Raise the Red Flag

by Eric Del Carlo

  He had better make his case quickly. He pocketed his pistol and held out his empty hands. “Gentlemen, I am Captain Hamilton Arkwright of Her Majesty’s Royal Airborne Fleet.” As if to punctuate his statement, a cannon shell burst scant blocks away. He felt the pressure of the detonation against his eardrums. Continuing, he recited the basic facts of his identity, including his official numbers.

  The men in the flag-mounted car listened, and then three of them looked to the man behind the wheel. Other than the armbands, they didn’t wear uniforms, but the driver was plainly in charge. He had a mass of sweat-tangled hair and eyes that glinted gold in the ambient firelight. He studied Hamilton a moment with a wry expression twisting his lips.

  “Very well, Captain,” he said in a mellow baritone. “Get in. We’ll take you someplace safe.”

  Room was made in the back, and Hamilton climbed over the side and settled onto the seat. The vehicle accelerated immediately. As frenzied and confused as that last stretch along the highway into the city had been, this was far more chaotic. Bombs and bullets rained down. Hamilton had no wish to end up the indiscriminate victim of aerial barrage. As bold and pleasing a sight as that flag was, it wouldn’t be easily visible to the British crewmen and officers above.

  Yet the golden-eyed driver drove speedily and accurately, seeming to know instinctively which streets were still passable and somehow remaining out of the range of the Fleet ships. They cut a rapid course through Chicago’s wilds.

  Hamilton asked no questions, attempted no conversation. He had memorized the route back to the entrance to the underground hospital, where Jonny and the other wounded were. He knew he could find his way back on foot if necessary.

  They reached a kind of palisade. The fortifications appeared made up of broken timbers, cast-off farm equipment, junked cars, and a host of other debris. They surrounded a broad field, Hamilton saw as they were let through a makeshift gate. Tents were erected across this pasture. Artificial light blazed, and Hamilton saw that the sloping tops of several of the big tents were decorated with the proud Union Jack. Those outsize emblems would be noticeable from the air, and indeed no shells appeared to have fallen here.

  The car halted. Hamilton was inevitably reminded of the rebel camp in the wilderness. These men, plainly, weren’t regular British military. Yet their loyalties—unless this were some preposterously elaborate facade—were obvious. They were loyalists, was Hamilton’s surmise. He had of course known that many Colonials swore tireless allegiance to the Crown. He had encountered his share of them in the course of his military career. Some native to these Colonies had made decent fortunes by being flamboyantly cooperative with British interests. The Crown knew to keep those established American families appeased with both public acknowledgments and tacit rewards for their fealty.

  But these were some other stripe of loyalist. Hamilton looked around at the armed figures, scores of them. Some, evidently, had seen combat tonight. The wounded were being treated inside the tents.

  He had climbed out of the vehicle with the others. The bandolier-sporting driver stepped up to him, still regarding him with a vaguely amused, measuring stare.

  Hamilton didn’t let it make him visibly uncomfortable. “Been out fighting the revolutionaries?” Hamilton asked blandly.

  “Yes, Captain Arkwright. We’ve been doing just that.” The man’s low-pitched voice was as melodic as before. “I am Ramsay. Won’t you come with me?”

  The three other men hadn’t dispersed. Hamilton realized only at the last second that they had slipped behind him. When he tried to make a move, it was far too late. His arms were seized and wrenched back. Hands took the pistols from his leather jacket’s pockets. The rest of him was swiftly patted down.

  “Dammit!” Hamilton barked. “What is this? I’ve told you who I am. I—”

  Ramsay cut in airily, “Yes, yes. A Fleet captain wandering the streets in civilian clothes. Happens all the time. As I said, Captain, won’t you come along with me?” He smiled disdainfully.

  Hamilton found he didn’t have a choice but to come along. The three men with the armbands kept a strong grip on him as they moved him forward in lockstep.

  The loyalist camp was better organized than the rebels’ one. There seemed some discipline among the ranks. Vehicles came and went through the gate, bearing troops. Hamilton wondered if this bunch was self-appointed or if they had some civic authority and legal sanction. He had never heard of the military supporting a civilian group like this.

