The Distance Between Dreams

by Sherry L. Brown

  I’m still trying my best to break out of the hold- bucking my hips and straining my shoulder muscles- when a sharp stabbing pain erupts in my right thigh.

  Fuck. They’ve stabbed me.

  The shock of it freezing me mid-fight.

  Fight, Fight, Fight.

  But my muscles seem disconnected from my body, dead and unmoving.

  Blackness is creeping into my vision.

  Not stabbed. Drugged…

  Broussard

  “Yo! T-Rex. You seen Ryan this morning? She missed PT and the oh-nine-hundred briefing.”

  I’ve got the team split into two groups, that rotate PT and training time, to keep things interesting. We’ve been deployed and are just waiting on orders for any type of orders we might be needed for.

  I’ve tracked T-Rex down in the mess tent, and was sure if anyone knew if Ryan was sick it’d be him. These two are tighter then two peas in a pod here lately.

  He pauses with a forkful of mashed potatoes halfway to his mouth.

  “No. Chief. I thought you had her on some special go-fer.”

  Well, this is perplexing. It’s not like Ryan to pull a failure to report.

  If she was sick, surely she’d call in to Hanzo or the XO.

  I leave the mess hall and make quick work to the girl’s barracks.

  This time of the day, there shouldn’t be too many people about, but I still announce my presence with a knock and, “Ladies! Dick on deck! Watch it!”

  There are only a few females in residence on base; I’m not sure what I’ll encounter here.

  The girls have small compartments, and I only know I’m at Ryan’s by the spray paint announcement on the door, “Ryan - 10E.” I knock and without an answer, push open the door. I take a look around. Her bed is made. Boots tucked in at the end. So wherever she is, she’s either wearing shower flip-flops or cross trainers.

  Her Boston Red Sox’s cap is clipped to the head rail. Other then that, her locker is closed and no extra clues are lying about.

  I exit and walk the short hallway to the bunk compartment next to hers.

  Knock on the door, no answer.

  Going on down the line, I don’t get an answer till the fourth door. A dark haired girl answers, with “What’s up sailor chief?”

  Our FOB has multiple branches of the military, and I know under normal circumstances this informal greeting would be grounds for chastisement- but I’m on the hunt for a member of my team, and could care less how this girl answers- as long as she does.

  “You know, Ryan, down in 10E?”

  “Yeah, I know her. Hardly see her though.”

  “Did you see her yesterday at all?”

  “Yes sir. Just as I came back from dinner she was on her way out.”

  “How was she dressed.”

  It comes out as an order and not a question.

  She takes note of my serious tone and gives me the straightforward on my level, “Shorts, T-shirt, Running shoes.”

  “Did she talk to you?”

  “Just a hello, sir.”

  I turn on my heel and stride out of the barracks.

  Hitting the sand I pause and try to imagine the path that Ryan would take to get a little exercise.

  I turn to my left. She probably just twisted her ankle and is now at the med tent icing it down. I should just check there first. Let Butters and Hanzo know what’s going on too, so they can keep their eyes peeled just in case I miss her as she heads back to her bunk.

  But...this scenario doesn’t sit right with me. It doesn’t take twelve plus hours to get a sprained ankle looked at and iced down.

  I trust my gut. Instead of following the path I think Ryan might have taken, I take a right and head to operations command.

  Pulling open the door, I take in the multiple TV screens, computer equipment, phones, and other paraphernalia crammed in the space haphazardly on desks.

  A few fans stir the air, and in addition to Lieutenant Gervais, Captain Peters, and Rear Admiral Smith, there’s four supporting personnel typing and talking on the phones.

  Captain Peters addresses me first.

  “Ah. Chief Broussard. We got your report yesterday. Good to know Seal Team Four is ready for duty.”

  “Sir. I have an issue - I need to review the security cameras from last night in sector six.”

  “Sector six? That’s the residential sector.”

  “Yes sir.” I try to keep the annoyance out of my voice.

  “Broussard!” comes a command from Smith.

  I make my way over to him. After our salute he begins, “James...Where is the SOCOM orders that came through yesterday?”

