Authors: Lars Teeney
“I see that you are a hard nut to crack. I
admire that in a man. You would have been a valuable asset to us had you not
tried to seek power for yourself. Imagine that, trying to manipulate the
President’s son to treason for your own ends.” The Inquisitor got off the stool
and walked a lap around Graham. He paced for a time and said nothing. Graham
wondered what sort of perverse torture lay in store for him. He also wondered
if the Apostates would be successful in their mission, this certainly
complicated matters. He could no longer help them physically or financially.
“Fortunately, Keir Schrubb is a weak-willed man and easy to control. But, that’s why you chose him didn’t you? It would have been a different story if it were Kate,” Inquisitor Rodrigo persisted. Graham felt the blindfold being gripped and pulled away. Graham was bombarded by a flurry of light, he winced with sensitivity. When his eyes adjusted he could see Inquisitor Rodrigo standing in front of him in full dress uniform. Graham could hardly move his head but from what he could glean he was being restrained and held in place by a steel framework. It kept him locked in an upright position but rooted on the floor. There was a flood light beaming in his face, making it impossible to see any detail behind the light.
“You are a cold and calculating man, Mr.
Wynham. But, it wasn’t enough. That is the reason my organization is so
effective. We keep tabs on the Schrubbs whether they like it or not, to keep
them safe from their friends,” Rodrigo gloated. He pulled at the bottom of
Graham’s eyes and looked at each.
“Looks like your starting to come around. So you can make this plenty easy on yourself, by divulging your full plan. We may even give you a quick death if you do.” Rodrigo walked over to a table in the rear of the room, Graham couldn’t make out what he was doing. After a moment, he finished and approached Graham.
“So, will you talk to us, Mr. Wynham?”
Rodrigo asked with a certain finality.
“I have nothing to say,” was all Graham
could muster.
“Most unfortunate for you, but plenty
fortunate for me. This is the best part of my job.” Rodrigo brandished a small
injection device in his hand. He removed the cap, then plunged it into Graham’s
shoulder. Graham guessed it was some kind of drug that would interface with his
neural implant. Graham was confident he could withstand anything Rodrigo threw
at him. After all he had plenty experience with ‘Database’. He would not crack
because of that.
“You see Mr. Wynham. My organization did some digging on you. We found some records that you may find interesting. You really were sloppy and should have done a better job of covering your tracks,” Rodrigo’s voice became altered. It sounded like it was getting deeper and slightly modulated.
Rodrigo’s face looked like a soft focus
filter had been applied to it. Everything looked slightly fuzzy. Graham felt
like he was in a bubble, but like all his senses had been amplified within the
bubble. He couldn’t think in completely a coherent train of thought.
“I have something to show you. I think you will be very interested to see it,” Rodrigo was practically whispering. He used a switch to rotate the rig that suspended Graham’s body forty-five degrees horizontally until he faced a metal rolling door. Another switch was pressed and the rolling door began to lift. After several inches, Graham could feel heat emanating out from the opening. As the door rolled up further, he could make out a retractable metal vent that was governing the amount of heat escaping through it. Slowly he spied three sets of suspended feet, one of an adult and two of smaller sets. The door continued up, he made out the forms of three bodies. The door completed its journey and all was on display. The three figures suspended by chains from their wrists from the ceiling were those of his wife and two children; Elsa and his two children Jasper and Meriwether. They were gagged with their eyes looking terrified.
Graham shirked in fear and shock, he shook
his head as best he could and grimaced, attempting to remove the sensory lies
presented to him. Graham struggled but every time he looked back all he could
see was his family hanging before him. He was powerless and could not
distinguish between reality and illusion. Graham willed himself to reject the
illusion before his eyes, he had sent his family overseas years ago. They were
beyond the reach of the Regime. There was no way they could have been captured,
or was there? Graham knew that L.O.V.E. had many connections and a long reach.
Could this be real?
“Now that I have your attention, Graham, I
would like to remind you of the stakes here. You plotted and schemed to hurt
people important to me, and as you know I have the capability to do the same to
you. So, if you don’t want that to happen you will disclose all the details of
your plot and any collaborators that you’ve worked with. The easiest way to do
this is to give us access to the encrypted partition in your neural implant,”
Rodrigo demanded.
“I-I know this isn’t real. Y-y-you can go
to hell.” Graham was as defiant as he could be in his state.