  A clutch of permanent buildings stood at the heart of the array of tents. Hamilton wondered if this had been a bare field a day or two ago, with just these few weatherworn structures present. Even that palisade could have been put up in a matter of hours, if planned for ahead of time.

  There was the rub. Had these people known the revolution was coming? If so, why hadn’t they passed their information to the proper British authorities?

  Hamilton shook his head as he was force-marched toward one of the buildings. Struggling against his captors was useless. Soon he was inside and being pushed into a room without windows.

  Ramsay lingered in the doorway. In addition to the gaudy crisscrossing bandoliers laden with ammunition, he had a sizable handgun holstered on a thick leather belt. It reminded Hamilton of Jonny’s shotgun. Only then did he realize the weapon had been left at the scene of the wreck on the highway. Oh well. Likely Jonny wouldn’t want to recollect what he’d done with that firearm aboard the doomed Indomitable.

  Hamilton glared. Trying to maintain a reasonable tone, he said, “I have recited my identification numbers for you. What other proof do you want that I am who I say I am?”

  “You spoke those numbers very prettily, Captain. Somehow I can’t stop calling you Captain. Isn’t that amusing?”

  “It’s uproarious. Your people are loyal to the Crown. I am a military representative of the Crown.”

  “Who speaks without a trace of English accent.”

  “I’m a jackyank! Do you know what that is?” The exasperation was getting the better of Hamilton.

  Ramsay’s lips slowly curled into a leering smile. He leaned a little into the small bare room and said throatily, “I don’t. But it sounds… promising. Jackyank.”

  Hamilton blinked. He wasn’t terribly sophisticated in such matters. Being around Jonny had shown him that clearly enough. But the expression on Ramsay’s face was more or less unmistakable. He was ogling. The notion rendered Hamilton mute. He studied the man. Ramsay’s eyes, of course, weren’t actually golden. They were amber, ringed by soft eyelashes. His jaw was nearly as square as Hamilton’s. He looked to have a firm physique.

  Jonny had used the currency of his body and sexuality to beguile transport and goods from Gus, back at the rebel camp. Was this Hamilton’s chance to make a similar transaction?

  But before he could begin to fathom how to make use of any leverage he might have in this situation, Ramsay said in a matter-of-fact tone, “You will be interrogated, in due course. You can recite your pretty numbers again, if you like, but I doubt it’ll do much good. What we currently want to know most is where the traitors are taking their wounded. There are too many bodies unaccounted for. Our interrogator is thorough, and he enjoys his work, I’m afraid. You’ll have something of a wait before he can see you. But if you tell me what we wish to know right now, then you will be spared the unpleasantness.”

  Hamilton couldn’t. Jonny was in that underground hospital. So were those brave medical personnel, regardless of where their loyalties lay. Hamilton simply could not divulge.

  Evidently that fact showed on his face. Ramsay gave a haughty sniff and said, “Suit yourself, Captain.”

  Before Hamilton could get a word out, the door was slammed and bolted. He knew he had just let his best opportunity to escape this dire predicament slip away. Quietly and thoroughly he cursed himself.

  TWO HOURS passed. Hamilton tested the door until satisfied it couldn’t be opened from inside this room without an ax o
r a set of heavy tools. He put his ear to the wall and heard—so muffled he could barely detect it—a voice rising and falling, taking on tones soothing, then ferocious. Interspersed among these changing timbres, he caught the hard meaty thuds of impacts, which were accompanied by cries of pain and sometimes awful pleading. This, then, was the interrogator at his happy work.

  Official policy had it that officers should withstand torture, no matter how severe. During his training, however, a retired commodore visiting their facility spoke with candor on the matter before anyone could stop him. He had said, “Each man subjected to professional torment will break. It is inevitable. Until the bloody scientists replace us with walking talking machineries, that will remain a soldier’s final vulnerability. I say vulnerability—not weakness. When you break, do not hold yourself up for undue blame. You have simply proven you are human.”

  So when the bolt was undone at the end of those two hours, Hamilton stiffened his spine, set his jaw, and faced the door. Maybe there would be a chance to make a grab for a weapon, an instant when whoever was coming for him would show some negligence. Hell, perhaps he would find his chance with the interrogator himself, get in some damaging blow before the festivities could commence. That, at least, would give him some satisfaction for the ordeal to come.

