Battle Road Page 6

  “Certainly, madame.”

  Dylan leaned back against the kitchen counter sipping his cocktail. He stood there awkwardly for a moment before introducing himself to the woman. “Hi, I'm Dylan.” He reached over and shook her hand. “I'm Stephanie. It's nice to meet you.” The two exchanged small talk until David handed her the martini with a raspberry. “Thank you, Sir,” Stephanie said, before whisking off.

  “Now you know why I like being the bartender,” David said, taking a sip from his cocktail. Brooks had finished putting his beers on ice and walked over to the two men. David took another sip from his drink, finishing it, then swirled the ice cubes in the glass before putting it down. He leaned back against the kitchen counter in the same position as Dylan was in, eying out the various bottles of booze next to him.

  “Who was that blond that was here earlier,” Brooks asked, without introducing himself.

  David let out a quick laugh. “Yeah she's tasty, alright. Her name is Marla,” he answered, then picked up the bottle of French vodka that Dylan had brought. He took another look at the label, thinking of what kind of drink he'd have next. He looked at Brooks again, “She has a boyfriend, man. A big guy. Somebody you don't want to mess with.” Brooks smiled a big shit eating grin, “They all have boyfriends. Think that's ever stopped me before my friend.” Brooks gave the men a nod and walked out of the kitchen in search of Marla.

  “That must be Brooksie. Joanne told me he was a dog,” David said with another quick laugh.

  “Well, he's not the Don Juan he pretends to be. But yeah he is a dog.”

  David smiled. “I'm going to have to keep a close eye on him tonight. See how he does it.”

  The two men let out a hearty laugh. “Changing the subject,” Dylan said, “That song that was just playing, that you were singing along to, that song in banned. Do you know that?” David let out an even bigger laugh than he did earlier. “Of course, man! By the Patriot Communications Act. Everyone knows that.” He then began making himself another drink. Dylan pressed the subject, “Aren't you at all worried about being arrested?” David's playful demeanor changed to a more serious tone. “You're just as guilty as I am, dude. The government doesn't care if you like the music or not. They'll arrest you for just listening to it. But don't worry. The neighbors are all cool.”

  TEN

  The interrogations of the latest group of terror suspects went on all day and into the evening. Deep inside Building 6 of Homeland Security headquarters, Senior Agent Mike Goodman stood with several plainclothes officers behind the one way glass mirror of the command room. The group of four men and three women were silent as they peered into the adjacent interrogation chamber.

  The chamber was bare with unpainted cement brick walls and a single steel door that was just starting to rust due to the cold and dampness. A single spotlight shone over the naked male prisoner in an otherwise near pitch dark room. From the ceiling a stainless steel chain dropped down from a mechanical pulley. The prisoner hung by his hands, with leather straps securely attached. Two Homeland Security Detectives dressed in black uniforms stood to either side of the prisoner while the Senior Detective beat him with a hollow rubber baton.

  The Senior Detective was a large, overweight man in his early fifties. He looked to be at the very least two hundred and eighty pounds. He scowled at the prisoner, emanating a viciousness designed to instill fear into his victim. The two junior associates were learning the ropes. One was a leathery faced man in his mid twenties with a shaved head. The other was a heavy set muscular woman in her late thirties, with closed cropped blond hair, and a tattoo of a winged serpent etched upon her the side of her neck.

  Goodman was directing the interrogation from the command room that night. Usually the Detectives did the work themselves without interference from senior officers. If a command officer was overseeing the work of the Detectives, it was usually carried out by an officer at Agent level. It was rare for a Senior Agent to bother themselves with overseeing the interrogation of terror suspects. With his promotion to head of counterinsurgency in New England, Goodman was intent on overseeing all of the interrogations of the terror suspects rounded up from the college frat house a few days prior. Also, it would be a good chance to train the junior officers in interrogation techniques.

