THE PENTAGON
The Lizard, well aware of how the computer age could be made to work against itself, had been jamming useless data down the information superhighway to the unknown computer where the requests about Kyle Swanson were originating. For the past two hours, he had been reprogramming, cutting down that computer’s ability to reach out to others without first going through him.
With the help of a friend at the National Security Agency, he eventually narrowed it all down to a half-dozen lines of communication, all of it encrypted on the sender’s end but popping back into readable English on his screen.
Sniffing around the U.S. Department of Homeland Security violated a dozen or so laws, but General Middleton had been very clear with his order: “Find Shake.”
The message for Level Four permission came up. Unidentified terrorist suspect related to Saladin inquiries is in custody at location Delta Two One Sigma. No identification, not even fingerprints. DNA tests were incomplete. Probably ex-military. Subject may have information re poison gas attack. Extremely uncooperative, two DHS agents injured and hospitalized. Urgent request for authorization to conduct a Level Four interrogation. Signed by Special Agent Carolyn Walker of the Department of Homeland Security, with her identification code.
The Lizard didn’t know what a Level Four was, but it sounded rather dire. He went to the general’s office and knocked on the door. “I’ve located Gunny Swanson, sir. He is being held by the Department of Homeland Security at a safe house over on the Maryland coast, used to be a Coast Guard station.”
Middleton was on his feet, walking across his office, and called out, “Captain Summers!”
Sybelle came in. “Sir.”
“Round up some Marines and go get our boy,” he said. “The Lizard will fill you in and arrange a helicopter from here to there.” Middleton was at his private safe, spinning a dial. He opened the door and found an envelope containing a special letter. “You know our charter, and this is your authorization. Show it to the person in charge, but nobody stands in your way, got it? Bring him home.”
At the safe house, Hunt and Walker let an hour pass, waiting for permission that never came, before they went in to question Swanson again.
“You can end this right now. Just talk to us,” said Special Agent Dave Hunt. “What’s your name?”
Swanson remained silent. He was cold, but he would be warm again, someday. This was only temporary. No matter what they did, it was only temporary. He said nothing.
“Damn you,” Hunt muttered. “We need answers-now! Do you understand? It is no small matter, and you’re not in that chair because of back taxes or some fucking parking ticket. Our national security is at risk.”
Carolyn Walker stepped before him and held up the photograph of a man. “This is Saladin. You killed him in Paris. Even if you were not the sniper who first brought him down, we have you on video putting a bullet in his head at point-blank range. We were right across the street at the time, and Saladin was under close surveillance.”
She shuffled that picture to the bottom of a small stack and held up another head-and-shoulders photograph. “Here’s your second victim, a bodyguard.” Then she showed him still another. “Your third was the driver. You massacred three men and then ran inside that house, and that was followed by gunshots and the big explosion.”
She held up a final photograph. “This was the only other person inside, another bodyguard, and I assume you killed him, too, because you came out and he didn’t.” Carolyn Walker stopped talking and stared at Kyle. He had blinked when shown the final photograph. “What is it? You recognize this man?”
Kyle said nothing. Oh, yeah. I know him all right. He had been using the entire time since the last procedure to pump in deep breaths to store up oxygen, because he knew more water was on the way. As a sniper, he had been trained to slow down his life in critical moments, to breathe regularly under stress, and, most of all, to never panic. The picture had thrown off his rhythmic breathing pattern.
“You’ll talk,” Walker said. “Sooner or later, everyone talks.” At her signal, the wet towel was thrown back over his face.
He heard water slosh as a bucket was hoisted and he gobbled air, ordering himself to relax rather than fight it this time. Temporary. Temporary. His brain ticked off the seconds as the buckets emptied, pouring over him and into the big tub below. The soaked towel was to simulate the feeling of being smothered but actually helped keep the water moving instead of flooding into his nostrils and lungs. He could hear and sense everything but after the first minute decided to turn off the sound for a while and just lived in his head.
The gnarly pipeline wipeout in Hawaii was one favorite memory. One moment, standing in control on the board with the bright sun overhead and the big wave roaring its protest at being ridden, then the curl catching and dumping him. Down he went into the swirling, powerful wash, and a strong underwater current pushed him beneath a rock. Thought he would never be able to climb out of that hole where the green water was trying to kill him. Two minutes. Chest getting tight, and he let some of the old air bubble in his lungs escape to ease the pressure. Two and a half.
When the towel was removed, he switched on his own lights again. Nothing had changed except his freedom to breathe. Kyle looked up at the agents and brayed a loud and challenging laugh as streams of water streamed down his face. One of his defense mechanisms when he was in a tight spot was to turn it into a game, something that was not so serious. “Come on, you pussies! Can’t you do better than that? Feeling sorry for the prisoner? Damned amateurs.”
Hunt and Walker stormed from the room. “Did you notice that he didn’t even move this time? That first session, he shook like a leaf.” Hunt said.
Walker peeled off her windbreaker and hung it over the back of her chair. “He was playing with us,” she said. “I’m bringing the doctor and the crash cart down here to stand by for resuscitation. This time, I’ll drown the son of a bitch, if I have to.”
“I just had a thought, Carolyn. We’ve had him for almost a full day and he has not once asked for a lawyer. Any normal American would be screaming for an attorney by now.”
“Any normal person would have broken by now. He is too well trained to resist pressure and pain. I’m worried that he would rather die than talk.”
“So I will take away that option. If the water fails this time, we resuscitate, then use chemicals to knock him out and push through those defenses.”
“Might be fatal.”
“Might be.”
“Wish that authorization would come through.”
Thirty more minutes passed before they went back into the room, this time with some white coats tagging along with them.
Medical staff, Kyle realized. He no longer gave any pretense of being subtle and started to loudly huff and puff to fill his lungs. One medic filled a syringe with propofol, a white liquid that would erase the last few minutes of Kyle’s memory. As soon as he blacked out, the “milk of amnesia” would be administered, and he would not be able to recall what had happened to him during the drowning moments.
A dry and thinner towel was spread over his face this time. He closed his eyes and relaxed as the water began to pour, this time an almost unbroken stream, bucket after bucket. He raged silently in his mind: Bring it, you shitbirds! Bring it on!
A minute. Two minutes. Three. He was paddling off the Baja coast near kilo marker 57, going out several miles and just lingering in the hot sunshine. He was diving without scuba gear along the Australian watery wonderland of the Great Barrier Reef. He was in full rig, practicing planting explosives on the hull of a ship at night. He needed air now, just as he had needed air then. Running low on fuel here, gang. Bubbles. Gagging building in his throat. Water winning, seeping into his lungs. Four minutes. Hold on. Then an acceptance of death as the body’s defenses caved in, the physical machine demanding air. Temporary. Five minutes and counting. Nothing left. He gasped and opened his mouth to suck in oxygen and the water poured in. He was drowning.