  But it was Ramsay once more. Ramsay, who reeled into the room with a bottle of clear liquid in one hand, breathing out alcoholic clouds and regarding Hamilton with bleary lust-lit eyes. He turned, jammed a jailor’s key into the door, and turned the lock. He then pocketed the key, patting the pocket to assure himself it was there, then patting still more and gradually moving his hand until he was caressing his own crotch, where a substantial bulge showed itself.

  “I been thinking about you… Captain.”

  Hamilton didn’t stand dumbfounded this time. He wouldn’t waste a second chance. “You’ve been thinking we should fuck,” he said with all the bold vulgarity of a virginal schoolboy attempting to sound worldly in front of upperclassmen.

  The statement brought out a leering grin on Ramsay’s not at all unhandsome face. He continued to rub himself through his trousers. He tipped back the bottle and swallowed some of the clear alcohol. “That’s right,” he panted, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

  Hamilton offered a smile of his own. He sensed the leverage he wielded here. It was a strange, heady feeling. He had so rarely been in a position to be frank about sex, about his sexuality. Was this how Jonny felt, with his confident flirtatiousness? Best not to think too sharply about Jonny, he rebuked himself.

  “You want to fuck?” Hamilton said, slightly more comfortable with the profanity this time. “Fine. What do I get out of it?”

  Ramsay’s hand went still atop his bulge. He blinked. “I can set you free.”

  “And?”

  “And?”

  Hamilton let his smile change to something of a sneer. He had considered simply overpowering this half-drunk man and taking the key, but there would surely be more to getting out of this building than simply walking out the door. “And,” he said, “I want access to the Fleet, either a fellow officer if you have one in this camp or Fleet communications. Or contact with any branch of the Royal military.”

  Again Ramsay was blinking. Then he resumed his masturbatory rubbing and said, “We’ve got a crystal. A transmitter. You can make your contact.” His face was flushed with the alcohol and his still rising lust. With a shaking hand, he undid his trousers and drew forth his twitchy cock.

  Hamilton felt an unexpected answering jolt of excitement. The sight of that erect, needy manhood touched something primal in him. He was a homosexual. His desires were turned entirely toward the male of the species. Any guilt or stigma aside, this was the basic truth of his life.

  His mouth went slack, and an anticipatory warmth shifted in his throat. He went to take a step forward.

  Ramsay’s words stopped him. “Take your clothes off first.” His amber eyes glimmered.

  Hamilton froze, and then, since there was no sensible argument to make in this outré situation, he set about disrobing. He shed the leather jacket, his shirt. He stepped out of his shoes and hesitated—purposefully—before undoing the catches of his mud-splattered trousers. Ramsay watched his every movement, apparently savoring each stage of his uncovering. It was in Hamilton’s interest for this man to enjoy this experience. So he made a small production of his final exposure, shimmying his hips and taking down the trousers a titillating inch at a time.

  “Show me that cock!” Ramsay finally burst. He held himself in his hand and was pumping slowly. When Hamilton at last let the trousers fall down his legs and stood naked, Ramsay’s face was fairly glazed with wanting.

  That attention also touched Hamilton in his primal place, and despite himself, his own cock engorged.

  Ramsay, in a sudden flurry, set down the bottle and struggled out of his own clothing. It was Hamilton’s turn to stare. Ramsay had a taut musculature, with strapping thighs and a tight belly dusted with fine hairs. Dark hairs also ringed the coral tips that were his nipples.

  Hamilton’s flesh rippled with desire. He advanced on the other man. Before, he had thought he would merely kneel and take him in his mouth, performing the oral act with whatever dogged persistence was required of him. But now he felt a keen yearning, one curiously disconnected from this man’s status as his jailor. Hamilton saw only the enticing male form, the erect member, the swaying testicles, the pleasing muscled reality of his body.

  He took Ramsay into his arms, enfolding him tightly, feeling the electrical contact of bare skin. He pressed his mouth on Ramsay’s alcohol-sweet lips, pushing his tongue past, getting a deep taste of him. Ramsay responded, kissing him back, hands crossing Hamilton’s back, clutching, scrabbling.

  Their cocks pressed together. Hamilton felt the other man’s excited trembling. His own body quivered, a deep-seated lustful twanging.