“Fair enough. This troubles me not. I
quite enjoy it.” Rodrigo stood upright and faced the suspended figures. He
flipped a switch and the metal cover below the feet of the victims slid away
from the grate, revealing the red glow of burning coals. The feet were bare,
and the woman and two children immediately began to wrench their bodies to and
fro, in an effort move their limbs away from the heat. Muffled cries sounded
beneath dirty gags. Rodrigo flipped the switch and the metal cover slid back
into place.
“Nothing like a nice fire to warm the feet
on a cold night.” Rodrigo had a wide smile on his face.
“Do you have anything that you want to
tell me?” Rodrigo drew close to Graham’s face. Graham was determined not to
break. He looked Rodrigo in the eye and said nothing.
“Very well, let’s resume our cook out, shall we.” Rodrigo faced the three prisoners and flipped the switch, which removed the cover. Heat and flame could be felt coming from the grate. Blisters formed on the bottom of feet and the small hairs on toes began to singe. Several of the blisters burst and the reek of burning flesh permeated the air. The three victims flailed wildly as the pain of slow burn coursed through their bodies. The children’s muted wails struck something deep inside of Graham, he couldn’t help himself and tears coursed down his cheeks. This was bigger than he or his family, even if it was real he would not crack.
“Okay, now that the feet have been nicely
seared, let’s see if you have anything to say to me.” Rodrigo looked at Graham,
expectantly. Graham stared back, with wet eyes.
“You fucking animal. This whole Regime
will be taken apart. You’ll pay for what you’ve done,” Graham said through
clenched teeth.
“My good Mr. Wynham. My place is reserved
in the Lord’s kingdom. My conscience is clear. We can stop all the suffering
right now. Just give me what I want,” Rodrigo tried to reason, but secretly
hoped that Graham was stubborn because he wanted to see this through.
“I promise, you will not reach your Lord’s kingdom,” Graham threatened, he struggled to try to free himself in vain.
“Very well, shall we continue with the
festivities?” Rodrigo flipped the switch once more and the grate opened
releasing the heat. Writhing and struggling commenced as freshly burned limbs
were exposed to the scorching heat once more. The muted screams sounded and
tears flowed. The limbs flesh turned from a reddish-pink to a purple. Glowing
red cracks formed, and smoky rose from the spasming feet. Graham wailed and
cringed, he squinted his eyes shut.
“Stop! Stop it! I’ll tell you. No more!” Graham blurted out, spittle flying from his lips.
“Why, Mr. Wynham, I knew you’d see things my way. Now, what do you want to tell me?” Rodrigo looked on with anticipation.
Graham had deduced that because they do not have access to the encrypted partition in his neural implant that the Inquisitor had no knowledge of his involvement with the Apostates. As far as the Inquisitor was concerned he was just the ringleader of a failed coup d’état. Graham figured naming accomplices might be enough to satisfy Rodrigo. Graham had also found out from Kate Schrubb that the Ministry of State Security had reason to believe Cardinal Zhukov of the Church of New Megiddo was the Apostate’s mole. Graham could cast the blame on Zhukov painting a picture of a wider conspiracy.
“R-Rodrigo, it was Zhukov, Cardinal Zhukov of the Church. The coup was his idea. He came to me and laid out his plan. I-I agreed and said I would try to get Keir’s support. That’s all! Please let them go!” Graham pleaded with Rodrigo. He couldn’t decide if it was real or illusion. If it was real his bluff could buy his family life, and himself, time.
“See, Mr. Wynham, that wasn’t so
difficult. Now, is there anything you would like to add to that?” Inquisitor
Rodrigo asked. He had a mischievous look in his eye.
“N-n-no. I told you everything. That’s
all,” Graham insisted. He was exhausted and couldn’t keep his head upright for
long.
“Fair enough, Mr. Wynham. I think that you
may be truthful by naming Zhukov. My organization already had suspected him of
double-dealing by an internal source. I will verify your claims and come back
to you at a later time.” Rodrigo stood up and turned, walking toward the exit
of the nondescript room. Before moving through the doorway at the far end of
the room, he stopped abruptly, and faced Graham.