  One of the newbies fresh out of boot camp brings a file over to the Admiral with a skittish eye flicked to me.

  “Yes. Thank you, James.”

  James scuttles back behind a desk a good distance from us, while the admiral studies the paper he has pulled from the file.

  “Specialized Details for executing order 1057B.”

  He hands me the paper. As I scan over it, he continues, “Joint research mission between SOCOM and CIA. We’re testing the mettle of your one and only female team member.”

  I read the directive with uneasiness churning in my gut. It basically outlines and gives the authorization to execute a snatch and grab on Ryan for the purposes of an experimental interrogation to see how a female reacts to different interrogation tactics - not to last longer then a period of forty-eight hours. Fucking slithering CIA.

  “Sir. You have got to be kidding me- we could be deployed at any minute on a highly volatile situation where we must be at a hundred and ten percent; we hardly need to be served up to the CIA for experimental interrogations. We have no way of knowing if what they are doing could have short term repercussions or long term complications. It’s a severe and detrimental risk to put a team member through such a thing.”

  Not that we haven’t been studied before- the effects of stress related combat on the body and such things. But this. This stank worse than a rotting whale carcass on a hot summer day.

  “Broussard. I know this. But, we also need to know if training females for spec ops combat is a waste of time and money- if she cracks under the first sign of pressure - it's all for naught.”

  “I highly disagree. Sir. You are putting my team’s lives on the line in an active combat deployment so the CIA can get their kicks in. We don’t even know what condition Ryan will be in when they are done or even what interrogation tactics they are using on her.”

  He grunts in response and pulls a laptop across the desk towards us. He types in his pass code, and double clicks on a desktop camera icon.

  A video stream fills the screen. Dim lighting makes it hard to see exactly, but a female form is restrained in the middle of the screen, laying down on a table, with a cloth over her face.

  A man with a heavy beard and traditional Middle Eastern garb stands over her with a pitcher of water, while another form is standing at her head. They’re shouting questions at her in Arabic, but she’s not answering, just breathing hard.

  They are fucking waterboarding her. As I watch they began pouring the water from the pitcher over her face as she thrashes on the table. I start to see red. C. Fucking. I.A. They think their shit doesn’t stink, and here they are imitating the enemy to try and break a soldier.

  The water in the pitcher finally runs out, but Ryan keeps struggling and coughing. They switch to English, “Tell us little pussy, where are the American soldiers scouting next.”

  Ryan’s cough starts to turn into laugh, and in the next few seconds she is outright chortling.

  The “Arab” slams her head back against the table, and begins pouring water on her face again.

  I slam the laptop closed and meet the Admiral’s eyes.

  “Sir. For the safety of my team, I ask that you release Ryan from this experiment ASAP. It’s a liability for her to be in there.” I can barely get the words past my lips my jaw is clenched so tight.

 
“Broussard. Calm down. She’s fine. The waterboarding is the worst of it. She’ll be isolated in an hour, and then they are going to give her TS-199. After that, she’ll be questioned a final time and released- no harm.”

  TS-199 is code for an interrogational truth serum. Highly hallucinogenic, interrogators have been using it for a while now to get information.

  “Sir, I have to object.”

  “Duly noted. Broussard.”

  He gives me a glare and raised eyebrow. Flipping the paperwork back into the folder with finality he says, “You are dismissed...unless you have further business?”

  I stare at his ambivalent eyes and picture punching him in the face and breaking his arrogant nose. It calms me a minute.

  “No sir.”

  I’ll have to figure out some other way to get Ryan out of this. It’s all I can do to contain the rage at seeing her on that table. The only easy day was yesterday.

  Before I can even close the door to operations all the way, I spot T-Rex hanging outside the door.

  “Sir.”

  He falls in behind me as I fast walk back to Ryan’s bunk.

  “Sir. Can you tell me where’s Ryan?”

  I ignore him the whole time we walk.

  “T...” I pause only when I am once again at the door to the girl’s barracks.