  He reached down to cup Ramsay’s ass, squeezing the firm swells. Ramsay’s fingers dug into Hamilton’s shoulders. He moaned more alcoholic fumes into Hamilton’s mouth. They ground their groins together.

  Their kiss grew gleefully sloppy. Ramsay’s tongue delved wildly. Spit ran down their chins. The taste of the liquor stung at first, but Hamilton got used to it. Perhaps Ramsay wasn’t as drunk as he’d first appeared, or maybe his passions had burned away the debilitation of the alcohol.

  Panting, they broke the kiss. Hamilton’s body swam with carnal energy. Every touch of this other man’s flesh sent new thrills rilling through him. His nerve endings sang with pleasure. Ramsay licked his throat. He bent farther and flicked the tip of his tongue over the tight stiff buds of Hamilton’s nipples. This opened new strange pathways of delight in him.

  Hamilton reached between them and gathered their cocks up into a single outsize fistful. He felt the throbbing of both their fiercely erect staffs. He ran the ball of his thumb over Ramsay’s swollen cockhead, then his own, then back again, smearing the milky precum drizzle over their adjoining knobs. Ramsay responded by nibbling on Hamilton’s nipples, which increased the curious but thrilling sensation.

  Hoarsely, Ramsay said, “I have to taste you.” And to his knees he went. Hamilton looked down, drawn by the rapture on Ramsay’s face. The amber-eyed man gazed upon Hamilton’s cock, mouth wet, eyes brimming over with longing. He took gentle hold of Hamilton at the base of his shaft, then set his lips around the knobby cockhead.

  Hamilton jumped at the luscious contact. He felt Ramsay’s tongue swirling his crown and let out a groan. Ramsay’s mouth made a cinching ring, which he dropped down Hamilton’s staff, taking in his inches. Ramsay’s cheeks flattened, and Hamilton drew in a whistling breath at the intensity of the suction.

  Ramsay slid his mouth down his cock. He bobbed his head. Hamilton savored the perfect tempo. He relished the wondrous intimacy of this deed. Even lacking any feelings for this man, he still felt the glow of connectivity, a male-to-male bonding, purely carnal.

  Hamil
ton put his hands to Ramsay’s head, letting his fingers wind into the sweat-damp tangle of his hair. He continued to bob. He never broke the tight seal. As he raced his nimble tongue up and down Hamilton’s shank, Hamilton’s fingers instinctively tightened in Ramsay’s hair. He started to work his hips, just a few tentative thrusts at first. Soon he was sliding himself in and out of the skilled mouth, with Ramsay accommodating his every lunge. The slow simmer in his balls began to build toward eruption. The stark, powerful pleasures were assembling over him, swarming their way leisurely over his naked flesh. He fucked the mouth harder, his come perhaps a minute away.

  So it was wrenching and disappointing—he even felt a dangerous flare of physical anger—when Ramsay suddenly disengaged, rocked back onto his heels, stood up, and looked into Hamilton’s eyes with a wide-eyed expression of crisis. “Put your mouth on my cock!” he pled in a tone of command—or commanded in a voice full of pleading; Hamilton couldn’t tell which.

  But he understood the transactional nature of this engagement. With a silent grumble, and with his own spit-wet cock still trembling on the verge of issuance, he squatted down, put his mouth on Ramsay’s cock, cradled his balls delicately in his fingers, and set about to suck him off.

  Instantly, however, he beheld the direness of the other man’s need. Hamilton had only just started to get a taste of the cock, determined to enjoy the flavor and texture no matter the circumstances, when Ramsay gave an urgent squeal, shook violently, and started to spew thick jets of seed onto Hamilton’s tongue.

  Dutifully he swallowed the sticky spunk, appreciating the tang and saltiness. Finally Ramsay let out a long sigh. “Thanks. I couldn’t last another moment and didn’t want to waste the load.”

  Hamilton, meanwhile, let the softening cock slip out from his lips. Still silently grousing with disappointment, he got to his feet. His flesh ached. That ache was going to become literal. He felt the denial of his orgasm turning to tender pain in his testicles. The matter struck him as a case of poor sportsmanship. Ramsay had insisted on getting his but hadn’t had the diligence to see Hamilton through to his end.