Adam Baker - Impact

The translator’s fear and indecision was replaced by a beatific smile.

‘They said it will be like stepping through a doorway into a perfumed garden.’

Hancock threw himself from the chair and hit the floor. They pulled him from the wrecked canteen fifteen minutes later suffering from tinnitus and smoke inhalation.

Frost knelt in the sand, head bowed, dripping sweat.

Flashback to Thompson Falls, Montana.

Escape and evasion. Forty-eight hours fleeing through woodland, Frost finally brought to her knees by a German Shepherd dispatched by a Delta pursuit team.

The next phase of the SERE exercise: interrogation.

Hooded and zip-tied, curled on the floor of a flatbed truck as it jolted down a forest track.

Dragged from the vehicle and nudged down concrete steps to an unheated basement, gun at her back. Stink of mildew and rot.

They called it The Red Room.

Buckets of cold water. High-decibel Slipknot.

Endless hours.

The desolate, Arctic terrain of sleep deprivation.

Periodically propped in a chair, unhooded, dazzled by strobes.

‘Just give up your key word, and it will all be over.’

Stripped, beaten, compelled to remain in a stress position for hours. Sticking to name, rank and number until she finally heard herself blurt ‘flintlock’ and the suffering stopped.

‘How long did I last?’ she asked, as they draped a blanket round her shoulders and gave her water.

‘Thirty-eight hours, forty-nine minutes.’

‘How does that compare to the others?’

‘Irrelevant. You battle yourself. Always.’

Frost talked it through with other members of the class as they rode the bus back to base.

Plenty of bravado:

‘Blow my fucking brains out rather than be taken alive. No way I’m letting myself get beheaded for some sick-ass jihadi video. Wouldn’t give those ragheads the satisfaction.’

Each of them secretly wondering if, when their moment came, they could tough-out adversity, or would break and beg for mommy.

Sunset.

Stars in a darkening sky.

Frost tethered to a tyre. Hancock crossed the sand and stood over her.

‘Feeling a little more circumspect?’

‘You have to let me go,’ said Frost. She stretched as best she could. ‘You won’t kill me. And I sure as shit won’t give you the code. So what then? You can’t keep me tied up like this.’

Hancock shook his head.

‘You think you know me. But you don’t. Can’t say I want to leave you out here all night. But I sure as hell will, if that’s what it takes.’

‘Whacking an unarmed colleague? How does that fit with your honour code?’

‘I’d leave it to those bastards out there in the dunes.’

‘Murder by inaction. It would still be on you.’

‘You know how it is with an assignment of this gravity. The standing orders. Anyone or anything that interferes with the execution of the mission can be considered hostile and can be engaged. You became an enemy combatant the moment you turned your hand to sabotage.’

Frost stared past his shoulder.

‘Well, then I guess this is the moment we test your resolve,’ she said quietly. ‘Look. They’re here.’

Hancock turned.

Two figures standing on a high dune, silhouetted against starlight.

He drew his side arm.

‘Cut me free,’ hissed Frost. ‘They want your ass, as well as mine. Cut me loose. Give me a weapon.’

Hancock got to his feet and slowly walked towards the figures, pistol raised.

Silhouettes against starlight.

The first figure had half a head. The left side of his body slouched limp and unresponsive.

The second figure stood bent to one side, body kinked by a shattered spine.

Hancock crept towards them, Beretta gripped in both hands.

‘What the fuck are you?’ demanded Hancock.

One of the creatures turned away and shambled back into the desert.

Hancock took aim at the remaining silhouette. He fired. Pinback lit by muzzle flash. Slack face. Black eyes.

Bullets punched tufted holes in his flight suit.

Hancock lowered the smoking pistol. He fumbled a reload as he backed away from the impassive figure. He raised the pistol like he intended to loose a second volley of shots. He changed his mind. He turned and ran.

More Conex containers, ringed by a double perimeter of concertina wire.

Noble shone his flashlight inside one of the containers.

Foul stench. Cuff-chains and a latrine bucket. Crude air holes burned in the walls by an oxy-acetylene flame. He couldn’t imagine what it would have been like to be imprisoned inside one of the shipping units. Must have been hell during the day. A stifling steel coffin. A fucking oven.

Noble stepped inside one of the containers. Bare footprints on the sand-dusted floor. Bloody scratches on the wall like someone tried to claw through steel.

He kicked at a tattered red jumpsuit.

Something scratched on the back wall of the container. He used the balled jumpsuit to brush dust.

He stepped outside to escape shit-stink and claustrophobia.

A water trailer next to the containers. It had been punctured by bullet strikes. He hit it with his fist. Dull reverberation. Near empty.

He crouched, put his lips to the tap and let the last few drops of water drain into his mouth.

He stood and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. He looked around.

A couple of watchtowers overlooked the detention area. A clear sector of fire. Anyone attempting to bust out of the Conex cells would get dazzled by searchlights, torn by twin streams of 5.56mm, before they had a chance to climb the wire.

He did the math. Seven units. Twenty guys in each. And what about that message scratched at the back of one of the containers?

FIGHT.

Some sorry soul left a warning for future inmates. Implied the cells had been filled and emptied a few times.

Hell of a body count.

A thin avenue of barbed wire. A tight rat-run that led from the freight containers to a couple of Airstream trailers.

A bunch of R20 batteries scattered in the dust. The guards must have used cattle prods as a compliance tool. Stood outside the wire and goosed recalcitrant prisoners with a livestock wand, propelled them towards the Airstreams.

‘California Girls’ segued to ‘Sloop John B’.

He approached one of the trailers.

A couple of the corner jacks had buckled. The trailer listed to the left.

Noble drew his pistol and pulled open the door. He climbed inside, Beretta in one hand, flashlight in the other.

The Airstream had been stripped of all furnishings. The interior was dominated by a padded table. Restraint cuffs for ankles, chest and wrists. Extensions welded either side of the table to extend the subject’s arms cruciform. Looked like the kind of prison gurney used for lethal injections.

He circled the table. The trailer rocked as he moved around.

Stained canvas pads. The carpet beneath the gurney was worn threadbare. Place had seen plenty of use.

The walls and windows were crudely lagged with foam. Soundproofing. Same purpose, Noble supposed, as the music blaring outside: an attempt to muffle screams.

‘ Help Me Rhonda’ abruptly stammered and stopped.

Noble ducked outside. He took shelter from the arclights, hid in the shadow of the trailer. He waited a long while, scanning the desolate compound, the trashed buildings and wrecked vehicles. Maybe he wasn’t alone. Maybe someone cut the music. Or maybe the CD player, wherever it was, glitched and shut off.