The place was in Central Colorado, hidden in a bleak, Rocky Mountain valley. It was a hundred acres of electrified fencing with blockhouses, barracks, punishment cells and a small hospital facility. There must be several thousand detainees here with hundreds of guards. Jake wasn’t sure of the exact numbers. He never had been.
As he had once before two years ago, he sat on a hard plastic chair in the processing hall. The wheels of fate had turned full circle, and he was right back where he’d started from before the terrible siege of Denver. Just like then, the door to the director’s office opened.
Jake knew a moment of shock. He recognized the person, although it wasn’t the old director with an iron-colored buzz cut. He wished it were. This person was a woman, the judge who had sentenced him to a penal battalion in New York last year.
She wore a Detention Center uniform, white with brown stripes. A large woman with shortcut red hair, she had a mole on her left nostril and stern features. She was a Public Safety Monitor, First Class. Why was she in charge of the Detention Center then? Militia officers had run it last time he was here.
Two sitting guards flanked him. They stood, heavyset men in black uniforms. On their thick belts dangled batons, tasers, handcuffs, you name it.
The director gave them a meaningful glance before retreating into the office. Before Jake could follow, each guard grabbed a biceps, hauling him after her. He hated his own sticklike arms. Once, he might have put up a good fight, not anymore.
They dragged him into the office, to a chair, pushing him into it. Then they flanked him once more.
The monitor already sat behind a large desk. Behind her were huge photographs of Director Harold. Those of President Sims, which had been up there last time Jake was here, were no longer in evidence. Just like old times, though, Detention Center slogans in block letters adorned the walls: UNITY BRINGS VICTORY. WE ARE ONE, WE ARE STRONG. PATRIOTS FIGHT FOR THEIR COUNTRY! TRAITORS PROTEST THEIR LEADERS.
The Public Safety Monitor cleared her throat. She held a tablet in her hands. No doubt it held Jake’s records.
Jake had learned hard lessons. He sat straight, and he kept his gaze down in a subordinate manner, although he watched her through peripheral vision. Last time he’d been here, he’d seethed with indignation. Today he played a different game—for good reason.
One, he was weak and frail, hardly recovered from his latest illness. Two, months of ill treatment had broken some of his resolve. Three, despair had claimed his spirit. He’d fought the Chinese, survived a nuclear strike, and this was how they thanked him?
What a load of crap.
“I thought I recognized your mulish face,” the monitor said. “I sentenced you to a penal battalion last year. Incredibly, you survived the Germans, but murdered one of the Militia sergeants. Ah, it says here you even resisted arrest and threated to kill other Militia MPs.”
Jake kept his mouth shut. Sometimes it didn’t pay to defend your actions.
“Humph,” the monitor said. “I’m not sure I care for your silence. Do you think you’re too good to speak to me?”
“No, Monitor,” Jake said.
“Do you have anything to say then before I pass judgment?”
The words tightened Jake’s chest. That sounded ominous. Anger flared then, but he suppressed it. He had to use his head for once. This verbal confrontation was simply another form of combat. In war, if the enemy had superior force, one retreated or maneuvered with cunning. He must maneuver now.
“Monitor,” Jake said, trying to speak with deference. “I don’t defend my wrongful actions. If you would allow me, though…?”
“Yes, speak, speak, by all means. Haven’t I asked you to?”
“I fought the enemy in defense of my country. I helped kill German soldiers and later Chinese soldiers. In the latter case, I helped to drive PAA formations back.”
“Hmm,” she said.
“I’m asking for leniency, Monitor, for you to take my military service into consideration.”
Letting the tablet thump onto the desk, she leaned back in her chair, eyeing Jake, finally smiling frostily.
“Oh, you are a clever ferret of a traitor. You’ve learned to mouth platitudes, thinking in your heart to outfox us. I warn you, Traitor Higgins, I am not fooled.”
Outrage bubbled up and threatened to pour from his mouth. Jake closed his eyes, fighting to keep silent. It was so difficult to do. That surprised him.
“Unless…” the monitor said in an oily tone, “you would like to show us that you truly feel contrition.”
He opened his eyes, and he raised an eyebrow.
“I have it on good authority that your father, Colonel Stan Higgins, has spoken out against Homeland Security. If you could elaborate on his treasonous words, type out a document and sign it… that would show us your sincerity.”
He couldn’t believe it. “You’re asking me to denounce my father?”
“Exactly,” the monitor said. “He plays the war hero very well, even though he plots against the present leadership.”
Jake stared at her in disbelief.
That made her frown, and she snapped her fingers.
Out of the corner of his eye, Jake spied moment. Then the right-hand guard touched a shock baton against his neck.
Jake cried out in pain, and he slid from the chair, to lie panting on the floor.
“Pick him up,” the monitor said.
Jake felt strong hands haul him back into the chair. Nausea threatened and his mouth tasted bloody. Oh. He’d bitten his tongue hard enough to make it bleed. Were they going to torture him now? Had they been waiting for him to get better? Maybe it would have been better if he’d died in Oklahoma.
“Mr. Higgins,” the monitor said. “You must realize the precariousness of your position. As a murderer, you have killed lawful members of the Militia Organization, and this while in the face of the enemy. That is treason. If that wasn’t enough, you have also resisted arrest and threatened lawful police with death. Frankly, in my opinion, you deserve death in turn. I also suspect you of continued political malice. No doubt, there is a conspiracy afoot, with your father at the heart of it. I’m sure you’ve been privy to some of his high crimes.”
Jake loathed his physical weakness. If he rose up to fight, they would swat him down like a puppy. No. It would be worse than that. One of them would use one hand and using their fingertips to shove against his chest, pushing him down. What should he do?
“Let us begin anew,” the monitor said. “It is much more than you deserve. I feel soiled even treating with a traitor. Frankly, if it were just up to me, I’d have these men take you outside and have you shot. Yet, for the sake of our country, I am giving you this chance. Will you admit to your father’s treason?”
Jake took a deep breath, and he almost told her to go to hell. Yet that would be like charging enemy tanks on foot. It would be suicide.
You have to maneuver, Jake.
That meant he had to think. Yes. Why had they kept him alive? Was this the reason? He didn’t know, but he needed a plan. To plan wisely, he needed time to think.
Play for time.
“I have asked you a question,” the monitor said. “I demand an answer. We will tolerate no more games.”
Jake felt nauseous, and he’d been fighting it the whole time. Now he stopped fighting. Instead, he thought of cold sausages. Long ago, when he’d been ten years old in Alaska, his mom had served deer sausages from an animal his father had hunted. The sight of those greasy things had made him feel ill. He’d made a big production about how awful they looked, and he’d let them sit there on his dinner plate. Finally, as everyone else rose from the table, his dad had told him he couldn’t leave until he finished what was in his plate. For a half hour he sat there, too stubborn to eat them. Finally, his dad looked in, and Stan Higgins touched his belt. Jake had understood. Eat the sausage or get a spanking. He’d eaten, and the cold thing had made him gag back then.