Onslaught

by David Poyer

  * * *

  YOU expected something like this from the moment you became a SEAL. That they’d capture you and, if you weren’t fighting the Canadians or the Dutch, torture you. You might think that, since you’d been through BUD/S, it couldn’t get worse. But then, at Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape school in Coronado, you realized it could. Much worse.

  He’d been through both levels at SERE. Level A. Escape and evasion. Eating lizards, biting the heads off snakes. Level C was for special operators, air crews, and others at high risk of capture. “Interrogation resistance,” it was called.

  The instructors had made it clear. It was about survival, not resistance. Those who spat in the interrogators’ faces were going to die. Those who cracked—broke down, pled for a break, or went along with the demands for signatures and confessions—weren’t going to make it either. Those were the guys who were going to hang themselves in the latrine, or eat a bullet back in the States.

  The only way to make it through alive, and with something resembling integrity, was to become the Gray Man. The Cipher. The Face in the Crowd. Maybe even, if you could pull it off, not the sharpest knife in the drawer. Cooperate just enough to stay alive. Tell as little as you could, stringing it out. While protecting any really important information with your life.

  His problem at SERE had been taking it seriously. No matter how tough the guards acted, it was for show. They couldn’t kill you, or even permanently hurt you, even as they messed with your mind, tried to play on your fears, and got you in stress positions. The endless tapes of crying babies and punk rock were annoying. But they did feed you, though not much. And it was only for five days. As long as you kept that in mind, how bad could it get?

  This was going to be different. Glancing up from under bleeding eyebrows at the angry faces circling him, he figured: If I check out while these guys are at me, there won’t be much of an investigation.

  * * *

  AN hour later—chained to the chair for all that time, pissing in the rags that were all that was left of his black gear—the door banged open. The team who’d been beating him slammed their backs to the walls, at attention.

  The guy who stepped through it was average height, with black nerd glasses. His camos were the same as those of the others, but sharply creased. A holstered Makarov rode his hip. He wore a collar insignia that Teddy, blinking, found hard to make out. A star and two bars? A midgrade officer. Intel, security, or military counterintelligence. Most likely, attached to the unit that had garrisoned the island.

  If they were still on the island. How long had he been out? More than long enough to get flown back to the mainland. The guy’s hair was slicked back and he had a couple of days’ wispy beard. Thirty-two, thirty-three, though it was hard to tell. Prominent cheekbones. He was carrying a can of something. It seemed to be Pepsi, though it looked smaller than U.S. cans. He spoke to the men along the wall, and they bowed and filed out. Only one remained. He brought a folding chair from somewhere, snapped it open, positioned it for the officer, and retreated behind Teddy, out of his field of vision.

  Slick Man smiled as he took the seat. “My name is Kuo,” he said, but with the K deep in the throat; it might have been Guo. “I am here to welcome you.” His accent was southern, as if he’d spent time in Georgia or Alabama. He patted a pocket. “How about a smoke?”

  Teddy cleared his throat and spat blood onto the concrete. There was plenty there already. “Thanks, don’t use ’em,” he mumbled through swollen lips.

  “Didn’t expect so. How about a drink?”

  Teddy eyed the can. Take it when it’s offered, they’d said at SERE. “Yeah, but my hands are sort of occupied at the moment.”

  Kuo, or Guo, laughed. He nodded to the guy behind Teddy. Chains rattled, and the cuffs came off his wrists, though his ankles were still shackled to the chair. Teddy shifted his weight as he massaged his wrists, trying to sense if it was bolted down. It didn’t give. He got the Pepsi down in three long gulps, burped, and set it on the concrete, licking his lips. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.” Kuo settled a tablet computer, an iPad if Teddy wasn’t mistaken, on his lap. “Sorry about the shackles, but you’re a dangerous guy, right?”

  “Not so dangerous,” Teddy said. “Obviously. If I’m here.”

  “You know, we can arrange to have things made much easier. I’d like you to see me as your friend. But first, let’s see what we have here. I assume you’re American. Correct?”

  “Correct.” Teddy made himself look at the floor. “Sir.”

  “Name and rank, please?”

  “Theodore Harlett Oberg, master chief petty officer, United States Navy.”

