by Bobby Akart
He instantly regretted the spontaneous move, as it frightened the boy, who had obviously become accustomed to physical abuse without warning. He pushed himself away from the cell with his feet and leaned against a wall, a sudden look of fear coming over his face.
Gunner tried to apologize, waving his arms in an attempt to erase his actions. He patted his heart again and pointed to the boy; then he knocked himself on the side of the head a couple of times and rolled his eyes around.
This drew a chuckle from the kid, and Gunner realized his silliness made it all better.
But not quite. When he tried to motion for the boy to come closer, he refused and remained several feet away.
The boy began to fiddle with the satellite phone, running his fingers over the buttons and sporadically flicking the antenna.
Gunner smiled and nodded his head. Once again, he held his index finger and thumb to his face to emulate the placing of a phone call. He nodded some more and pointed to the ground. He drew the moon again and the phone next to it. He pointed to the boy, then to the two drawings, and then made the hand gesture creating the telephone.
The boy nodded.
Gunner resisted the urge to reach for the phone again. Instead, he drew the location of the power button on the side of the device and drew an arrow in the dirt pointing to it.
The boy understood and pushed the button upward. The lights illuminated on the phone’s keypad.
Yes! Gunner shouted inside. Leave it on, kid! That’s all it’ll take.
His face beamed as he thought of the signal from the satellite phone searching Earth’s orbit, attempting to make contact with any remaining satellite that connected his location to the vast intelligence network of the United States.
But his hopes were immediately dashed as one of the guards stormed down the hall, smacked the kid with the back of his hand, and brusquely turned the satellite phone off.
Chapter 20
Defense Threat Reduction Agency
Fort Belvoir, Virginia
The Jackal was having difficulty staying awake, and the eyestrain from studying the computer monitors was taking its toll. Her eyes burned and itched constantly. She searched up and down the hallways of the DTRA, asking the few inhabitants of the building that morning for eye drops to alleviate the dryness. Her head ached, her back and neck were sore, and her ability to concentrate was waning.
In addition, the dozen Red Bull drinks she’d consumed in the last day and a half were simply making her jittery, but not necessarily alert. She needed to sleep, but she forced herself to remain attentive to her computer monitors, hoping for a signal or any type of sign that the Starhopper had made it back to Earth.
Ping!
The Jackal shook her head rapidly side to side, trying to awaken her brain. Had she dozed off? Was she dreaming? She searched for her clock icon on the bottom right side of her computer monitor.
Ping!
Again, and she was certain of it this time. She forced herself to sit upright, and in doing so, she knocked over the last of the Red Bulls sitting atop the desk next to her hand. She scrambled to move paperwork out of the way, and then, with the back of her hand, she slapped the can off her desk and sent it careening off the wall next to her. She’d deal with it later. A hollow promise.
She grasped her mouse and navigated to the screen that was dedicated to monitoring the satellite phone’s activation. So many things had to work out in her and Gunner’s favor for this moment to occur.
The satellites designated for interagency global communications needed to be intact despite the deluge of meteors approaching the planet. The satellite phone had to have made the trip into space to begin with, and then followed Gunner onto the Starhopper. And finally, it had to have made its way back to Earth.
She furiously made entries in the software program in attempt to narrow down the phone’s location. There had been no attempt to communicate, but the simple process of turning the phone on for a moment had generated sufficient activity to approximate its whereabouts.
“Why couldn’t it have been turned on longer!” the Jackal lamented aloud.
“What?” asked Ghost, who’d unexpectedly entered the room.
His voice startled her, but she quickly recovered. “Sir, I’ve got something. I’m reconfirming to make sure it wasn’t a false signal.”
“Talk to me.”
“Sir, I’ve got a ping notification for Major Fox’s satellite phone. I don’t need to explain how lucky we—”
“Location,” interrupted Ghost as he quickly walked around the desk to look over her shoulder.
“The phone was activated for only a moment, sir. Two pings would indicate less than thirty seconds before it was turned off.”
