They reached the base of the cliffs about two hundred yards west of the deserted village. From there, they clung to the base of the cliffs and came to the first jetty.
Of course, there would be sentries here, Schofield figured. It was one of only a few points of land-access to the island. The question was where they would be.
Neither Schofield nor Champion saw any such sentry and as they slid out of the water and up onto a frost-covered boat-ramp, they thought they had arrived undetected.
But that wasn’t the case. From the moment they had reached the base of the cliffs, they had been watched the entire time.
Only not by human eyes.
Unaware of this, Schofield and Champion crept through the snow-covered village, slipping quickly from corner to corner.
As they arrived at the inner edge of the village, Schofield saw the sentry team.
They’d taken the easy option.
They’d set themselves up as a roadblock a short way up the steep one-lane road that led out of the canyon. Someone might penetrate the village from the ocean side—and hide within its collection of structures—but if those intruders were to get onto the island proper, they had to negotiate the bottleneck that was the road.
Two jeeps and one motorcycle with a sidecar were parked across the road, blocking it. On them, six Army of Thieves men in bulky Marine parkas variously smoked, talked or paced, AK-47s slung loosely over their shoulders.
“Okay,” Champion whispered, “how do you propose to get past them?”
“You still got your smoke grenades?”
Champion did.
“Give me two.”
She pulled two grenades from her weapons belt and handed them to Schofield.
“Here’s the plan,” he said. “I get up close to their roadblock, toss these, and in the smoke that follows, you take down the men on the right, I take down the ones on the left.”
“That’s it? That’s your plan?”
“You got anything better?”
“I suppose not,” Champion said. “Wait. How are you going to get to the roadblock? There’s at least fifty yards of open ground between us and them, and those grenades won’t work over that distance.”
Schofield nodded. “I have a plan for that.”
“And that is?”
“Surrender.”
A moment later, Schofield emerged from cover, walking toward the roadblock across the short section of open ground, his hands held high.
The Army of Thieves team immediately whipped up their weapons, alert and wary.
Schofield’s heart was beating loudly in his head. He just needed to get close enough—maybe ten yards—and then grab and throw the two smoke grenades now clipped behind his shoulders, out of his enemies’ view.
He came closer. Thirty yards away.
“I want to give myself up!” he called as he walked.
They did not fire.
“Keep your hands where we can see ’em!” one of the Army men yelled nervously.
Closer still. Twenty yards . . . fifteen . . . ten . . .
Now, he thought as his hands tensed to reach back and grab the grenades—
“Freeze, Captain! And keep those fucking hands away from those grenades,” a deep voice said from down to Schofield’s right.
Schofield froze and shut his eyes.
He swore inwardly. He hadn’t seen the little corrugated-iron shed just below the edge of the roadway.
Nor had he seen the man who had been hiding behind it: a tall Army of Thieves man with a modern assault rifle held expertly in his hands and TYPHON stenciled in Magic Marker on his parka.
The man named Typhon stepped up onto the road, his gun trained on Schofield. He yanked the two grenades off Schofield’s webbing and tossed them to the roadway.
“Wouldn’t want you using those now, would we?” Typhon said. The other members of the roadblock team now surrounded Schofield. Typhon took his guns. “Hands behind your head, Captain Schofield.”
Schofield clasped his hands behind his head.
He thought of Champion and that maybe she could save him, but while she could manage simple tasks like swimming, she was in no state to launch a rescue. And right now, the only weapons she had were her Steyr TMP and her two pistols—the SIG-Sauer P-226 and her little Ruger—and they would be no match against this many men.
Typhon stepped in front of Schofield, stood nose-to-nose with him, filling his field of vision.
The man’s eyes were frightening. Black and hard, they were lifeless, pitiless. Schofield knew that kind of stare. The cold gaze of a sociopath.
“The boss thought you might come back,” Typhon said. “You have a reputation for it.”