  “Harlett, or Hart-lett? Spell the name, please.”

  He spelled it.

  “And the serial number?”

  Teddy gave it to him.

  “Theodore, I’m sure you realize I’m a military intelligence officer. You are now a prisoner of war. But you’re also a source. No doubt you have been trained to resist interrogation, as a SEAL. I respect that. You are a SEAL, correct?”

  Teddy didn’t answer. Kuo studied his iPad. “Born in Hollywood, California. Service in Saudi, Then Ashaara, then a break in service. Reactivated for service in Afghanistan and Iraq. Currently assigned to Echo Platoon, SEAL Team Eight, San Diego. Unmarried, no dependents?” He flicked a gaze at Teddy. “I’ll take that as a yes. My job is to find out what Echo intended to accomplish on Yongxing. Or do you still call it Woody Island?”

  Teddy didn’t answer for a moment. He didn’t see how—even the names of individuals on the Teams were confidential—but it sounded like the guy had his complete service record. Which meant that either they’d penetrated Team computers or they had someone on the inside. Cooperate just enough to survive. Become the Gray Man. He said, “We use both names.”

  Kuo nodded, looking pleased, and made a note. “Now, we have a slogan in the People’s Republic: ‘Kindness to those who confess, harsh discipline to those who resist.’ Unfortunately, over twenty civilians, including women and children, were killed during your failed invasion. Certain of my seniors are pressing for us to execute you and your teammate as war criminals.”

  Teddy didn’t bother getting excited over the threat, and the obvious lie about civilian casualties. The Chinese were the enemy, but they probably weren’t al-Qaeda. He could get kicked around, but at this stage of the war, a POW was more valuable alive than dead. But maybe Kuo had just let something slip he hadn’t meant to. Teddy murmured humbly, “You captured someone else, sir?”

  “One other SEAL, yes. He’s wounded, but is receiving treatment. And cooperating fully. If your statements agree, we’ll move you both to a special camp on the mainland. You will receive kind treatment. Your family will be notified via the Red Cross, in accordance with the Geneva Convention.” Kuo shook the empty can. “Another?”

  “Thank you, sir, one was good.”

  “Hungry? Something to eat?”

  “I’m fine, sir, thanks just the same.”

  “A personal question, if you don’t mind. Those scars on your face. Afghanistan?”

  “Actually, it was at the pistol range,” Teddy said. “A Beretta. The slide failed. But it improved my looks.”

  Kuo didn’t chuckle. He said gravely, “I have to warn you, Teddy, your treatment depends on your attitude. If you don’t cooperate, you won’t be going to the camp I described. You will either be shot as a war criminal, or end up in a hard-labor camp. The treatment there … well, let’s not talk about that.” He smiled. “So. Will you help with our investigation?”

  “I want to. But, see, I’m not actually part of the leadership. Low man on the totem pole, if you know what I mean. They tell me what to do, and I do it.”

  “What was your mission on Yongxing Island?”

  “I didn’t know that, sir. I’m just an admin puke. I get the guys ashore, and count noses when it’s time to leave. The mustering petty officer, that’s me. Guy who count
s the bullets and types the requisition forms.”

  Kuo shook his head. “Let’s not do this. You’re a master chief. In the Teams, that ranks with officers. We need answers tonight. And believe me, we will get them. What was the mission?”

  “I don’t know,” Teddy said again, gleaning, at least, that they hadn’t captured Harch. They stared at each other.

  Finally Kuo sighed. “Hands behind you, please.”

  He nodded to the trooper behind Teddy.

  * * *

  AFTER about the fifth time they brought him up out of the water, Teddy had a come-to-Jesus moment. They weren’t going to stop. This was just going to keep on. Time after time, until he drowned, or more likely his heart burst.

  He’d been waterboarded at Coronado, during the training. But there was a difference, knowing the guys doing it would get busted if they actually hurt you. That there was a medic next door, ready to bring you back if you passed out or went into convulsions.

  He didn’t see any medics around here. Just furious, enraged sneers, as if some of the guys they’d taken down out on the dunes had been friends of theirs. Maybe they had. He was pretty sure now this was the 164th, and that he was still on Woody.