She continued to navigate her mouse through a software program that displayed a map of North and South America. She continued to narrow down the size of the map, using the coordinates of the satellite reporting the contact in relation to Earth at the precise time it was received.
The Jackal leaned back in her chair and exhaled. “There. That’s the best we can do for now. But it’s something.” She pointed to the monitor that revealed a map containing Brazil, Venezuela, Colombia, Panama, and Nicaragua.
“That’s a lot of territory,” mumbled Ghost.
“Yes, sir, it is. However, it confirms my earlier theory that the Starhopper—if being piloted by AI, or with the assistance of AI—would seek this region of the Americas to land as opposed to the United States, where the meteor activity in the upper atmosphere was more significant.”
Ghost began to wander the office, pausing momentarily to stare at the photograph of Colonel Robinson on the wall. “We don’t have enough to go to NASA yet. Plus, protocol requires me to go through this ass clown.”
“I agree, sir. We need more information; plus I need another ping contact to ensure this was not an anomaly.”
Ghost continued to think. He closed the door and addressed the Jackal in a hushed voice. “I’ll probably lose my job for what I’m about to say, and if you’d like to excuse yourself from duty due to the danger posed by the asteroid debris, I’ll understand.”
“Sir, I’m not going anywhere unless you order me to. And then I’d just go home and do it.”
Ghost stood and laughed. “You’re a spunky one, aren’t you?”
“My dad always said I’ve got spunk. I didn’t really like it back then. Kids don’t want to be known as being spunky. They wanna be smart, beautiful, or athletic. Being spunky was the functional equivalent of being cute, which in my mind meant something less than beautiful.”
Ghost smiled and shook his head. “Spunky.”
“Yeah, I know. Anyway, sir, with all due respect, I’m all in. What do you want to do?”
Ghost took a deep breath and responded, “Find our people and tell no one. If they’re in danger, I want trained professionals to get them home, not a bunch of scientists followed by an army of media and paparazzi.”
The Jackal nodded and got back to work.
Chapter 21
Unknown Jungle Compound
South America
Gunner scrambled to cover up the crude drawings that he and the boy had made in the dirt while the brutal guard grabbed the kid by the hair and dragged him away from Gunner’s cell door. This infuriated Gunner, who lashed out, making no attempt to hide the fact he was free of his wrist cuffs.
“Hey, asshole! Leave the kid alone. You wanna come down here? I’ve got something for ya!”
Gunner balled his fists, steeling for a fight. He waited for the man to return, grinding his teeth as the anger built up inside him.
Until he was hit with a blast from a high-pressure water hose. The water stung him, ripping into the skin of his chest and opening the wounds created by the cattle prod. He retreated to the corner of the cell and turned his back to the onslaught, allowing the skin to peel off in chunks as he attempted to protect his face and genitals.
Then the water stopped, but his cell door was quickly opened and h
e was shoved against the wall, causing his chin to bleed. Two men pulled his hands behind his back and cuffed him again. This time, however, he wasn’t left in the cell. They dragged him into the hallway and pulled him towards the exit, periodically smacking his face against the concrete wall.
Gunner shook the water out of his eyes and took in his surroundings. There were wooden cell doors lining the hall, with small slits in the center to allow the passage of food trays. He glanced down at the openings as he was dragged along. Every one of them contained a set of morose, defeated eyes peering out.
“Movimiento!” one of the guards shouted as he pushed Gunner into a door frame, causing him to stumble. The other guard had a death grip on his wrist cuffs, and despite Gunner’s best efforts, he wasn’t able to wriggle away from his clutches.
Seconds later, he was in the bright sunshine in the middle of a compound. Pain seared through his head as the suddenly bright light aggravated his concussion symptoms. At first, he closed his eyes, giving them several seconds to adjust to the light. After a moment, he barely could open them to view the compound.