“However, there is an unresolved matter. I told you that you also needed to give me access to the encrypted partition on your neural implant. You didn’t, and must be punished.” With that the Inquisitor flipped the switch on the device in his hand and walked out of the room. The metal grate keeping the fire at bay was retracted a final time. The elements rushed out to meet exposed flesh and ragged clothing. Graham spasmed with horror and struggled violently. He tried to summon superhuman strength to break his bonds, but none came. The guttural moans and involuntary wails of his family being submitted to the all-consuming flame reverberated through the room. Skin and cloth ignited into open flame and the three figures were gradual enveloped by reddish-orange ensembles, fit for demons from the depths. The writhing, dancing, bright silhouettes were reflected in the anguish of Graham’s eyes. Graham passed out from the chaos of the scene, and the three hanging figures stirred no more. Graham’s body mirrored the motionlessness of the scene.
The ‘Database’ had skewed his perception of reality and his vow to not break had slipped away. Graham had thought that he had been robbed of his family that he had worked so hard to protect. All the work he had done was undone with but a flip of a switch.
⍟ ⍟ ⍟
The U.S.S. Iowa had been fighting through the Pacific theater for over a year. It had seen many actions and had been party to the bombardment of countless shores. Many of the opposition had fallen to its nine sixteen-inch, fifty-caliber guns. It had steamed all over the South Pacific, from nameless atolls to Saipan and Guam. The Iowa was now the flagship of Battle Division Seven, which was en route to the Mariana Islands. There had been a lull in engagements this week, and so the crew was getting some well deserved down time.
It was around mid-day, and the sky was clear, but the waters were choppy. The ships in the battle division left trails of black smoke and white wakes as they carved through the blue ocean. The odd seabird would fly overhead looking for scraps of food left on the weather decks. Lunch was served in the crew mess aboard the Iowa and hungry sailors formed queues for hot chow. Privates Burke and Jones had just finished receiving their rations slopped onto their trays and had snatched a small table by a porthole.
The chow consisted of a beef and kidney pie, in which the crust looked slightly burnt. Burke took a bite and noticed the bitterness of the kidney, he had to immediately wash it down with water. He decided that it was not his favorite dish, but he wasn’t going to starve. Private Jones, on the other hand, thought the pie delicious and practically inhaled his.
“Get this, I got a letter from my wife
back in Chicago. She gave birth two weeks ago! I got a baby girl, man.” Jones
looked slightly confused like he didn’t exactly know what was waiting for him when
he got back to America.
“Hey, congratulations! Now you’ll have to
make sure your sorry ass gets through this mess unscathed,” Burke joked, punching Jones in the shoulder.
“Yeah, that’s true. I’ll have a family.
But, why couldn’t it have been a boy? I mean, I can’t play catch with a girl,”
Jones complained. He shoveled another bite of kidney and crust into his mouth.
“You’ll figure it out.” Alexander Burke was desperate to change the subject. Burke didn’t want to hear Jones complain about what he had. After all Burke had nothing; no girl waiting for him. It got him thinking about Greta again. He wondered where she was stationed right now, and what she was up to. Burke wondered if she still thought of him. His thoughts turned to a darker shade. He hypothesized that Greta had probably met some handsome officer at the grill where they had their date. He couldn’t remember the name of the grill, then it came to him: The Ebbitt Grill. He hypothesized that Greta was swept off her feet, and married by now. She was supposed to have waited for him!
“You okay, Burke? You look all flushed,”
Jones asked.
The question snapped Burke out of his day dream. He had eaten a little over half of his pie, but he couldn’t take it upon himself to finish.
“Remember when President Roosevelt was on the ship? Well, I heard they had installed a special bathtub because he’s crippled. Anyway, the Captain moved into those quarters. I bet he’s living it up in there.” Jones was a little jealous.
“Well, he is the president. I’d expect they’d give him special treatment,” Burke shrugged and pushed his tray away.
“I’m gonna be president one day. I’d kick
all those pacifists and anarchist out of the country. You just watch.” Jones
gloated, and crammed the last of the pie into his mouth.
“Welp, it is the land of opportunity. You
can be whatever you want.” Burke thought Jones a bit of a moron, but a capable
gunner. Burke tolerated Jones because he was less insufferable than most of the
sailors on the Iowa, but he did at times, want to strangle Jones. The two had
contributed to the operation of their gun turret through at least twelve
engagements. The two worked very well together so they had grown close.
“Have you heard from that girl you used to
talk about? What’s her name? Gina, Gale?” Jones tried to make conversation with
Burke.