  But he kept thinking about the brass bell. The one that hung at BUD/S, where, if you couldn’t take it anymore, you walked over and rang it. You put your helmet down, with those of the others who weren’t good enough, and walked away.

  “Just shoot me,” he mumbled, through the loose teeth, the clotted blood in his mouth. “Fuck you. Fuck all of you.”

  The big guy—his name seemed to be Lam—said something in Chinese. Kuo bent over, eclipsing the dangling bulb that glared into Teddy’s eyes. “Theodore. My friend. Do you really want more of this?”

  Oberg struggled to remember who this was. Oh yeah. Redneck Drawl. Probably had a Confederate flag sticker on his pickup. He tried to act like the good guy, like the others were hard-asses and he was only trying to save him. He grunted, “Rack that fucking Mak and shoot me, asshole. I fucking dare you.”

  “The mission,” Kuo said, for about the hundredth time since they’d beaten him some more, with sticks this time, then dragged him down the hall into what looked like a cleaning-gear locker, to judge by the swabs and shelves of what smelled like cleaning chemicals. Strapped him to the board, and slid it over the deep sink.

  You didn’t need a lot of equipment. Just a sink, a faucet, and a towel. In a pinch, you could do without the sink. He’d done it with a towel and a canteen himself a couple of times. Persuading insurgents to share what they knew. Teddy didn’t bother to answer. Fuck him. Fuck them all.

  “The mission,” Kuo whispered in his ear.

  Teddy closed his eyes.

  They always waited until he breathed out. This time too. The wet cloth, the struggle to get even a quarter of a breath around it. Then the water, going down his throat. Filling his sinuses. A lot of guys couldn’t take that. They tapped out, thinking they were drowning. For a diver, though, it wasn’t that terrifying. He gagged, and choked, but kept it wired.

  It didn’t matter what you did anyhow. You were going to die. You just had to buy into that. Think about something else. Like that platinum blonde he’d plowed in LA, at his grandmother’s old house on Lookout Mountain. Loreena? Silvery hair. Shining breasts. Huge, dark nipples. Another wannabe songwriter, starlet. She’d fought him, tried to get away. He liked that. They never fought long.

  But this time he couldn’t stop his throat from opening. The water slid down his esophagus and into his lungs. Icy cold. He lost it and tried to scream. Mindless, panicking, he writhed and bucked on the board.

  “You’re shitting yourself,” a voice said in his ear. “Theodore? You’re disgusting. Listen. We won’t let you die. And, no, we won’t shoot you. Beg all you want. We know how this works. Your CIA showed us.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Fuck me? You’re the one who’s fucked, Teddy. We can go all night if we have to. Just grunt, and this is over. Why wait? You know you’re going to tell us. Even the SERE guys tell you that. Why not get it over with?”

  Choking, writhing, blood tiding behind his eyes, Teddy Oberg slid back into the dark. Not knowing if he was coming back. And not caring.

  * * *

  HE didn’t know where he was. Or who. Or what was going on. Some strange noise was filling his head. A roaring, like under a ship. Was he diving, under a ship? What was the mission? What was the mission. Blackness. No air. Water, down his throat. He twisted and fought. Where was his regulator? Couldn’t move his hands. Drop the weight belt. Drop the weight belt. Drop the …

  * * *

  “WE’RE gonna take a little break now,” someone was saying. Yanked the blindfold off, and slapped his face, hard.

  Teddy coughed and choked, vomiting water and snot and stomach acid. His ribs flamed. The light glared. He blinked at a brown concrete wall, a rack of mops.

  “Then we’ll do it all over again. We have all night. There’s no hurry.”

  He racked in a breath. Snorted what felt like thickened blood through his nose. He blinked at the crazy patterns chasing over the concrete. The room kept rotating. He was getting shadowed images again. Concussion? Or brain damage? It was hard to think, but he forced himself to, whipping his mind like a reluctant donkey. He couldn’t feel his hands, which were still locked behind him. All the muscles in his painfully arched back had cramped hard as rocks. He sucked breath, head swimming. It would’ve been okay to die. He was ready. He’d dared them to shoot him. Practically begged.

  But these guys weren’t going to kill him. Just drown him, over and over.

