Elite Infantry

by Carl Bowen

  “Okay, okay, I’ll tell you!” Brighton said between coughs, sounding as serious as possible. “I do work for the United States government. In fact, I’m part of a secret team called The Avengers. My real name is Steve Rogers . . .” Brighton stopped for a moment to catch his breath. “. . . But the world knows me as Captain America.”

  Another jolt of electricity hit Brighton, cutting him off. It was longer this time. Then more water. Brighton fought his panic instincts as best he could, but his head had tilted back from the shock, and the water hit him right in the nose. For a while, it felt like he was trapped under the ocean waves. He coughed so hard that white lightning bolts crisscrossed behind his closed eyelids.

  Then, somehow, it was over and he could breathe again — but just barely.

  “Your name, your branch, your rank,” Saenz said, matter-of-factly. “These aren’t even the difficult questions.”

  “My name . . .” Brighton croaked, “. . . is Batman.”

  * * *

  After several more rounds of questioning, Brighton had lost the ability to mark the passing of time. It seemed to go on for hours. Half a day, at least. Maybe longer. The constancy of the lighting and the minimal variation in temperature blurred everything into a meaningless haze as his tormentor worked him over.

  Throughout the ordeal, Brighton convinced himself that he was winning a small victory through sheer stubbornness. A session like this, he knew, was all about the balance of power between torturer and victim, and he was determined to hold on to whatever scrap of power he could. If he was able to resist giving information to the enemy, great. But if he could actively annoy the enemy with comic book references in the process, he was at least playing the game by his own rules.

  The Air Force’s SERE (Survival, Escape, Resistance, Evasion) training after Combat Control School had helped prepare Brighton somewhat for this kind of situation. Part of the training dealt with how to steel yourself against the rigors of torture, like holding on to your favorite memories. But there were no secret techniques to magically make someone immune to pain, fear, or exhaustion. No, the largest part of resistance training had been more about describing common forms of torture and demonstrating what sensations those techniques inflicted on the human body.

  Removing the element of the unknown from the equation made the idea of torture less intimidating. The instructors could then work with students one-on-one to try to help them find the individual emotional strength within that would help them survive against the enemy in the darkest of times.

  That said, there was a marked difference between being taught what to expect from an “enhanced interrogation” and actually being subjected to torture. One of the lessons Brighton remembered most clearly from his very first day of SERE training was his grizzled, leathery instructor telling the class that torture breaks everyone eventually. There was only so much the body could take before the mind collapsed. Even Captain America himself would eventually turn into a willing collaborator.

  No, the best a captured soldier could do was to keep his eyes and ears open for the means to escape when it presented itself. Brighton had already taken a step toward that goal, but the means were worthless without the opportunity. That meant that he had to endure whatever Saenz and her lackeys dished out until they got frustrated enough to leave him alone for a while.

  So, Brighton dug deep and refused to give in to the fear and desperation that welled up whenever Saenz’s stun gun jolted him and the water came rushing down. He let himself cough and choke and hack, but he just kept telling himself that no matter how bad it got, it was too early for Saenz to really, truly want him dead. As far as she knew, he had information she valued. He didn’t believe she was ready to let him die, so he had no fear — well, a diminished fear — of what she would do to him.

  At some point during that first session, Saenz slowed down. Brighton could tell that his stubborn behavior was getting to her. After the fifteenth time asking him the same question about who he was, then getting superhero names in response, she changed tactics. Now she asked broader questions. How many Americans were working with the Colombians on Operation: Nexus? How long had they been ordered to stay in Colombia? What did they know about the specifics of the Sinaloa-FARC smuggling operation? Who was Brighton’s commanding officer? Saenz gave Brighton a long pause after asking each question, then signaled to her goons when he disappointed her.

