsmarted the best and brightest of our military get himself captured by a lowly river patrol? The river patrol is where we send the drunks and the feeble-minded. They are the most disposable of our personnel. They aren’t good for much other than driving their little 4-wheelers up and down the river waiting to shoot or be shot by anyone they happen upon. They are basically worthless, yet they capture the most wanted man in the Federation? There is simply no way that is possible. We have the entire forward army searching for a downed American pilot, yet he slips through our fingers and escapes into enemy territory somewhere close to where we find you. When I investigated the matter further, I became convinced the SSS truly does not know you are even still alive. So I had to ask myself: Why were you down in the river in the middle of the night trying to free a Rista woman, a member of the people you were taught to hate, from drowning? How did the American get out of our territory in less than 24 hours despite not knowing the terrain or
even which way led to what? Why did you not run when the river patrol spotted you? The only thing you had to do was allow the Rista woman to drown, and you could have easily evaded them. Just one more dead Rista, and you were safely back in your own territory! You weren’t willing to do that. I had to ask myself why that would be the case.”
John sat expressionless as he stared into Martinez’s eyes. The colonel was always studying him, and it annoyed him to no end. He knew Martinez was a very intelligent man, and he was determined not to give anything away.
“So tell me Captain Wallace,” Martinez continued, “why would the presumed dead captain of the entire Soona western army allow himself to be captured just to save the life of a single Rista girl; a girl who ended up drowning anyways? Are you just that much of a moral man? Is this the return of chivalry? Did you have some sort of religious conversion? Or were you simply thinking of the advantages of capturing the only daughter of the Rista high general? She would be quite a bargaining chip, would she not? I considered that, but I decided that could not be it. Your own people either really, truly do believe you are dead, or you were conducting one of the most secretive operations of all time. My spies have picked up absolutely nothing concerning you, so either you have only a few people working on a beyond top-secret classified operation, or you were hiding under our noses the entire time in the home of the High General’s daughter. Our men found three decomposing corpses at the bottom of a ventilation mineshaft on the high general’s mountain, which I am guessing is your handiwork. So now I must ask you: What were you doing on the mountain for all that time?”
John sat in silence. His head was still spinning from all he had heard. Maria was Juan Rodriguez’s daughter? He felt like his mind had just been blown. He didn’t want to believe any of it, but something about it all rang true to him. He would never give up Maria, even if she really was dead. He knew Martinez was smart, but he had never expected him to put it all together so well. He met the colonel’s eyes and held his stare in a vain effort to conceal the pain within him, but he knew Martinez saw right through him.
“You can sit there quietly, Captain Wallace. I still will not harm you. I am not going to do any of the things your people told you I would do. I am simply going to keep you here in this hole in the ground. This building sits in a large hole well below the surface of the earth, and nobody knows you are here. I wonder if I have treated you too well. Maybe what you need is some time to yourself to think about things. That is why you have been brought down here. You will find your quarters a bit different here. Come on, I will take you to them now.” He pushed a button under the table, and the door buzzed. Heredia entered, and Martinez directed John to accompany them.
They walked down the dark hallway and through one more secure door before leading him to a small room at the end of another hall. They removed his restraints and stepped back as he surveyed his new “home.” There was a toilet and a small cot that folded down from the wall; nothing else. A single light globe hung from a wire in the ceiling, which bathed the room in a dim light. The cell was about 20’ by 15’ with concrete walls. John felt a sense of dread creep over him as he stood in the doorway.
“I will let you think about things here in seclusion and check back with you after a while,” Martinez said. “Once you decide there is no harm in just talking with me, we can get you out of here. If you want to live out the rest of your life in this manner out of some sense of service to a country that gave you up to be killed, that is your choice. I give you my word as an officer that you will never see the light of day again until you make that decision.” Martinez turned on his heel and walked away. John watched him disappear around the corner and heard the buzz of the security doors as he left.
“Okay, in you go,” Heredia said as he shoved him into the cell. He took a deep breath and began to turn around just as something crashed hard into the small of his back. He cried out in pain and surprise as he crumpled to the floor. He saw a grinning Heredia standing above him with a small club as his back screamed with pain.
“Up there, you belong to the colonel. Down here, you belong to me, Wallace. You may not want to talk to the colonel, but I promise you; you will beg me to let you talk to me. You have killed your last Rista, John Wallace. I pray you give me an excuse to break every finger on both of your hands. I own you now, you Soona dog!”
Heredia kicked him in the ribs and John felt the same searing pain he had felt after jumping from the waterfall. White-hot agony seared through him as Heredia backed up and the heavy door slammed shut. John thought of his wife, his son and Maria. He hadn’t been able to save any of them. He had given everything he was to a cause that might not even be real, and now he was buried in a hole where nobody would ever find him. Nobody was looking for him anyways; everyone thought he was dead. If what Martinez said was true, his own people would kill him themselves should he somehow manage to escape and return home. The sheer weight of everything came crashing down on John. The sobs racked his body, causing his pain to increase, but they only grew harder and deeper as John felt the last of his hope melt away. It was there on the cold, hard floor of his dimly lit cell where John finally broke. Tears flowed and sobs wracked his body as he thought of his wife, his son and Maria. Now, he had lost the most important thing of all: hope.