“Greta. Man, I told you, I have moved on.” He hadn’t. Burke thought about the women he had met during shore leave in the Pacific. The Japanese occupational forces had brutalized the populace wherever they had gone. In the Solomon Islands, the U.S.S. Iowa had made an extended port call. They had put in at the capital of Honiara, and the crew got several days shore leave. Burke had taken notice that the city center had a colonial English style to it. The American’s might have liberated the islands from their latest colonial masters, the Japanese, but Burke knew some history of the Solomon Islands. Previously they had been a British colony, so it seemed that the darker skinned inhabitants had been trading overlords for quite some time. Their faces corroborated this theory.
Burke had known something of the British history of the colony—how the British had found the Islands full of tribes that engaged in headhunting and cannibalism. Eventually, the private citizens had set up sugar cane plantations by the mid-Nineteenth century. They had employed a practice called “blackbirding”: where natives would be kidnaped and pressed into service on plantations. The natives had felt outraged by the practice, so there had been a series of massacres of plantation owners that had been carried out. To settle the disputes, the British government declared the islands a “protectorate” of the British crown, absorbing the Solomon Islands into the Empire, where they remained for fifty years until the Japanese invasion.
Burke had witnessed how families of the natives were desperate. They were presenting fourth teenage girls, for marriage to off-duty sailors. Many were taken advantage of by the sailors who had been cooped up around other men for months at a time. Families would get meager compensation for a few minutes of a sailor’s pleasure, and the girl, a lifetime of trauma. Burke had been lonely, and at a low point in Honiara. He had been very tempted to buy some time with one of these girls, but something had stopped him: an image of Greta’s face. Private Jones, on the other hand, had jumped right in.
“I’ll see ya Jones, I’m gonna get some fresh air.” Burke excused himself from the table.
“Do what ya gotta do,” Jones said
nonchalantly.
Burke left the busy mess. He stepped out onto the weather deck and looked over the bulwark. The ocean water was being cut in two by the Iowa and reforming in its wake. Burke pulled a cigarette from a crumpled pack rolled in his sleeve and lit it. He took a quick drag and exhaled, releasing a trail of smoke. He peered off into the distance and could make out the profiles of other battleships, destroyers, and cruisers that made up the anti-aircraft screen for the carriers in the battle division. All the vessels were steaming in a vast chevron formation.
Burke thought how this battle group was an overwhelming force. He remembered that just two years ago the US Navy was barely present in the Pacific and that they had nearly lost at Midway, but now it was a massive, seaborne colony. There was no stopping the machine. He almost felt guilty being part of such an unbeatable force. The numbers alone spoke the truth: the population of the U.S. was roughly one hundred and twenty-three million, whereas the population of Japan, at the most, was thirty-four million. There was no contest in numbers. Burke figured the American economy dwarfed that of Japan’s. In fact the more he thought about it the more he worried about lives of his enemy. Their cultural values made it nearly impossible for them to surrender. Burke had read about the travels of Commodore Perry in the mid-Nineteenth Century. He oversaw an American expedition to expand U.S. trade into Japan. At the time, Japan was closed off from the rest of the world and maintained a medieval, feudal system that had little changed in the last four hundred years. Japan had refused to let merchants from the West into their ports and they had cast out foreigners and Christians in previous centuries. America, during the early 1850s, was undergoing a period of rapid expansion—they were eager to play the imperial game against the great powers of Europe. New markets had been needed, but the world was quickly running out of new markets. Japan was an untapped market.
Commodore Perry had sailed his steam-powered
battleships into Tokyo Bay and pointed his guns toward the capital, Edo. The
Japanese Emperor refused access to the Americans and demanded that they leave.
That was not in the Commodore’s plans. Perry demonstrated the destructive force
of his battleships by ordering some structures near the waterfront shelled. His
fleet opened up, reducing the buildings within minutes, with huge balls of
fire. The Japanese were forced to capitulate. Ironically the opening of their
ports, the destruction of the Samurai class, and the training and modernization
of the Japanese military, would eventual lead to the creation of America’s
greatest enemy to date, The Empire of Japan. Burke thought that things had come
full circle.