  During that phase of the interrogation, she gave Brighton a basic outline of the areas of concern the leadership of the Sinaloa-FARC operation had about the American presence. It felt like a minor victory to Brighton — that he was getting far more information from his own torturer than she was able to get from him. But as that phase neared its conclusion — and the water in the carboys ran low — Brighton realized he was weakening. He didn’t feel any nearer to collaborating than he had been before, but his body was worn out from all the abuse. He let three questions go by without being able to come up with a comics reference in place of an honest answer. It had come to the point where Saenz was punishing him for silence rather than willful disobedience. At last, the tone of her voice suggested that she realized they’d hit a wall.

  “I suppose you’ll be glad to know we’re finished for now,” Saenz said.

  The doctor in olive drab peeled back the sodden hand towel from Brighton’s face and leaned over him to check his vitals again.

  “I probably should have given you a break some time ago,” Saenz said, “but I was impressed by your extensive comic book knowledge. You and I, it seems, have surprisingly similar taste in reading.”

  “Cool,” Brighton tried to say, through his throat was too raw to speak very loudly. “So you wanna go get a bite to eat together?”

  “I’ll pass,” Saenz said. “Another reason we stayed so long today is that I wanted to convince myself whether this method of questioning was likely to have any effect on you in the long term. You might be proud to hear that it doesn’t seem very effective. Therefore, when next we meet, I’ll be upgrading the punishments you earn.”

  “Maybe next time you could try some positive reinforcement,” Brighton said, his voice mockingly helpful. “Maybe bring me an ice cream cake or nice rib-eye steak. You know, I haven’t seen the new Batman movie yet . . .”

  “I have something else in mind,” Saenz said. “Allow me to demonstrate.”

  She picked up something from the steel tray beside Brighton and flicked her wrist like she was cracking a whip. He recognized the distinctive sound the object made. Saenz had just whipped open a collapsible baton.

  “That doesn’t sound like ice cream cake,” Brighton said.

  Saenz said nothing. With a cold, grim expression, she walked past the end of the chair and raised the baton for a backhand swing. Brighton began to say something to change her mind, but she quickly struck him across the soles of both bare feet. Saenz didn’t put much power into the blow, but that didn’t matter. Brighton howled as pain exploded up his legs.

  Saenz collapsed the baton. Carefully, she placed it back on the tray. Brighton did his best to remain silent, but he couldn’t stop his body from shaking due to the pain. “Something for you to think about while I’m gone,” Saenz said. Her voice was thick with self-satisfaction at Brighton’s obvious suffering. “That’s how I’ll be punishing you for unhelpful answers during our next session. From now on, every session you force me to put you through will be worse than the one before.”

  She leaned back over Brighton, then pulled the back of his chair upright so that he was sitting up again. Her voice dropped to a secret whisper. “Thus far, I’m neither bored nor impressed with you, young man,” she said. “Most soldiers your age can make it through at least two sessions with me with their dignity still intact. Any more than that, though . . . and you’ll get to see what I look like when I am the one who is angry. And believe me, you would not like me when I am angry.”

  And wi
th that, Morgan left the room.

  Alone now, Brighton’s beaten-down body could have done with some quality rest. Unfortunately, sleep was out of the question. For one thing, it was too hot to sleep. The blazing sun over the humid South American jungle turned the metal-and-concrete room into a stifling oven. Also, the lights glared down on him from every angle, which would’ve been far from restful even in peaceful circumstances. He might as well have been staring at the sun.

  Of course, that was his torturer’s intention. Bright lights and uncomfortable temperatures kept a man from sleeping, and sleep deprivation contributed to the collapse of a man’s judgment and willpower. That was torture in and of itself.

  Brighton couldn’t allow himself to sleep now, anyway. He had no idea how long it would be before Saenz and her goons came back. The last thing he wanted was to let them catch him in the act of what he was about to do. He imagined they’d only be rougher on him if they discovered he was trying to escape.