  Goodman looked over the group of officers assembled before him. “The point is to make the suspect feel as helpless as possible. You always start with an hour or so of water boarding before commencing with beating the prisoner. Not severe. Just enough to soften them up. Give them a whiff of things to come,” he said, checking to make sure the officers were all listening. “Your interrogation methods will differ depending on whether the prisoner is male or female. For men, you begin by stripping them naked. During the interrogation, you threaten castration. Women, you leave fully clothed and strip them during the interrogation. Removing one article of clothing at a time. All the while giving them the impression that they'll be raped if they don't cooperate.”

  One of the female officers cut in to ask a question, “What if they won't talk even with these kinds of interrogations?” Goodman gave the younger woman a stern impatient look, “I've only explained how to start the interrogation. We have a lot ground to cover, we'll get to it. Just keep in mind, we can make anyone talk. We just have to find and exploit a prisoners weaknesses and fears. The problem is the subject can only tell us what they do know. Let's take our seats and get comfortable, shall we?” Goodman made a gesture with his right arm towards several chairs in the room that sat behind the two way mirror and the control desk containing video monitors and other digital equipment.

  After the officers settled down, Senior Agent Goodman began his lecture once again, “As I said, we can break anyone. The problem is our enemies have come up with some clever defensive strategies. As you know, the rebels have organized themselves into small guerrilla fighting units or cells. These cells contain no more than six or seven members. Usually each member only knows one or two other cell members. Then, only one or two members know the identity of their cell commander. And only the cell commander knows the information on their upper command officers.” The junior officers glanced back and forth between Goodman and the activities in the interrogation room.

  The Senior Detective stopped beating the prisoner, handed the baton over to one of the associate Detectives, and began his 'bad cop' routine as he's done thousands of times before. Grabbing the prisoners hair and pulling his head back, the Senior Detective leaned over and spoke menacingly into his ear, “OK, so you know I'm not fuck'in around here. You're going to tell me what I want to know. No fucking bullshit either. Got that motherfucker!”

  The prisoner winced with his head pulled back but refused to speak. The female Detective slammed her fist into the prisoners stomach. She played the second 'bad cop' in the DHS interrogation tactics of 'bad cop – bad cop'. She stepped back as the other junior Detective leaned forward to yell at the prisoner, spraying spit across his face, “I didn't hear you motherfucker!”

  The prisoner shook his head up and down wearily, “yes, yes.” His face betraying his agony and terror. “What's your name?” the Senior Detective yelled as he once again pulled the helpless man's head back. A few seconds later the man was able to speak coherently, “I have rights. I'm an American citizen. You can't do this to me.”

  All three Detectives stepped back a couple of feet while mocking the prisoner with laughter. They each paced in a circle around the prisoner while continuing their taunts. The Senior Detective managed to blurt out between his laughter, “What a dumb fucking idiot you are.” The tattooed woman stepped up and landed another punch to the prisoners stomach. Shaking her hand after wards, demonstrating how much she enjoyed punching the young man.

  Allowing the prisoner to recover somewhat from the last body blow, the male Detective leaned over and shouted in his ear, “Should I call a lawyer for you. Would you like that?” The young man shook his head up and down, naively thinking for a moment there w
as a possibility of being given due legal process. That was, until all three detectives let out a another roar of laughter.

  The Senior Detective moved over to stand directly in front of the prisoner. “You really are a fucking idiot, aren't you college boy? Alright, I'll spell it out to you then. The only rights you have are what I give you. As of this morning, Homeland Security Federal Court ruled you to be an enemy combatant. Unless you cooperate with us, no one will ever hear from you again. I mean that, fuck face. I can put a bullet into your fuck'n brains right now and no one would give a rats ass. In fact, my colleagues here would prefer that so they can get out of here and go home for the night.”

  The Senior Detective stepped backed again. His associates repositioned themselves on either side of the prisoner. The Senior Detective took a deep breath, waited a full second, and spoke with a more calming tone, “So, let's start over. There's no reason why you have to be here and put yourself through all of this unpleasantness. Just tell us what we want to know. Nobody will know it was you who talked. I promise you that. We'll get you out of here right away and into the infirmary. So, lets start off with an easy question. What's your name?” The prisoner stared dead into the eyes of the Senior Detective, then glanced slowly over at the woman Detective, then back at at the lead torturer, “Fuck You is my name, you piece of fat, fucking filth.”