  “T,” I begin again and look him directly in the eye, “The CIA grabbed her yesterday for an authorized interrogation. Joint direct orders from SOCOM.”

  His look of worried bewilderment slowly dissipates into anger.

  “Bull-fucking-shit, Master Chief. We know those CIA motherfuckers don’t do anything clean. And they have Ryan!?!?!”

  “It’s not good T,” I pause wondering if I should share what I saw, “They got her for a full forty eight hours and we are only sixteen in.”

  “FUCK!” He punches the wall of the barracks and leaves a T-Rex fist-sized dent in the siding.

  Before he can rear back and do it again. I holler his name, “T!” and grab his arm.

  He’s breathing heavily but concentrates on me.

  “I’ve got a plan. But I need you to go down to the CIA section and see if you can find out where they are holding her and who is charge at their camp.”

  He nods once and jogs off without a backward glance at me.

  I pull open the girl’s barracks door for a second time today. I don’t announce myself this time, instead just make my way to Ryan’s door.

  Entering her room, I pull open her foot locker and lift out her laptop. It’s 10:35AM here. San Diego is ten hours behind. So it should be around midnight there. Not ideal, but I hate to leave Ryan in the hands of those CIA fuckers another minute.

  I power up her laptop, and open Skype. I scroll through her numbers and note that there’s no men’s names on the list. Just her sisters and father. I jot down the number to “Home and Dad Cell.”

  Double check that I wrote the numbers down correctly, then power the laptop back down and place it back in her locker.

  I realize suddenly that we have left a member of our team alone for too long a time, vulnerable and unprotected. I’m disgusted with my oversight. Ryan’s going to have to come live in with the rest of the team.

  17

  Ryan

  Waking up strapped down to a rough wooden table, it’s a feeling of helplessness so sharp and worrisome, for a minute panic overwhelms me. I force myself to take three deep breaths and assess my situation.

  My face is completely covered by a rough cloth, but dim light seeps around the edges enough to tell me where ever I am at, there’s light. My hands are bound and stretched above my head. My feet and knees are also bound. No shoes, and I’ve lost my t-shirt. I’ve got a splitting headache and dry mouth.

  “Good morning little American whore.” A smooth voice speaks next to my right ear.

  “You know how this goes, yes?”

  I don’t say anything but instead focus my senses outward, trying to determine if anyone else is in the room.

  I hear a faucet turn on and water filling a bucket.

  “Your name and rank, now little twat.”

  His accent is slightly off, not 100% Arabic...but I am not sure what else I am hearing. And his use of the word twat is comical.

  The water pouring over my face stuns me at first -it’s abruptness paralyzing. It seems within seconds I’m unable to breathe and start struggling.

  Just as abruptly as it started, it stops.

  I gag and cough and try to catch my breath.

  Again and again he asks me questions and pours water over my face.

  I retreat to the portion of my brain where I’m unreachable and numb.

  As if from a distance, my brain confirms the unbelievable for me. I’m being fucking water boarded. Again the water over my face, and myself choking and coughing, unable to breathe. I lose track of time, the interrogators questions seem endless. After a while, I do the really awesome, kickass, SEAL thing and pass out.

  18

  When I come to this time, I’m still blindfolded but sitting in a chair, arms bound behind me, feet tied beneath me. When I lift my head, my neck protests with a sharp ache. I know I’ve been in the position a while.

  “Ahh. Little kitten. Are you prepared to answer any more of my questions?”

  I tilt my head back trying to see under the blindfold, but all I can make out is a dirt floor, and a pair of boots in front of me- khaki pants tucked into them.

  A sharp slap across my face whips my head to the left. I taste blood on the inside of my cheek.

  “Now, BITCH. Tell me your name and rank!”

  I give a short laugh, a huff really. He grips my chin and tilts my head up as if he could see my eyes behind the blindfold. I see the buttons on his dark green shirt. Smell his garlic breath.

  “Don’t speak up, and I’ll make it permanent by cutting out your tongue. Then I’ll feed it to dogs and leave you to rot in a dark hole.”

  “Do your worst,” I tell him. Good job, Ryan. Piss off the interrogator.