  As for the means of his escape, Brighton had secured it the moment Saenz introduced herself. When the FARC guerilla doctor leaned over Brighton with the ophthalmoscope to look in his eyes, Brighton slipped the retractable ballpoint pen out of the man’s hip pocket. He then pushed it down into the padding on the arm of his chair through a crack in the ancient vinyl that covered it.

  During his interrogation, Brighton had kept his forearm over the rip and the bulge the pen made. No matter how much it hurt, he hadn’t shifted its position. Otherwise, his captors would have spotted it. Now that he was alone, Brighton worked the pen back out of its hiding place. To Brighton’s red and weary eyes, the cheap piece of plastic junk looked like a treasure made of gold for one simple reason: it had a flat, detachable metal clip.

  Carefully, to ensure he didn’t drop the pen, Brighton slid his fingernail underneath the clip and bent it backward until it stood out from the body of the pen at a right angle. Then he turned the pen upside down in his hand. Barely breathing, he inserted the end of the clip into the keyhole of the handcuff holding his right hand. When it was firmly in place, he used the pen for leverage and bent the end of the clip into a right angle. Brighton pulled the clip out and turned the pen around in his hand. Then he reinserted the bent clip and bent another right angle into it going the opposite way.

  Despite the urgency of what he was doing, Brighton worked slowly and steadily as if he had all the time in the world. As tired as he was, he knew that if he rushed, he would most certainly screw it up. Then when Saenz returned and she figured out what Brighton had been doing, he’d have the devil to pay.

  When the work of bending the pen’s clip into a crude lock-pick shim was done, Brighton paused for a second to calm back down and steady his hands.

  Now came the moment of truth. Gritting his teeth and breathing steadily, he worked his shim into the handcuff’s lock. Patiently, slowly, he twisted the pen and applied pressure on the lock mechanism inside. Millimeter by millimeter, he twisted, twisted, and twisted . . .

  Brighton bit back a howl of triumph as the lock disengaged and the handcuff swung open. Sparing no time to celebrate, he unlocked the cuff from the chair, then began picking the lock on the cuff around his other hand. It took all of Brighton’s focus to remain calm as he deftly opened it, freeing his other hand.

  But he wasn’t free yet — both of his feet were still bound. Slowly, calmly, Brighton bent his stiff back and reached down toward his feet. He tinkered with the handcuffs on his left foot until the arm swung open. Keeping his focus, he shifted his weight to his other foot and began to work on the last metal restraint. After a few moments, it opened as well.

  Brighton was loose now, but far from free. He gave himself just long enough to let out a deep sigh. Then he quickly picked and pocketed all four pairs of handcuffs.

  Brighton slowly stood. His wrists and ankles alternately itched and burned from where the metal cuffs had chafed him. But those minor pains were nothing compared to the soles of his feet. Saenz had whacked them pretty good. Escaping on foot with no boots would be rough, especially since he was being held somewhere in the jungle.

  But there was nothing he could do about that except tough it out. He couldn’t stay there — not if Saenz intended to focus her next session’s punishment on his feet like she’d threatened. As much as his feet stung now, he doubted he’d even be able to walk after a day of thrashings.

  Gathering his courage, Brighton walked over to the wall beside the door. He could hear two people murmuring in Spanish outside, so he took out two of the sets of handcuffs he’d collected. With steady hands, he doubled one of them up and stuck his fingers through the loops to hold them like a set of brass knuckles.

  Brighton bounced the other pair of handcuffs on his palm for a second. Then he tossed them across the room. The handcuffs struck one of the lights, shattering it. Immediately, the door flew open and two FARC guerillas charged into the room. The guerillas had almost comical looks of shock on their faces at seeing the chair empty. The sight made Brighton grin.

  Taking advantage of their confusion, Brighton leapt out from where he was hiding. He punched the man closest to him in the neck with his makeshift brass knuckles. The guerilla staggered, then dropped the M16 he’d been holding. Brighton grabbed the weapon out of the air by the barrel. Then he ducked and spun toward the second man, who was in the process of raising his rifle. Brighton brought the butt of his gun around in a homerun swing.