Burke took the last drag from his cigarette, smashed it against the guardrail and threw it into the water below. He wondered why his country had been so surprised by Japanese aggression, after all, they were just doing what their western predecessors had been doing for centuries: carving out an empire for themselves using modern armies. Burke left the weather deck and headed toward the Mark Seven turret toward the bow of the ship. He strolled lazily along the ship, the air was warm and made him feel drowsy like he could take a nap on deck. Just as he was finished appreciating this moment, the emergency klaxon sounded. There was an announcement to report to action stations. The Japanese Central fleet had been spotted by scout planes and it was a matter of hours before the two forces clashed. Private Burke picked up the pace and ran toward his turret. He entered and performed his equipment checks. He primed the projectile rammer and waited for a briefing.
⍟ ⍟ ⍟
The bridge of the U.S.S. Iowa was abuzz with activity. Ensigns shot radio communications in every direction to coordinate with ships in the anti-aircraft screen, officers from the various parts of the ship rushed to deliver progress reports and the new captain, Allan McCann, gazed upon the tactical situation table, which plotted the position of friendly and hostile forces. He mulled over the information that he had received from the scout planes. The situation did not look good. The battle division was brought in to support the U.S. Army and Marine’s amphibious assaults of the Mariana Islands. The Japanese Mobile fleet had been detected steaming through the San Bernardino Strait and pouring into the western Philippine Sea. Captain McCann could see that the enemy force was at a disadvantage with respect to the number of aircraft carriers, but island-based aircraft in the Mariana Islands airbases the Japanese had constructed previously supported them. The Captain anticipated that this engagement could swing either way.
Captain McCann received word that among
the Japanese carrier defense screen was the Yamato class, super battleship, The
Musashi. McCann
surmised that if the U.S.S. Iowa came up against the Musashi that they would be
destroyed. It would take a battle group alone to destroy it. He had hoped that
he would get a chance to engage it in the coming battle. Captain McCann had
read a profile on the Japanese captain of the Musashi, Toshihira Inoguchi. He knew that Inoguchi was a formidable seaman and that his actions on the
Musashi had saved carriers on numerous occasions. McCann desired to go head to
head with this worthy opponent.
“Ensign, can you confirm the number of
carriers in the Japanese Mobile fleet? ” the Captain requested, supporting
himself with his hands laid on the edges of the tactical situation table.
“Sir, The Japanese fleet contains three
fleet carriers and four light carriers. They are Taihō, Shōkaku, and
Zuikaku. We don’t currently have an identification yet on the four light
carriers. We estimate their carrier aircraft strength at around four hundred,
and at least that number at the surrounding island airbases,” the ensign
reported.
“Thank you, ensign.” Captain McCann felt a
sense of dread and elation at once. The time was fast approaching, and he would
be in the thick of it.
⍟ ⍟ ⍟
Captain Toshihira Inoguchi, raised a small lacquered cup filled with rice wine in a toast with his officers in the wardroom. They were aboard the Musashi, a Yamato class, super battleship. It was one of the three sister ships, the other two being the Yamato and Shinano. The Shinano was no longer a battleship; it had been converted to a carrier. The senior officers were toasting the Emperor of Japan, who was considered a living god. Inoguchi, of course, never really believed this. But, he understood the concept as a valuable political tool for absolute power. Without it, the ruling class could never have developed the most modern and strongest military in Asia. Inoguchi also knew that the Emperor and the government leadership were fools to think that they could prevail in this conflict with the United States if they continued to fight. Captain Inoguchi had a sinking feeling that this could be the engagement that would break his country’s capability to fight offensively. His force was being committed—all in—for one last gamble.
“Fellow officer’s of his Majesty, Emperor Tojo’s Navy, as the flagship of the Japanese Mobile fleet we have been tasked to spearhead the defense of our Marianas Islands bases. The Americans have assembled a massive invasion force and are poised to expel us from the islands unless our navy acts quickly and decisively. Now, I will not lie to you. Our forces are inferior, we are outnumbered in both aircraft and ships. Also, we are dwarfed in supplies compared to our American adversaries. Therefore, our actions here must be born of efficiency and creativity. Not only that, but they must also be executed perfectly—no room for error. The very existence of the Japanese state depends on your insistence upon perfection.
If each and every officer here pushes his men to make no mistakes and carry out the plan to the letter, then there is a possibility that we can defeat the Americans in this place, and force them to the negotiating table, especially if we can break through their screen and defeat their carriers. So, my officers, go forth and do your duty, and let’s deliver this victory over our foes for the glory of our Emperor and the preservation of our heritage!”