  He thrusts my head back, cruelly. The force rocks my chair back. I hear him walk a few feet away from me, and his voice carries back across the room.

  “I have something for you...It’s a little cocktail to loosen that pretty tongue of yours.”

  His footsteps on the hard packed earth bring him back to my side, his presence discernable by the shift in light behind my blindfold. A sharp prick in my arm. Great. Who knows what drugs this guy just gave me.

  “I’ll be back in twenty minutes...enough time to let that stir your blood and improve your mood,” he hisses at me in a low tone.

  The minute he closes the door, I’m pulling my wrists at my back, trying to find any give in the bindings.

  It’s solid. My feet are on the ground, but my legs are tied to the chair. Thrusting up on my toes, I’m able to rock forward a bit. I put my complete body weight behind the movement, but none of the bindings give. A clammy sweat is breaking out between my breasts, and my feet are feeling tingly. I rock forward one more time, and my momentum carries me too far over. I crash hard forward landing on my left shoulder and the side of my face.

  I taste the dusty dirt and spit while assessing my new predicament.

  Sore left shoulder and cheek stinging with pain; Feet tingling and now hands too.

  I’ve ended up on my side but still attached to the chair. I’ve dislodged my blindfold a bit though, and I take a minute to let my eyes move around the room. It’s typical concrete walls, rough and dingy. Dim lighting provided by a couple of bulbs screwed directly into outlets high up in the wall. One table, metal. I can only see the legs from my vantage on the floor. One door, probably metal. That’s it.

  My vision blurs and I see eight table legs where before there were four. I take a deep inhale. It’s the drugs. It’s got my vision swirling.

  I keep pulling at my wrists- despite the pain of the abrasions I’m most certainly creating in my struggles.

  I alternately watch the doo
r (behind me) and the tops of my thighs. I’m not getting anywhere with the ropes so I try to scoot to the table in front of me - in hopes that on top of it, there might be something on it that I can knock off and help myself with. How long has it been? Three minutes? Five?

  I haven’t been keeping track. I’ve managed to caterpillar to the leg of the table closest to me. Giving it a bump, when the sound of raised voices beyond the door freezes me before I can do it again. I’m straining to hear, when I see the snake. It’s just beyond the far leg of the table, coiled up in an aggressive stance, hissing. It’s about as long as my arm, black with shiny scales.

  The panic has adrenaline flooding my system. Reflexively, I shoot backward in my hobbled state, and the snake follows in an attack lunge, plunging into my thigh.

  FUCK. FUCK. The pain is sharp, almost cramp like, and I sob with the realization that I’ll most likely die in this shit hole, not by gunshot, or IED, but from big ugly motherfuckin’ snake.

  I whimper, and try to dislodge it, but its whole jaw is working its way around my thigh. It’s trying to swallow me whole.

  I’m disgusted and panicked, thrusting my body in crazy motions, restricted and unable to dislodge the snake from its grip on my thigh.

  Suddenly, I hear the door behind me open. I’d completely forgotten about it in my panic. Hopelessness sinks in my gut.

  “RYAN! Ryan, can you hear me?”

  Suddenly Chief Broussard’s face appears over my right shoulder.

  “Watch the snake, the motherfuckin’ snake!” I yell at him.

  It’s dislodged itself from my thigh, but now lays coiled in front of us. Broussard follows my gaze, but his eyes move past it and keep scanning.

  “Where’s the snake, Ryan?” He cuts the bindings at my wrists as he asks.

  “It’s right there! Jesus, get us the fuck away from it!”

  He’s not pulling me backwards or moving fast enough, so I start working at the bindings on my knees, not looking at the puncture wounds on my thigh. Broussard has my feet free with just a slice of his knife, and the minute I feel the pressure of the ties go, I’m jumping up and backwards away from the snake, which now has it’s mouth open, it’s head wagging back and forth. As I watch it, transfixed, a hundred little snakes are birthed from its open mouth in an horrendous spewing. They are fast fuckers, inky black and coming for me and Broussard’s feet.