He stumbled and fell to the ground, earning him a kick to the groin. Doubled over in pain, Gunner studied the compound. He counted seven or eight structures of various sizes and shapes, all constructed in a circular fashion around a central courtyard. A concrete fountain, which no longer pumped water through the angel figurine that sat atop it, partially obscured his view of a gate that appeared to be ten feet tall and made of wood planks.
He was brusquely pulled up by the stronger of the two guards and shoved forward toward a building that resembled a barn. As they approached, the smell of farm animals filled his nostrils. Hay, feed, and manure reminded him of days he’d spent on his grandfather’s farm in Tennessee as a boy.
The other guard, the one who’d pulled the boy away from the cell by his hair, did the same to Gunner. His neck snapped back, the sudden movement sending a jolt of pain down his spine. His body was seriously battered, and he wondered how much more he could take.
He was about to find out.
He was shoved into the barn, where several more guards, reeking of sweat and alcohol, awaited him. They grabbed him by the arms and shoved him onto a wooden chair in the center of the barn, punching him as they did. He was restrained by a larger rope tied around his torso several times. The hemp caused his wounds to burn, and the tightness restricted his breathing.
One last blow to his face was administered. Blood began to trickle out of Gunner’s mouth, the metallic taste causing his empty stomach to turn. His eyes searched wildly inside the barn in an attempt to discern what was going to happen next. When a tall, dark silhouette appeared in the barn’s opening, holding a wand or baton of some sort, he understood.
The man in the dark suit and cowboy boots approached Gunner slowly, creating an atmosphere of fear and drama. He was carrying a cattle prod similar to the one that had been used on Gunner in the cell, only larger.
His captor wasted no time getting to work. The man jabbed the cattle prod into Gunner’s midsection and then pulled the trigger, sending countless volts of electricity into his body. Gunner shook violently and his bladder released, causing him to urinate on his chair and the hay beneath him.
The guards let out an uproar of laughter. They referred to him as pig, cow, and the universal word of ridicule in the Spanish-speaking world—cabrón, which literally meant male goat but could be applied to nearly any situation depending on the context.
“My name is Jorge Barrera Blanco. I tell you this because you will not leave here alive, Señor Gunner Fox!”
Blanco shifted his grip on the cattle prod, allowing a fat droplet of blood to fall off the tip of his preferred weapon and splash onto Gunner’s thigh. As he spoke, the barn became suddenly silent, allowing the impact of the dripping blood to make an audible splat. Blanco glanced down at the crimson smattering of blood as it dripped down Gunner’s leg, and smiled.
Gunner tried to control his breathing. The tightness of the rope coupled with the humid conditions in the barn was causing him to hyperventilate. He sat upright, allowing more room for his diaphragm to expand, filling his lungs with much-needed oxygen. He disregarded the stench of manure and focused on his breathing.
Blanco pressed the sharp tips of the cattle prod against Gunner’s right cheek, puncturing the skin and drawing blood. “What are you doing here, DEA Agent Gunner Fox? Why are you alone? Are you lost? Are you here to rob me like so many other American scum have tried? What?”
Blanco screamed the last word and sent more volts of energy into Gunner’s body, this time placing the cattle prod dangerously close to his heart.
Gunner couldn’t help himself, and he screamed, “Arrgghh!”
This drew a sadistic smile from Blanco, who walked around Gunner, holding the cattle prod in the air triumphantly. “Yes, you will soon talk, cabrón!”
Blanco took the tip of the device and jabbed it into the ball of Gunner’s throat, once again piercing the skin and drawing blood.
A thick glob of blood and saliva dripped from Gunner’s mouth, down his chin and splattered on the seat between his legs. The fluids grabbed Blanco’s attention, and he removed the cattle prod before forcing it between Gunner’s legs. Gunner tried to clamp his legs together and squirm away, but two sets of powerful hands held him still.
“Answer my questions, mister DEA agent, and I will put away my toys. Tell me, how did you find me, and what are you doing on my property?”
Gunner’s eyes spoke volumes. His hatred and desire to kill the man was unmistakable. He’d tortured men before, but not like this. There were ways to get answers without inflicting sadistic pain upon his fellow man.
