Matthew Reilly - Scarecrow Returns

“What about you? The ‘Lord of Anarchy?’ Let me guess, that acid scarring on your face isn’t real, is it?”

Calderon touched the foul scarring on his left jaw. “A good bit of plastic surgery, no? It’s like your eyes: it’s all anyone notices. When I go home, my skin will be repaired and my tattoos removed. So, too, these striking gray contact lenses. One does have to be something of a chameleon in this line of work.”

Calderon leaned in close to Schofield, pinned to the bed frame. “In the end, Captain, I do all this, including changing my face, only for the betterment of the United States of America. A newly rich China threatens the livelihood of three hundred million Americans. The Communist Party of China is a brutal and corrupt regime. Do you really want it ruling the world? There are many things wrong with America but as a world leader, we are a much better option than China. But it seems you would prefer to see China as the leading superpower in the world. I thought you were supposed to be fighting for America.”

“I do fight for America,” Schofield said, “but when it comes to the leadership of the world, that’s not for me to decide. If America can’t maintain its dominant status fairly, it doesn’t deserve to be the world’s leader. If America has to annihilate any country that threatens its dominant position, then we’re as bad as the Chinese.”

Calderon nodded. “Then it would seem that you and I are at an ideological impasse. A shame, really. You’re bright and determined. If our goals were aligned, you and I would make a powerful team.”

And right then, quite abruptly, Schofield realized something.

“You haven’t found the spheres yet,” he said. He glanced at Typhon. “That’s why your boy here didn’t kill me on the spot.”

Calderon nodded philosophically. “My men are scouring the island as we speak for your civilian colleagues, Mr. Weinberg of DARPA and Ms. Dawson from the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration.”

Schofield was surprised that Calderon might know Zack’s and Emma’s names. While his own details could be found quite easily on a military database, theirs would have been harder to come by. His surprise must have shown.

“You’re wondering how I know their names,” Calderon said. “You notice details, Captain, even in your current circumstances. I’m impressed. Here is how I know. Lance Corporal?”

At that moment, at Calderon’s call, into the shower room—uncuffed and totally free—walked Mario.

“Mario,” Schofield breathed. “You didn’t . . .”

“He did,” Calderon said. “Shot your other young Marine in the head from point-blank range. Lance Corporal Puzo and I speak the same language. I made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.”

“Mario . . .” Schofield said again.

Mario eyed him indifferently. “Sorry, sir . Had to choose a side and I chose the one I thought would win.”

“And the Kid?”

Mario shrugged. “He died quick.”

“You fucking piece of shit,” Schofield said.

“Captain,” Calderon said, “I know Mr. Weinberg and Ms. Dawson are somewhere on this island—on this base, no less—and my men will find them. But I am hoping that you will assist us in speeding up that process.”

“I can’t see myself doing that.”

“Captain, please,” Calderon chuckled. “You may know my name but you clearly do not know who I am . While you may deplore my methods, over the last nine years, I have personally prevented six 9/11-scale acts of terror on American soil by extracting information from captured terrorists. I am that worst of things: a necessary evil. I am the dark side of America’s psyche.

“And for nearly thirty years now, in my quest to keep America safe, I have been a student of the human mind and the effects of torture on it—how to motivate a captive, how to hurt him, how to give him hope, and in some cases, how to break him. Right now, you need not concern yourself with doing anything to help me. Because what you are about to experience is not about what you will do. It’s what we will do to you in order to get Mr. Weinberg and Ms. Dawson to reveal themselves.”

Calderon nodded to Typhon. The tall XO stretched some duct tape roughly over Schofield’s mouth.

“And solely for my own amusement,” Calderon said as Typhon slid a rolling hand truck under the vertical bed frame, “I intend to break your mind while I torture you.”

Then, led by Marius Calderon—now once again in his role as the Lord of Anarchy—and trailed by the treacherous Mario, Typhon wheeled Schofield’s bed frame out of the shower room, where it was greeted by an enormous cheer from the crowd massed outside.

THE GASWORKS

SCHOFIELD WAS wheeled out into an enormous hall-sized space, where a crowd of forty members of the Army of Thieves was waiting for him. He realized immediately that he was inside the gargantuan gasworks beneath Dragon Island’s mighty vents. He was on the highest of three levels, on a large balcony overlooking a massive, massive space. Immediately below him was a middle level, the main feature of which was a long conveyor belt. This belt fed an industrial furnace that sat on the third and bottommost level alongside three gigantic circular vats.

These vats—their green liquid contents steaming ominously and stirred constantly by rotating steel arms—were positioned directly beneath one of the mighty vent towers. An identical set of vats lay farther away, beneath the second enormous vent. Fed by a complex network of interconnected pipes, gauges and valves, the vats were the beating heart of the atmospheric device: the shimmering gas that rose from them was the combustible TEB mixture that would allow the sky to ignite.

On the northern side of the vast space, Schofield saw, of all things, a huge black train—twice the width of a normal train and made of ultra-thick reinforced steel—parked at a platform that opened directly onto the gasworks via a broad ramp. Judging from the direction of its tracks, Schofield guessed the industrial-sized train had been used during the original construction of the gasworks to convey material from the submarine dock on the east coast.

The whole place stank of a foul chemical odor, the reek of TEB, plus another rank smell that Schofield recognized with horror: burnt human flesh.

The crowd of ruffians from the Army of Thieves cheered loudly at Schofield’s appearance.

It was then that Schofield saw the other prisoners.

There were four of them in total: two closer to him—their torture had already begun, inspiring the grim cheers he had heard earlier—and two farther away on the balcony.

Schofield took in the nearer pair first: one was attached to a bed frame just like his. The other hung from the raised prong of a forklift in a most painful position: from his wrists, which had been handcuffed behind his back. His feet hovered just above the ground.

The man on the bed frame was Ironbark Barker: the Navy SEAL leader whose team had been shot to shit in the submarine bay and who himself had later been captured, after successfully sabotaging the TEB gas dispersal for a time.

Ironbark’s face bulged with bruises and cuts, while his naked back was imprinted with a foul grid of charred electrical burns. Schofield saw a thick black industrial-sized electrical cable attached by virue of a transformer to the steel bed frame. A moment later, he noticed the small wooden bit clenched between Ironbark’s bloody teeth.

The second prisoner, the one hanging from the forklift, was Jeff Hartigan, the haughty contractor who had stayed behind in Schofield’s camp against Schofield’s advice.