Both of us.
There were two teams of interrogators. Five guys grabbed me, took me off to one end of the concrete building. I got tied in a chair, was asked a few polite questions by the bigwig, and then it started.
The same number of people had seized Gator and taken him off somewhere else. I'm assuming it was in the same building, but I hadn't had a chance to ask him since we'd been back. He hadn't regained consciousness.
There were the usual questions about what kind of aircraft I was flying, what squadron I was attached to, and what ship I'd come off. Like that was a big mystery ― Jefferson was just over the horizon, and they damn well knew she was there. They should, after the damage we'd caused them.
I gave them the standard spiel name, rank, service number, and branch of service. Then, just like they tell you in all those training flicks, I quit talking.
They try to prepare you for this, just like they try to prepare you for aerial combat. The Navy does a pretty good job with their SERE ― Survival Evasion Resistance Escape ― School, but there're some things you just can't completely simulate. As bad as SERE School is, you know it'll end eventually. It's always surprising how fast your mind begins to believe it's real, to react to your questioners as though they're really bad guys instead of just other officers playing a part. But even when you start falling into the pattern, some part of your mind knows. Five more days, four more days ― you can count it down, know that it's going to end.
What's more, you know they won't kill you. Sure, accidents do happen, even in training, but you figure that's probably against the rules. Killing pilots on purpose, I mean.
I came home from SERE School bloodied and bruised, and a lot smarter about just how little it took to break a man. It can be done ― trust me.
The good part was that they also taught us some techniques for surviving it. I started reviewing them in my mind, preparing for the worst. It got bad ― and then it got badder.
They started with the easy stuff, knocking my chair off so I hit hard on the concrete floor. I took a hard knock to the head, faded in and out for a moment, and then they jerked me upright. The beating began, starting off with just hard punches to the face and extending from there. By the time they got to my crotch, I was crying ― and not ashamed to admit it. Hell, anybody would have been.
Then they brought out the batteries. And the electrodes. I remember how it started, but not how it ended. The pain was simply too great, too much, too hard, too fast, and I blacked out at some point. When I came to, I was lying back on the deck, cold water splashed over my face. I was shaking, couldn't control it, and then started puking.
There had been some more of the light stuff, the kind of torture that hurt really bad but that you could stay conscious through. Quite frankly, I wasn't sure which I longed for more ― some degree of control over my mind or the sheer relief of unconsciousness.
Three hours, maybe four ― I can't be sure, not with SO much time missing in my mind. They never got what they wanted ― at least I don't think they did. I can't recall giving them anything other than the allowable information.
They dragged me back to the cave, because I sure as hell couldn't walk. They took me about halfway in, then dropped me down on the dirt floor.
"You have time to think about this," one of them said calmly, as though he hadn't spent the last couple of hours pulping my face. "Think ― we will be back."
I sat up, trying to make my vision clear up enough so that I could look around for Gator. Just as the heavy wooden door was slamming shut over the entrance, I saw him.
Gator was further back in the cavern than I was, still and unmoving.
"Gator?" I asked.
No response.
"Oh Jesus, man, don't be dead," I said, talking as much to calm myself down as to reassure him. "C'mon, Gator."
Still no answer.
I crawled on hands and knees over to him, afraid I'd miss him in the dark that was now absolute. I put my face down next to his, felt him breathing against my cheek. I put one hand on his chest, felt it rise, then fall.
At least he was alive. But how badly hurt was he? He'd gone in in worse shape than I was, and if he'd been through what I had been, there was no telling.
"Sorry, Gator," I said softly, then started running my hands over his body, feeling for damage.
No long bones stuck out from his flight suit, nor had he puked on his quite as much as I had on mine. His breathing sounded relatively even, if a little bit shallow.
I curled up on the floor next to him and tried to come Up With some brilliant plan to get us out of this. Surely there was a way ― hell, I'd seen every John Wayne movie ever made, The Duke wouldn't be left to die in a stinking, leaky dirt cave with his buddy, no way. There was a way out ― there always was.
I pulled myself to my feet, groaning a little, and found I could bear my weight on my own legs now if I leaned against the wall. I walked the perimeter slowly, feeling the outlines of our cave, stumbling once as I slipped in a puddle. I made the entire circuit, still with no good ideas. Finally, I went and sat back down next to Gator.
"They know where we are, Gator," I said, trying to sound confident. I've heard that people can hear you when they're unconscious, and if Gator was in there somewhere fighting, I wanted to let him know he wasn't alone. "Just hang tough, Gator. You're doing fine, you're not hurt bad. We're gonna get out of here soon."
I thought I heard him say something in his sleep, or maybe it was just a groan. My ears weren't working a whole lot better than my eyes. Encouraged, I kept it up for a while, started talking about the squadron and the people we knew, then stopped suddenly. Maybe they were listening ― maybe not. That was one of the things they told me to assume, that your conversations were always monitored. I went back to more general conversation, saying the first thing that came to mind as long as it wasn't about the Navy, my family, or anything near and dear to me. Finally, I settled on Tennessee-Alabama football games. I retold every one I could recall in detail, focusing on the wins by Alabama. I knew Gator always took Tennessee over Alabama, so I gave them a good buildup too. I talked about the next game we'd see, how many beers we'd have, that sort of thing.
Finally, I guess I drifted off. I sure as hell wasn't awake when the first bomb hit.
If you've ever been on the ground when heavy ammunition starts hitting it, you know the sound. It's something you'll never forget, a noise and fury of vibration that you can recognize instantly. I'm not talking about the light stuff, about handguns and rifles and such. I mean the big motherfuckers I carry slung underneath my Tomcat, the ones I'd dropped around these parts not so long before.
The ground shook like we were in an earthquake, and the noise echoed through our small den. I yelped, dove for Gator, covering his face with my hands. I hunkered over him, trying to protect him from the dirt that was raining down from the ceiling. Dirt and more ― rocks, I guess, because something hard hit me in the middle of the back and knocked me flat on top of him. I hung on for dear life.
More bombs hit, real close. Too close. Much more of this and the dirt cave I'd come to despise so quickly was going to be my tomb.
The first major cave-in occurred near the entrance, or so it seemed. I heard the sound, felt my ears pop as dirt collapsed in and compressed the air inside our chamber into a smaller space. Warm, moist ground cascaded across our legs, burying me up to my knees.
I scrambled free, then picked Gator up under the armpits and dragged him back. If we'd been trapped before, we were doubly so now. I didn't know how much dirt there was between me and the wooden door, but I was certain it was too much to dig through right now. Especially since the bombing continued, thundering explosions that deafened you even underground and ripped your world apart.