Chapter Ten
The guards of Facility 4 were actually not guards at all. Each one of them, including Heredia, had been personally selected by Colonel Martinez to be stationed there. All of them had served in the Special Forces before being recruited into the RID. Facility 4 was so highly classified and so secretive that it was whispered even the President himself didn’t know about it. Martinez was the commander of the installation and ran the intelligence operations for the entire north out of there. There was only one phone line connecting the installation to the outside world, and this had been constructed in increments by different builders to keep any of them from realizing its purpose. There were only a handful of prisoners there, for Facility 4 was not primarily a prison. Nobody was sure exactly for what purpose it was built. Martinez might know, but if so, he wasn’t telling. Heredia didn’t know, and he honestly didn’t care. All he cared about was advancing up the RID ladder. When he had learned it was John Wallace they were bringing in to be held there, he felt an excitement he’d never experienced before in all his years in the RID.
That excitement had been dulled when he learned of Martinez’s plan for Wallace. The two of them ate a meal together each day, and he had no idea what they discussed because the meal was always in room 52. It was the one totally secure room in the entire facility, and there was no way to eavesdrop, even if he was so inclined. The one time he’d had Wallace at his disposal was when Martinez temporarily deposited him in the black level, and someone had ratted him out for physically abusing the Soona captain. Martinez had moved Wallace back to his normal quarters soon after. Now, Heredia stood at attention as Martinez berated him again; this time for the injuries sustained by a different prisoner. The man was a Soona operative who’d been captured while spying in Hidalgo and had been brought here to be broken and thoroughly interrogated. Heredia had decided to dispense with the pleasantries and proceed directly to intimidation. It hadn’t worked, and the resulting interrogation left the prisoner with broken ribs and internal bleeding. The medical staff had been here barely a week before they had to perform emergency surgery on the prisoner to save his life.
In the hall outside Martinez’s office, two operatives, Perez and Diaz, stood waiting for Heredia to come out. They could hear the muffled voice of their commander yelling at Heredia, and they shook their heads.
“Man,” Diaz began with a chuckle, “Martinez is tearing him a new one.”
“He deserves it,” Perez answered. “This isn’t even close to the first time he’s done this.”
“Yeah, I know. Is it really that big a deal though? We’ve done way worse to the Soona in the past with our commander’s blessing.”
“We are under or
ders not to harm the prisoners, Diaz. It doesn’t matter what happened in the past. We follow orders without questioning them. If Martinez wants to play nicey-nice with our guests, he must have his reasons.”
“Yeah, I guess,” Diaz conceded. “It’s very strange though.”
“I’ll give you that much,” Perez agreed.
The shouting inside stopped, the two of them straightened up from leaning against the wall. The door opened, and Heredia walked out as the door closed behind him. He stared at the two of them as they gave him an uncomfortable look. There was an awkward silence as the three men stood looking at each other. Finally, Heredia spoke.
“Take Captain Wallace to Room 52,” he ordered. “The colonel would like to speak with him.” He turned and walked away, leaving Perez and Diaz to exchange shrugs as they went off to get Wallace.
Heredia seethed with anger as he stormed down the hall. Martinez was treating these prisoners like guests of honor as far as he was concerned. They were Soona! They were to be broken, information was to be gathered and they were to die in a manner that terrified the new arrivals. That is how it had always been done, but now he was being forced to act like a glorified hotel attendant. If there was anyone above Martinez to complain to, he’d already have done so. He flexed his powerful muscles and wished there was something nearby to punch. This wasn’t what he’d signed on for when he volunteered to come here. Something was wrong, and he was going to find out what it was. He decided it was time to make a phone call, and he headed upstairs to the communication center.
It had been several months since John had been left in the lower level of Facility 4. He had quickly decided there was no harm in having pleasant conversations with Martinez if it kept him out of that cell and Heredia’s control. The master sergeant really disliked him and took every opportunity to make it clear. John hadn’t understood his extreme antagonism until one of the friendlier guards explained it to him. Heredia’s brother had been killed when John had led the Soona on the great southward push. He remembered how they’d wiped out the entire Rista forward army in that area. The Soona had remembered the way their own brothers had died at the hands of the Ristas in other battles and were eager to repay them for their cruelty. John had wanted to make a statement by showing the Soona could make a vulgar display of power as well. They hadn’t looked to take prisoners during that campaign. They annihilated their enemy and killed almost all of them before John had finally allowed them to ask to surrender. No wonder Heredia hated him. There were nights he thought about such things and didn’t like himself. War is a horrible thing, he thought. He sat having lunch with Martinez and enjoying their daily ritual of talking about different things.