Schofield said, “If you’re going to kill me, kill me. Cut the pompous speeches.”
“Oh, we plan to kill you, Captain, of that you can be certain. But the short life left to you still has some worth to us. The boss would like to speak with you.”
Schofield saw the nod Typhon gave to one of the men standing behind him and he turned in time to see the man’s rifle-butt come rushing at his face and Schofield’s world went black.
FIFTH PHASE
THE TORTURE
AND DEATH OF
THE SCARECROW
DRAGON ISLAND
4 APRIL, 1230 HOURS
T PLUS 1:30 HOURS AFTER DEADLINE
The only truly effective form of torture involves inflicting severe pain on a friend or loved one of the person you seek information from. Everything else is a waste of time.
—“THE TORTURE MEMO” [UNREDACTED]
OBTAINED UNDER FOI,
U.S. DEPT OF JUSTICE, APRIL 2004
DRAGON ISLAND 4 APRIL, 1230 HOURS
SCHOFIELD WAS slapped in the face and he awoke.
To find himself handcuffed to a steel bed frame that stood upright. His hands were spread-eagled, cuffed to the upper corners of the old bed frame. His feet were tied to the lower edge of the frame by a rope. He looked like a warped version of Christ on the Cross.
Typhon stood before him. “Wakey, wakey, Scarecrow . . .”
Schofield took in his predicament with not a little horror.
He was bare-chested. The upper half of his one-piece snow-camouflaged drysuit had been slipped off his shoulders and rolled down to his waist in the same way a car mechanic might roll down the upper part of his overalls.
Schofield shivered in the cold.
His parka, weapons belt and combat webbing had all been removed. Curiously, his boots and socks had also been taken, leaving his feet bare. His high-tech wrist guard was also missing but his old Casio digital watch, clearly so crappy it was unworthy of taking, remained on his wrist. His weapons and Maghook were gone, but not his reflective glasses: they had been perched comically on top of his head.
He looked around.
He was in a small room with ceramic tile walls, drains in the floor and showerheads on the walls: a shower room of some sort.
Suddenly, the roar of a crowd came in through the only door to the room. Schofield couldn’t quite get his head around the sound. Cheering?
Typhon slapped him again. Harder. “He’s awake.”
A second man stepped into Schofield’s field of vision.
Schofield recognized him instantly. It was the man who had taunted the Russian president on the video link, the one who called himself the “Lord of Anarchy.”
He was older than Typhon, in his mid-fifties maybe, but he was fit, strong, still in shape. The acid scar on his left jawline was very prominent when seen up close. And his eyes: they were a strange pale gray, oddly hypnotic.
And they weren’t like Typhon’s. They were not psychotic; not empty of pity or care. In fact, they were the opposite of that: this man’s eyes seemed designed solely to detect emotion, feelings, pain. They gleamed with intelligence and they saw right through you. Typhon was an enforcer. This man was something else, something more.
The Lord of Anarchy gazed at Schofield—crucified half-
naked on the vertical bed frame—analyzing him, evaluating him.
“So this is the famous Scarecrow,” he said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. My name is—”
“I’m guessing you’re Calderon,” Schofield said. “Marius Calderon. From the CIA.”
Calderon smiled sadly. “That, I fear, is a sliver of knowledge that means you cannot, ever, leave this island alive.”
“You like that piece of knowledge?” Schofield said. “How about this one then: that this whole thing was a CIA setup. You assholes at the Agency let the Russians steal the plans for this facility, knowing that they would build it. That’s how you knew there was an extra sphere down in the bunker, because our people designed this whole complex in the first place. And now that China is an economic powerhouse threatening America’s dominance, you created this fake terrorist army to set off the atmospheric weapon.”
Calderon smiled wanly. “This terrorist army isn’t fake. Its foot-soldiers are real, or at least they think they are part of a real terrorist army.”
