Tombstone remembered very little of the details of that hour, but the pain, the sheer horror of being deliberately and methodically hurt while being physically helpless, took more of a toll on his mind than on his body.
Hsiao removed his glasses and polished them on a flowered shirttail.
"Once again, Commander. We know that Jefferson has both antiaircraft missiles and a close-in defense system called Phalanx. What we need to know is if those systems are operational while your ship is in port."
The air stank with the by-products of the interrogation, with the sour-mingled stenches of vomit and feces, urine, blood and burnt hair, and fear.
"Go… hell…" Tombstone's lips were swollen and bloody, and the words came out cracked and distorted.
Hsiao nodded to Phreng. "Again."
Tombstone watched through swollen, slitted eyes as the grinning That extended the prod again. The contacts brushed against the tender skin of his armpit.
When the ragged echo of the scream had died away, Hsiao shook his head sadly. "Don't think you are helping anybody by being so… noble, Commander.
We have all the information we need, courtesy of three of your seamen." He pulled a notebook from his pocket and flipped through the pages.
"Yes, here we are. Signalman Third Class Charles R. Bentley. Radarman Third Class Frederick K. Paterowski. Seaman Ernesto Rodriguez. These men told us everything we wanted to know. They were quite thorough in their rundown on Jefferson's defensive systems. We know, for instance, the operational parameters for the VPS-2 search and track radar incorporated in the Phalanx CIWS." He read the letters from his notebook, letting each fall like a blow. He flipped the notebook shut. "All we require from you, Commander, is verification. You are an aviator. Your life depends on the way your ship's defenses work each time you approach the Jefferson for a landing.
If you give us this verification, I promise you that you will spare yourself a great deal of unpleasantness!"
Tombstone remained silent.
At this point he wasn't entirely sure why he was holding out. Concepts such as duty and defense of country seemed remote indeed each time Phreng's thumb came down on the cattle prod's firing button.
What was not remote was the purpose behind those questions.
"Shall we talk about aircraft approach procedures, Commander? What if a That helicopter wanted to land on Jefferson's flight deck? Who would they call? What would they have to do?"
The silence was broken only by the harsh wheeze of Tombstone's breathing.
So many of Hsiao's questions were like that… questions which could be assembled into only one pattern that made any sense at all.
These bastards were planning some sort of attack against the Jefferson.
Possibly they were terrorists, possibly something else. All Tombstone knew was that the lives of his shipmates might well be riding on whether Hsiao got the verification he demanded.
"You are being needlessly stubborn. You must know we will get what we want sooner or later." Hsiao gestured to Phreng for the cattle prod.
Stepping close to Magruder, he slapped the rod against his open palm for effect. "I will have the information I require, Commander. I will have it out of you! You can give it to me freely or I can tear it word by word from your broken body, the way a fisherman guts a fish!"
When Tombstone still didn't answer, Hsiao shook his head. "Perhaps, though, we are following the wrong approach. We hold two friends of yours prisoner, you know. Lieutenant Commander Bayerly… and your pretty friend, Pamela Drake." He paused and smiled. "You see, we… how do you say? Hold the aces. I'm sure you don't want your lover subjected to the same sort of treatment that you have been experiencing."
The words were as sharp as the discharge of the prod. Tombstone wrenched wildly against his bonds, summoning all his strength in a useless struggle against them. Hsiao, standing only two feet away, laughed up at him. His need to strike back drowned everything else. Summoning what moisture he could in his dry mouth, Tombstone snapped his head forward, and a glob of spittle mixed with blood struck Hsiao's face. "Fuck… you…!"
Hsiao darkened. Throughout the past, hellish hour the Chinese interrogator had never lost his temper, but now he whipped the prod up, jamming the tip into Magruder's groin. Tombstone's body twitched and spasmed as fire seared along every nerve, every muscle. His mouth gaped, screaming, but there was no sound. He hung suspended in a deadly dance of snapping, convulsive agony. Hsiao continued pressing the prod's button over and over, again… again… again…
Then the current ceased, and Tombstone sagged from the hook, sinking into the black comfort of oblivion.
CHAPTER 17
Pain. It had become a part of him, a part of his very existence.
Tombstone opened his eyes and his surroundings swam blearily into focus. He was in a small and empty room, probably a supply closet of some kind, with a light fixture hanging out of reach from a high ceiling and a single wooden floor which looked as solid as the concrete block walls around them.
Tombstone was lying on a cot, wrapped in rough army blankets with his feet propped up on several pillows. The handcuffs were gone. His captors, evidently, were taking care to see to it that he didn't die of shock between sessions.
Memories of the ordeal flooded back, and he squeezed his eyes shut.
Chief among his emotions was shame. He could remember the taste of his own fear while hanging on that hook, remember losing control of his bladder and bowels, remember screaming until his throat went raw.
Finally, at the end, he'd not been able to scream… only jerk and twist under the terrible fire of Hsiao's cattle prod until blackness had taken him.
Struggling against weakness and the nausea clawing at his stomach, Tombstone managed to kick free of the blanket and swing his bare legs over the side of the cot.
Vertigo nearly claimed him, but after a few minutes of deep breathing, the dizziness receded, leaving him light-headed… but conscious. His injuries, while painful, were not serious. There were angry-looking raw patches encircling his wrist and ankles where his bonds had chewed away at his skin, and inch-long burns everywhere that the cattle prod had arced and sparked instead of making a solid connection. Every muscle in his body felt stiff and sore, as though he'd been methodically worked over with a ball bat, and each movement threatened to overturn the delicate balance of pain and emptiness in the pit of his stomach.
The real injuries, he feared, were in his mind. There were tremors in his knees and hands still, and a fear-born, cramping hollow in the pit of his stomach where the terror threatened to rise again at any moment.
Something which might be a bundle of wet rags in the far corner of the room caught his eye. Shakily, he stood up and took a tentative step toward them.
The overhead light illuminated raw horror, three bodies dumped against the concrete wall as though casually discarded there. Tombstone squeezed his eyes shut, trying to turn away, but that first stark, blood-smeared image remained burned in his eyes and his mind as though branded there. Control over his empty stomach failed and he sank to his knees, retching, trying to rid himself of the sight and unable to do so.
Finally, reluctantly, his heaving stomach quieted.
While the public image of hero had been troubling him, Matthew Magruder was no coward. On the contrary, he was an aviator in the U.S. Navy. The ability to pilot an F-14, to land on an aircraft carrier in conditions ranging from calm seas to stormy pitch-darkness, to face enemy aircraft in one-on-one aerial duels reminiscent of the knightly jousts of another age… this set him apart from other men in training, in discipline, in sheer nerve.