  “We can keep this up all night, Teddy,” Kuo said, face leaning in. “All you need is to give us the mission. Come on. Throw me a bone here. I’m on your side, dude.” Beads of sweat were running down his temples. Why was he sweating? I’m the one getting fucking tortured, Teddy thought. Higher-up must be turning the screws on the interrogator, too.

  Someone was talking in the corner, arguing, it sounded like, although even at best the lingo sounded harsh and staccato. Smoke drifted toward the ceiling, but he couldn’t smell it. Actually, he couldn’t smell anything. Kuo seemed to be arguing for something, the others against. Teddy stared at the overhead, panting, building up the oxygen in his tissues.

  The trouble was, the interrogator was right.

  Sooner or later, he was going to give it up. Nobody could hold out forever. Not if your torturers knew what they were doing. Take you to the edge and hold you there, and sooner or later, everybody talks. Everybody.

  Not Teddy Oberg, some dying, flaring remnant back in his brain screamed.

  Yeah. Him too.

  He could give them the EMP. That was only the cover, after all. After that, they’d let him alone.

  ‘No,” he mumbled, as they started to put the towel over his face again. “No. No. No.”

  “Going to cooperate, Teddy? Tell us everything?”

  He nodded, but Kuo leaned in close. “I don’t believe you. Lam here says to do it anyway.”

  “No. No.” He tried to roll away. He couldn’t help it; he was weeping.

  “You’re going to cooperate?”

  “Yeah. Yeah.”

  “You’re fucked, right? You know that now?”

  “Yeah.”

  Kuo exchanged glances with someone behind him. “Let’s see. What is your commanding officer’s name?”

  “Harch. Bill Harch. Lieutenant. United States Navy.”

  “His commander?”

  “Laughland. Richard T. Laughland.”

  “And his?” Kuo was busy making notes on his iPad.

  “Uh, I guess that would be Group One: Captain … Culver. Yeah. Culver.”

  They kept going, right up to the president. Kuo made notes. “All right, good. Now we are making progress.” He said something to the big guy, Lam, who chuckled. “But, you know, we can resume, if you prefer.”

  “Please don’t,” Teddy said. Weeping openly now. A pa
rt of his head was separate, watching, without judgment yet. He couldn’t take this anymore, that was all. Yeah, he was ringing the fucking bell at last. After all these years.

  “And your mission? What were you doing on Chinese soil?”

  The bulb above them flickered.

  Teddy lay with his mouth open. He stared at the bulb.

  It flared, terrifically bright, then burned out with a pop.

  In the hallway, from the dark, voices boiled, shouting. Something shook the walls, and dust sifted down.

  “That,” Teddy said.

  From the dark, a gabble. One voice, Kuo’s. “What was that? What just happened?”

  He lay staring up as someone lit matches in the hallway. They’d forgotten him. If he could only get his hands free … but they were locked under him in the fucking sharp metal … his legs were strapped down too. He writhed, moaning. Crunched his eyelids. He wasn’t the hard-ass anymore. Now he was the bitch. The pussy. He’d do anything they told him. Suck their dicks. Turn over and let them fuck him in the ass.

  Then he remembered.

  There was one thing he wasn’t going to tell them.

  But he had to tell them everything.

  No. He couldn’t tell them that.

  But he would. Right now, he knew, he would.

  Lying there, alone for just a few seconds in the dark, he doubled his tongue back and tried to swallow it. But it was too swollen. He couldn’t get a grip on it. He bit down, hard, and blood filled his mouth.

  * * *

  A red glow behind his eyelids. A flashlight flicked around the room, then found him.

  “Oh, Teddy, Teddy,” Kuo said. Rapid Chinese, and hands grabbed him. Fingers in his mouth. He retched blood.

  The bulb flickered. Everyone looked up. It flickered again, then lit, reduced in power, but lit.

  “Sergeant Lam is going to be in charge now.” Kuo hesitated, then reached out and patted Obie’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.” He said something else in Chinese, then left. Teddy blinked at the ceiling, too groggy and exhausted to respond.

  But he couldn’t miss the big hand grabbing his face. Turning it back and forth, the fingers digging into his eyes. “Hello, Oberg,” Lam said, slowly, holding his gaze. So, he could speak English too. He was grinning, as if contemplating a steak dinner, something he was really going to enjoy.