Blanco leaned forward, pressing his weight against the handle of the cattle prod until it punctured the tender skin just above Gunner’s crotch.
“You have not experienced pain, DEA man, until I pull this trigger again. You will beg me and God for mercy. Comprende?”
Gunner sneered and made a decision. He wasn’t with the DEA, the sworn enemy of the drug cartels. He was a potential monetary asset, a kidnap victim whose life was valuable to his government. Certainly, the U.S. government had a policy against negotiating with hostage takers, but this was different.
“I’m not DEA,” Gunner hissed. “I’m an astronaut.”
His captors in the barn remained eerily silent until Blanco reared back and began to laugh. The chuckles and guffaws rose to a crescendo as if Gunner had uttered the most hilarious words this group of criminals had ever heard.
Blanco strutted around the barn, laughing until he momentarily lost his composure. “Astronauta?” He continued to laugh, especially when one of his portly guards began running through the barn in a circle, making a whooshing sound in a feeble attempt to emulate a rocket lifting off.
“Yes, I am an astronaut.”
Blanco rushed toward Gunner and hit him over the head with the cattle prod. Then he twisted a dial and crammed the device into Gunner’s side, twisting the tip as he administered the largest thrust of electricity yet.
“Arrrggghhh!” Gunner shouted.
“DEA liar!” Blanco shouted back, spit flying out of his mouth he was so angry.
Gunner tried to recover. “I’m not lying! Don’t you people have internet? Look it up. My name is Gunner Fox, and my spaceship crashed across the river. Go see for yourself.”
Blanco scowled and gritted his teeth. He jabbed Gunner in the chest again, sending more electricity into his weakened body.
“I will get the truth from you, DEA man, or I will feed you to the jaguars!”
Gunner was about to lose consciousness. He tried to gather his strength to resist the torture, but even the truth wasn’t working. If he lied and falsely admitted he was with the Drug Enforcement Agency, he’d be killed instantly. The truth was his only salvation although he doubted it would set him free.
He decided on a different tactic, one that might serve to call the cavalry. “I have a satell
ite phone. It was in my bag the kid found by the wreckage.”
Out of the shadows of the barn, a man approached Blanco. He was similarly dressed and was clean-shaven, unlike the rest of the crew. He looked more like an accountant than a member of a brutal drug cartel, but then, Gunner surmised, somebody had to count the money.
“This bag?” asked Blanco.
“Yes. The boy found it and I followed him here. I just want my phone, and I’ll forget everything about this place, and you.”
Blanco chuckled and turned to the accountant-looking assistant. He tossed Gunner’s duffle bag to the side, and the man handed him the satellite phone.
Blanco held it high overhead and began to laugh.
“Mis amigos, DEA Agent Gunner Fox wants to make a phone call. Just like the jails the DEA put our people in. One phone call.”
The men in the barn began to grumble and look angrily at Gunner. He suspected that any one of them would relish the opportunity to beat him to death simply because he was American and possibly with the DEA.
“Please, I’ll prove it to you. Just—”
Blanco cut him off. “Ahh, do you want to call your mommy?” he asked sarcastically. “Or maybe your friends in Washington?”
He spit on Gunner and began to laugh. He powered on the satellite phone and began wildly punching the illuminated buttons.
“Hola? Hola? Is this the DEA? Gunner Fox says please send help!”
The men began to laugh, and Blanco threw the satellite phone across the room until it careened off the barnboard walls and landed in a pile of hay.
He turned back to Gunner and rammed the cattle prod into his throat. He set his jaw and scowled as he pulled the trigger, shaking Gunner with massive bursts of electricity until darkness swept over him.
Chapter 22
Defense Threat Reduction Agency
Fort Belvoir, Virginia
“Holy crap! Holy crap!” exclaimed the Jackal as she pushed away from her desk to jump out of her chair. Her chair rolled backwards, crashed against the wall, and began to spin in a circle, creating enough centrifugal force to make Sir Isaac Newton proud.