  The butt of the rifle connected with the second guerilla’s stomach. A second swing to the head sent the guerilla flat on his back — and out cold. Brighton quickly did the same to the first guerilla.

  With both guerillas down for the count, Brighton pulled the fatigue shirt off one of them. He used the other’s belt knife to cut it into two gags. Brighton cuffed the two men together, then cuffed them both to the chair. He wrapped the strips of cloth around their mouths to keep the guerillas quiet in case they woke up soon.

  Brighton stuck their knives through his belt, then took the larger man’s boots for himself. He pocketed the clip from the first man’s M16 and took the other’s rifle in his hand. Armed and confident that the two men weren’t going anywhere, Brighton decided it was time to leave. Slowly and carefully, he opened the door and stepped outside.

  Emerging from the metal and concrete room, Brighton finally had a chance to get his bearings. It was dark out, either early morning or late at night, and quite cooler outside than in the sweatbox he’d been imprisoned in.

  Brighton scanned the horizon and saw that the entire area was surrounded by thick jungle. The sound of birds and insects and moving water came from somewhere in the distance. Not too far away, Brighton heard the sound of power tools being used. He could also hear voices, though not well enough to make out what anyone was saying.

  Brighton knew he had two choices. First, he could head directly into the jungle under the cover of darkness and search for running water. Once he found it, he could follow it to either a bigger waterway or straight to civilization — whichever came first. From there, he could find a phone and call in to Shadow Squadron for a pickup.

  That first option was certainly the easiest, safest, and most attractive one. After a day like the one he’d spent with Morgan Saenz, the idea of getting caught again made his skin crawl.

  His second option was to finish the mission. Weary, beaten, and alone, Brighton was at a serious disadvantage. All the same, he decided to finish the job. After all, the Colombians — and Shadow Squadron — were counting on him. The mission was more important than his comfort or even his safety. And being the youngest member on the squad meant he always had something to prove.

  And besides, after what FARC had done to him, Brighton plainly liked the idea of throwing a monkey wrench into the works. With any luck, the air strike would shut down their operation. Maybe for good. So, with a deep breath, Brighton shut the door behind him. Ahead of him was a narrow, trampled path thro
ugh the jungle. It led off in the direction where Brighton could hear the sounds of power tools and people talking. He began heading that way himself, though he opted to cut through the jungle and move stealthily.

  It turned out to be a good choice. As he reached the far end of the path, he saw that it opened onto a compound crawling with FARC guerillas. In groups of two or three, they patrolled or stood near a sprawling one-story building that straddled a wide, straight stretch of muddy river. From within that building came sounds of construction. Trees stood right up against the sides of the building, their branches providing some camouflage from above. The walls had been painted in a brown and green camo pattern as well. There were no exterior lights visible.

  It seemed Brighton had found the hidden FARC shipyard after all.

  “Lucky me,” he muttered.

  At least the guerillas had been thoughtful enough to bring him here. Now he just needed to find out where in the world here was.

  Brighton skirted the tree line in an arc around the central building. He discovered that the shipyard consisted of four structures other than the one-room shed in which he’d spent the previous hours. They included a main construction facility, a wooden barracks for the soldiers and workers, a barn-sized building full of construction supplies, and a smaller place with an antenna on top and its own generator.

  That building has to be the command center for the guerilla camp, Brighton thought.

  The building wasn’t much bigger than the tiny base on Malpelo Island where the rest of Shadow Squadron was holed up. Aside from those buildings, the shipyard also had a row of picnic tables under a tent made of camouflage netting.

  There was also a wooden boat dock downstream from the construction building with moored speedboats. A guard watched over it. Another guard sat on a stool next to the one-lane unpaved road leading out into the jungle. Twenty or thirty feet behind that guard, a black off-road motorcycle stood balanced on its kickstand.