“What about you? The ‘Lord of Anarchy?’ Let me guess, that acid scarring on your face isn’t real, is it?”
Calderon touched the foul scarring on his left jaw. “A good bit of plastic surgery, no? It’s like your eyes: it’s all anyone notices. When I go home, my skin will be repaired and my tattoos removed. So, too, these striking gray contact lenses. One does have to be something of a chameleon in this line of work.”
Calderon leaned in close to Schofield, pinned to the bed frame. “In the end, Captain, I do all this, including changing my face, only for the betterment of the United States of America. A newly rich China threatens the livelihood of three hundred million Americans. The Communist Party of China is a brutal and corrupt regime. Do you really want it ruling the world? There are many things wrong with America but as a world leader, we are a much better option than China. But it seems you would prefer to see China as the leading superpower in the world. I thought you were supposed to be fighting for America.”
“I do fight for America,” Schofield said, “but when it comes to the leadership of the world, that’s not for me to decide. If America can’t maintain its dominant status fairly, it doesn’t deserve to be the world’s leader. If America has to annihilate any country that threatens its dominant position, then we’re as bad as the Chinese.”
Calderon nodded. “Then it would seem that you and I are at an ideological impasse. A shame, really. You’re bright and determined. If our goals were aligned, you and I would make a powerful team.”
And right then, quite abruptly, Schofield realized something.
“You haven’t found the spheres yet,” he said. He glanced at Typhon. “That’s why your boy here didn’t kill me on the spot.”
Calderon nodded philosophically. “My men are scouring the island as we speak for your civilian colleagues, Mr. Weinberg of DARPA and Ms. Dawson from the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration.”
Schofield was surprised that Calderon might know Zack’s and Emma’s names. While his own details could be found quite easily on a military database, theirs would have been harder to come by. His surprise must have shown.
“You’re wondering how I know their names,” Calderon said. “You notice details, Captain, even in your current circumstances. I’m impressed. Here is how I know. Lance Corporal?”
At that moment, at Calderon’s call, into the shower room—uncuffed and totally free—walked Mario.
“Mario,” Schofield breathed. “You didn’t . . .”
“He did,” Calderon said. “Shot your other young Marine in the head from point-blank range. Lance Corporal Puzo and I speak the same language. I made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.”
“Mario . . .” Schofield said again.
Mario eyed him indifferently. “Sorry, sir. Had to choose a side and I chose the one I thought would win.”
“And the Kid?”
Mario shrugged. “He died quick.”
“You fucking piece of shit,” Schofield said.
“Captain,” Calderon said, “I know Mr. Weinberg and Ms. Dawson are somewhere on this island—on this base, no less—and my men will find them. But I am hoping that you will assist us in speeding up that process.”
“I can’t see myself doing that.”
“Captain, please,” Calderon chuckled. “You may know my name but you clearly do not know who I am. While you may deplore my methods, over the last nine years, I have personally prevented six 9/11-scale acts of terror on American soil by extracting information from captured terrorists. I am that worst of things: a necessary evil. I am the dark side of America’s psyche.
“And for nearly thirty years now, in my quest to keep America safe, I have been a student of the human mind and the effects of torture on it—how to motivate a captive, how to hurt him, how to give him hope, and in some cases, how to break him. Right now, you need not concern yourself with doing anything to help me. Because what you are about to experience is not about what you will do. It’s what we will do to you in order to get Mr. Weinberg and Ms. Dawson to reveal themselves.”
Calderon nodded to Typhon. The tall XO stretched some duct tape roughly over Schofield’s mouth.
“And solely for my own amusement,” Calderon said as Typhon slid a rolling hand truck under the vertical bed frame, “I intend to break your mind while I torture you.”
Then, led by Marius Calderon—now once again in his role as the Lord of Anarchy—and trailed by the treacherous Mario, Typhon wheeled Schofield’s bed frame out of the shower room, where it was greeted by an enormous cheer from the crowd massed outside.