  Quickly flicking a switch on the console to speak into the microphone, Goodman stopped the Senior Detective from striking the man in the face. “Stop right there Chief. Use the pain sticks, then start the questioning again.” The Senior Detective begrudgingly lowered his fist upon hearing the instructions through his communication earpiece.

  Goodman turned to his officers, “As you can see our detectives like their jobs a little too much. It's important to keep them in line. A suspect with their bones broken or skulls crushed in doesn't do us a lot of good. The pain sticks are effective at this point. It's basically a highly charged cattle prod with lots of voltage and very little current. The subject will experience extreme pain, but it won't kill him. It's just the next step in our bag of goodies.”

  Satisfied that his orders where being carried out by the Detectives in the interrogation chamber, Goodman continued his lecture. “As I mentioned, we can break anyone. The problem is the terrorists have been using hypnosis to protect their organizational structure. Individuals are hypnotized to erase all memories of who their fellow cell members are. Cell commanders are hypnotized to delete all knowledge of their upper command structure. In most terror cells, there's a core group consisting of the cell commander and one or two individuals who know each others identities. They work together, bringing in the other members of the cell only when required. All communications are done with prearranged codes.” Most of the officers shifted their attention away from the interrogation and onto Goodman. Finding his words of more interest than the activities in the torture chamber.

  Goodman shifted his position in the seat to get more comfortable. “Basically all of these terrorists are programmed with only the knowledge they need to carry out their assigned missions. So when we do break one of these motherfuckers, they can't tell us a god damned thing. And that's really the entire reason why we haven't been able to crush the terrorist rebellion.”

  He paused to make sure the officers understood what he was saying. “So catching ordinary criminals like this young man before us tonight gives us our best chance at identifying existing terror cells or stopping new ones from being formed. In all likelihood he's been in contact with terrorist rebels that were trying to recruit him. Yet, he wouldn't actually be a soldier at this point and wouldn't be hypnotized. He's really just a terrorist wanna be. We've been successful numerous times with this approach.”

  Goodman rubbed the back of his neck. “If there aren't any questions at this point, lets head over to the next interrogation room.” He stood up, motioning his officers to follow. Before leaving he turned on the microphone once again, “Detective, I'll be over in interrogation room seven. If you learn of anything important contact me immediately.” The Senior Detective turned to face the mirror. “Yes Sir, understood.”

  While the officers were leaving the command room, the junior male Detective finished spraying the prisoner with a water. The female Detective, having already checked the charge levels on the pain sticks, handed them out. The three detectives paced once again in front of the subject. “I think we're gonna have a lot of fun here tonight,” the Senior Detective said with a smile. A bit of saliva dripped from the left corner of his mouth.

  ELEVEN

  Dylan had spent the past forty five minutes hanging out in the kitchen talking with David Whitney and a host of other characters. The kitchen was getting a little too crowded when Joanne walked in and spotted her prey. “Dylan, Dylan, what are you doing in here all night? I've got a friend I'd like you to meet.” He didn't have much of a say in the matter. He was literally dragged by the arm out of the room. “I'll see you later, dude,” David managed to say before his new friend was gone from sight.

  Looking over the buffet spread across the dining room table, stood an attractive Asian woman, no more than five feet three inches tall, with long straight jet black hair. “Tien this is my friend Dylan,” Joanne said, doing her best trying to play the part of matchmaker without being too overly serious about it. “Dylan this is Tien.”

  “Hi,” Tien said a little nervously. She offered her hand to Dylan. “It's nice to meet you, Tien.” Dylan said, shaking her hand gently. “I have to go check on the …... well, I have to check on something. I'll talk to you two kids later,” Joanne said. Then hurried back to the kitchen.

  The two strangers looked uneasily at one other for a moment. They each let out a friendly laugh breaking the tension. Dylan spoke first, “This is awkward. I didn't know Joanne was going to march me right up to you like that.”

