“Yes, sir,” said Wilson.
The sight of his well-groomed chief of staff sickened the president. If there was one thing he hated about Wilson, it was the way in which he tried to show everyone up. The guy was seeking too much attention, always dressed to the nines, trying to be the top dog. Anger growing, he resented how Wilson stood there, hovering at the end of his bed, waiting. A sudden urge to get the man out of his room was amplified by a rumbling stomach. “Well, for fuck’s sake, get my breakfast,” said the president, rubbing his belly and ending the conversation.
“Yes, sir,” replied Wilson.
After watching Wilson leave, the president picked up the remote and hit play. As he watched the Truth Network, he smiled and knew it wasn’t.
Inside ROAS Central Command, lying on a spartan cot in his small quarters, exhausted, General Story tried to find the sleep his body craved. Even though awake for more than twenty-four hours, through all that transpired, his mind wouldn’t relax: many good people dead; President Ortega demanding resistance against a far superior foe; a clandestine meeting with an exotic woman held in secret isolation; desperate battle plans developed by an AI to fight back and try to save the Republic. Too much.
During the drive back from the meeting with SALI, he’d scanned the plans she provided in more detail. He was alarmed at the risk of using them, and the AI, but fascinated by the possibilities. Portions of the plan were already underway, and if he refused to carry them out, the president would find someone else. With little choice, upon returning to Central Command he’d woken up key staff, turned over the printed documents, and given explicit instructions to develop corresponding field orders. Afterwards, he’d got a quick note off to the president letting her know he’d be her general. He’d take a swing at the enemy and try to deliver a bloody nose. Perhaps, if successful, the US would back down and leave them in peace, at least for a while longer—nothing was certain.
But now he needed sleep, just four hours. Refreshed, he could throw his full force behind the upcoming battle. But sleep wouldn’t come.
He thought of his son, the reason the general had defected from the United States. The young man was living with a husband in San Francisco. He loved his boy but didn’t care for his sexual orientation. It didn’t matter. He accepted him. When his son first came out and explained it, the general was saddened. But love is stronger than prejudice. Once he understood, there was no choice but to give his son a life of opportunity. Together, in deep secret, using the general’s contacts, he and his son fled the US and became ROAS citizens. As a traitor, and his son a declared homosexual, if either returned, long prison sentences awaited.
Now, their new country, their sanctuary, stood threatened.
The general, with everything at stake, felt the weight. The defense of the nation rested on his shoulders. If it was feasible, he’d run again and take his son with him to a better place. But that choice wasn’t viable. The number of remaining sanctuaries was dwindling and faced extinction. No, it was time to stand and fight, not just for his son, but for the all the people like him and for all those that stood trembling in the face of authoritarian rule. Yes, he’d use the AI and risk everything to save his son and his adopted nation.
On his back, gazing at the ceiling, visions of flame, violent capture, imprisonment, and death flashed across his mind. At last, he blocked the thoughts and drifted into a troubled sleep.
Chapter Twenty-Two
RUNNING
May 9, 04:31 (PDT)
“Now, I’ll only ask once. Listen well. Did either of you come across or pick up anyone along the highway?” asked Military Police Inspector Major Crawley.
Even in the poor lighting, inside the tent, Flood could detect the ugly acne scars on the US MP officer haranguing the prisoners. Sitting in a chair, looking frightened, Flood guessed the guy name Spanos was about to confess. He noticed how often the man glanced over at his buddy, Corporal Chavez, sitting in the chair beside him, as if seeking reassurance. Chavez seemed to ignore his friend and instead stared straight ahead. Both men were tie-wrapped, their hands bound behind their backs. At last Spanos spoke. “Yes. A man and a woman on the highway stopped our ambulance at gun point close to the main highway checkpoint. They appeared hurt and forced us to give them medical supplies. Then, they made us drop them off farther down the road out of view. We’re just medics…”
“I don’t give a shit what you are,” said Major Crawley. Hands on hips, he asked, “Who were they?”
“Don’t know; never seen them before,” replied Spanos.
Major Crawley shook his head, the dark shadows accentuating his sinister looks. Looking up, he glanced at Flood as if seeking permission.
Flood, standing nearby, wanted revenge and needed information. He shook his head in the affirmative and Crawley grinned.
From a side holster, Crawley pulled out a small pair of pliers and waved the tool in front of the prisoners. “Both of you. Do you know what I’m holding?”
“Si,” answered Spanos, nodding with a worried brow. Chavez continued to stare straight ahead.
“Hey, Fuckface!” yelled the major, locking his gaze on Corporal Chavez. “You gotta tongue, or should I use these to find out?” Crawley snapped the plyers, opening and closing them in a quick rhythm, the metallic melody full of menace. “Answer me, shit for brains. What are these?”
Chavez looked up and with defiant gaze answered, “You have a pizza face. Maybe you should trade what you’re holding for sandpaper.”
Spanos blurted, “Plyers, sir! You’re holding plyers. Don’t listen to Chavez. He doesn’t mean it.”
The major stopped clicking and paused. He took a breath as if calming down. In a slow tone he said, “Yes, plyers. I call them truth pullers. This simple instrument and my training are all I need to find the truth. My senses detect when I’m getting it and when I’m not. When I’m not, I use these.” Crawley waved the object and continued, “I use this common household tool to pull out the truth. Sometimes, I pry off a fingernail or an earlobe. Sometimes a few teeth. They’re also good for popping testicles. Truth plyers pull facts and can be deployed in a myriad of ways—more than I can count. Please understand, I’m trained in, and authorized to use, advanced interrogation techniques. And these basic plyers are—advanced. The question is, are you going to give the truth, or do I extract it? Your call.”
“You’ll get the truth from us,” Spanos answered, dropping his head.
Crawley shifted his gaze to Chavez and raised his eyebrows. He waved the plyers back and forth as if waiting for the other man to agree. Chavez shrugged and said, “There’s no need to torture us.”
“I’m not torturing anyone,” replied Crawley sounding defensive. He stood straight and lowered the pliers. “I seek the truth, within the confines of authorized interrogation techniques, nothing more.” Then, in a more menacing voice he asked, “Now, who did you drop off along the side of the highway?”
“My country doesn’t authorize torture,” said Chavez in a defiant tone.
“Your country is weak,” shot back Crawley, moving closer.
Spanos interjected, “Two soldiers, ROAS soldiers. A man and a woman.”
The major stopped. A grin forming, he turned and looked at Flood.
His suspicions confirmed, Flood nodded and flicked his chin at the two prisoners. He wanted more.
Crawley turned back and holstered the plyers. “Excellent step in the right direction. Keep telling the truth, and the pliers won’t come out. Now, give me their names and rank.”
Spanos looked up, tears forming and said, “The man was a master sergeant. His nametag said Upton.”