THE GASWORKS
SCHOFIELD WAS wheeled out into an enormous hall-sized space, where a crowd of forty members of the Army of Thieves was waiting for him. He realized immediately that he was inside the gargantuan gasworks beneath Dragon Island’s mighty vents. He was on the highest of three levels, on a large balcony overlooking a massive, massive space. Immediately below him was a middle level, the main feature of which was a long conveyor belt. This belt fed an industrial furnace that sat on the third and bottommost level alongside three gigantic circular vats.
These vats—their green liquid contents steaming ominously and stirred constantly by rotating steel arms—were positioned directly beneath one of the mighty vent towers. An identical set of vats lay farther away, beneath the second enormous vent. Fed by a complex network of interconnected pipes, gauges and valves, the vats were the beating heart of the atmospheric device: the shimmering gas that rose from them was the combustible TEB mixture that would allow the sky to ignite.
On the northern side of the vast space, Schofield saw, of all things, a huge black train—twice the width of a normal train and made of ultra-thick reinforced steel—parked at a platform that opened directly onto the gasworks via a broad ramp. Judging from the direction of its tracks, Schofield guessed the industrial-sized train had been used during the original construction of the gasworks to convey material from the submarine dock on the east coast.
The whole place stank of a foul chemical odor, the reek of TEB, plus another rank smell that Schofield recognized with horror: burnt human flesh.
The crowd of ruffians from the Army of Thieves cheered loudly at Schofield’s appearance.
It was then that Schofield saw the other prisoners.
There were four of them in total: two closer to him—their torture had already begun, inspiring the grim cheers he had heard earlier—and two farther away on the balcony.
Schofield took in the nearer pair first: one was attached to a bed frame just like his. The other hung from the raised prong of a forklift in a most painful position: from his wrists, which had been handcuffed behind his back. His feet hovered just above the ground.
The man on the bed frame was Ironbark Barker: the Navy SEAL leader whose team had been shot to shit in the submarine bay and who himself had later been captured, after successfully sabotaging the TEB gas dispersal for a time.
Ironbar
k’s face bulged with bruises and cuts, while his naked back was imprinted with a foul grid of charred electrical burns. Schofield saw a thick black industrial-sized electrical cable attached by virue of a transformer to the steel bed frame. A moment later, he noticed the small wooden bit clenched between Ironbark’s bloody teeth.
The second prisoner, the one hanging from the forklift, was Jeff Hartigan, the haughty contractor who had stayed behind in Schofield’s camp against Schofield’s advice.
His head was bent low and he did not move at all—he could have been dead for all Schofield knew. It was hard to tell. Suspended from his cuffed wrists, Hartigan’s shoulders had dislocated some time ago.
Calderon caught Schofield looking at Hartigan. “It is a torture position known as strappado, or ‘reverse hanging.’ It has been used for hundreds of years, by the Medici family in Florence and the Nazis in their concentration camps, and also the North Vietnamese during the Vietnam War. It is still used today in Turkey—I know this for a fact, as I instructed their torturers in its correct use. Strappado causes excruciating pain, and if left for too long in this position, the subject will suffer first, permanent ligament damage, and second, dislocation of the shoulders, and eventually full loss of use of the arms.”
Calderon smiled. “I personally just like the look of it. The subject is at my complete mercy, with his hands pinned behind his back and his chest thrust outward so that his heart—his life force—is totally exposed.”
Schofield turned to face the other two prisoners and when he recognized them, his jaw dropped.
They were both suspended from a second forklift, one from each prong, also in the strappado position. Unlike Hartigan, however, their heads were unbowed, allowing Schofield to identify them easily.
Mother and Baba.
LIKE SCHOFIELD, their cold-weather outer garments had been removed—Baba hung from his swept-back wrists with his massive chest bare to the cold; it was hairy, muscled and huge. Beside him, Mother had been stripped to her trousers and gray sports bra.
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