  “Well, if she hadn't how was I going to meet you? You've been hiding in the kitchen all night,” Tien said with a smile on her face.

  She's interested in me, the thought raced across his mind.

  “I'm not really all that much of a party type of guy.” Dylan looked down at the floor for a second, a little embarrassed. What the hell, he thought. He hadn't been shy around women since High School.

  “You mean like your friend over there.” Tien pointed over to Brooks who was sitting next to Marla in the middle of a group of people in the living room. At just that moment Brooks moved his arm around Marla's waist. Tien glanced back at Dylan with a sarcastic smile. “Your friend seems to be a party type of guy.”

  A woman Dylan had met earlier in the kitchen, he thought her name was Julie or Julia, was handing out beers to people in the living room. Brooks took one with his free hand. Marla opened it for him.

  “Well, he's my friend. But I'm not anything like him,” Dylan said, continuing to look in the direction of Brooksie. Tien turned to face Dylan. “I get it. Marla over there is my roommate. And I'm nothing like her,” she said.

  Dylan turned to give her his full attention. “That's funny how we both have friends who are a little wild. That's something we have in common.”

  “Yeah, that's true.”

  “Can I get you something to drink, a beer, a glass of wine?” Dylan asked, noticing Tien didn't have a drink in her hand. “No thank you. I don't drink alcohol. And I'll get myself a soda in a little while. But thanks for asking,” she said.

  “No wonder I didn't see you in the kitchen earlier.”

  “Yup, no need for me to hit the bar.”

  A few awkward seconds passed before Dylan could think of what to say. “So, Tien, is that your full name or is that short for some kind of really long Chinese name that I'd look foolish trying to pronounce,” Dylan asked playfully. “Actually, my first name is Tien-Mu. Though, only my parents call me that,” she said, taking a step over and picking up a plate from the dining room table. “Do you mind, I'm starving. I was just about to eat when I saw Joanne dragging you in here.”

 
“No. Not at all. I'm hungry too.” He walked over to the end of the table, picked up a paper plate, and looked over the buffet spread across the table.

  They carried their food over to the corner of the dinning room for a little more privacy, taking a couple of empty seats. Tien spoke first, “So, what do you do for work, Dylan?” “I work as a software engineer for Homeland Security. DHS as most people call it. I mostly work in communications. Writing software code for transmitting, receiving wireless digital signals. That sort of thing,” he said, trying to tone down the pride in his voice.

  “No kidding,” Tien appeared surprised. “Joanne told me you were an engineer. But she didn't mention you worked for Homeland Security. So you must be a Freedom Party member to have that kind of a job, right?”

  Dylan took a few seconds to finish swallowing his food. “Yeah, you have to be to work there. They signed me up during the hiring process.”

  “Wow, I have to say, you're the first Freedom Party member I've ever met in person. I mean, I've seen Party members of course. We've had them speak at grade school and things like that. But actually know someone, you're the first.”

  “I'm glad to hear I was your first,” Dylan said with a grin.

  She smiled back, shaking her head letting him know she got his humor.

  “Seriously. What do you do for work?” Dylan asked, trying to change the subject.

  “I'm an account manager at American International Investments over on Franklin street in Boston. Really boring stuff. But it's a start. I graduated with a Masters degree from Harvard Business School so my goal is to make VP someday.”

  “That doesn't sound boring. It sounds pretty cool to me,” he said earnestly.

  Some small talk ensued while they ate. Neither wanting to divulge too much about themselves upon a first meeting. “Can I take your plate?” Tien asked, after finishing her dinner and seeing him holding an empty plate. “Uhm, yeah, thanks” he said. Handing her his plate, he looked into her eyes. A strange feeling unexpectedly hit him in his gut. She returned the glance, then smiled before walking over to trash barrel at the other end of the dinning room. Dylan stood up to meet her before she made her way back. “Shall we join the party. Looks like quite a conversation going on,” she said, nodding in the direction of the living room. “Yeah, sounds good,” he said.