Dale Brown - Dreamland

Down another hall, into a room, into a seat – hands grabbed at his face and his eyes flooded with light.

“You will tell me your name,” said the blur in front of him.

“Why?” said Smith, trying to focus.

“Because at the moment your status is quite in doubt. Spies are shot without trial.

The man was short, a bit on the round side. He wore a long, coatlike gray garment. He had a beard; his face was white. A small turban, gray, topped his head.

“I’m a prisoner of war,” said Knife.

“Then you will tell me your name and rank, and we will go on from there,” said the man, his English softened by a vaguely Middle Eastern accent. He did not smile, but he spoke matter-of-factly, as if he were dealing with a young child.

“Major Mack Smith.”

“You are with the U.S. Air Force,” said the man. You were flying an F-16. What is the name of your unit?”

Smith didn’t answer.

“Your call sign was Poison,” continued the man. “You bombed an installation of the Somalian government.”

“It was an Iranian base.”

The man finally smiles. It was faint and brief.

“Major, the base is under the control of the Somalian government. The men who captured you and brought you here were Somalian. I assure you, there are no Iranian soldiers in Somalia, or anywhere in Africa.”

“What about you?”

“I am an ambassador,” said the man. “An advisor. Nothing more.”

“I’m your prisoner?”

“No. You are no one’s prisoner. You don’t exist.”

“I’m free to go then,” said Smith. The pain in his ribs stoked up as he mockingly jerked his body upright.

“If you were to leave here now, you would be shot.”

Middle-ages and obviously a cleric of some sort, the Iranian exuded calmness, as if he were projecting a physical aura of considered peacefulness. Two men stood in plain brown uniforms behind him; neither uniform had insignias or other marks of rank, and they were not carrying weapons. About a dozen troops, Somalians apparently, stood near the door and the sides of the room. It seemed to be a classroom; a blackboard filled the wall in front, its shiny surface glaring with the reflected overhead lights. There were several rows of seats, though no desks that he could see, behind him.

“Are you hungry?” asked the Iranian.

“No,” lied Smith.

“I would suggest it is in your interest to be truthful,” said his captor. He turned to one of the men in the uniforms and said something. The man nodded, then left.

Knife gazed around the room, trying to memorize details. Yellow parchmentlike shades were drawn down over the windows on his right. The floor was covered with seemingly new linoleum, the kind that might be used in the kitchen of a modest American home. A crucifix was mounted above the middle of the blackboard.

Maybe he was in an old mission school? Or certainly some building that didn’t specifically belong to the government.

Or maybe it did. He wasn’t in Boise.

The aide returned with a tray. A large bowl of rice and some sort of vegetable sat in the middle. There were no eating utensils. Smith looked at it doubtfully as the tray as placed on a wooden chair and sat down in front of him. A thick reddish brown liquid covered the rice.

His manacled hands moved toward the bowl. Stopping them seemed to require more energy than he had. Smith scooped a few fingers’ worth of food into his mouth, then quickly consumed the contents. The liquid was sweet and sticky in his throat; the rest of the food was bland.

“And get him some water,” added the Iranian.

Two other Iranians in plain brown uniforms came in with the man with the water. One of the men had a small Sony video cam, the kind of family might use to record their child’s first steps. Smith held his head upright, staring blankly into the lens.

“State you name, please,” said the Iranian cleric.

“Mack Smith,” he said, taking the metal cup of water.

“Are you injured?”

He considered what to say. “I think one of my ribs is broken.”

“How did that happen?”

He hesitated again. If he said they had beaten him, they would simply erase that portion of the tape. Besides, it wasn’t true.

“I’m not sure,” he said.

“Where are you?”

“Good question.”

The Iranian cleric smiled and nodded. Finally he said something to the man with the camera, apparently telling him to turn it off, since he did so.

“The bruises on your face – did they come from the ejection?” asked the Iranian.

“What bruises?” asked Knife. He hadn’t realized his face was injured.

“The force of the ejection would have been severe. Your parachute was found near where you landed, on the side of a sheer cliff. You are fortunate that your legs were not broken.”

“Yeah, I’m one lucky dog.”

“You will find in time, Major, that that is very true.” The Iranian motioned to the guards behind him. Two strong arms levered him upward from his chair; caught by surprise, Mack dropped the water, splashing it on his uniform and the floor. The two men behind his interrogator bristled, stepping forward quickly as if he had made a threat.

“An accident, I’m sure,” said the Iranian, holding them back with a subtle gesture of his hand. He looked at Knife the way an older relative might, as if he had known him all his life, as if he were comparing the man before him with a mental image of the child he had been. “I must attend to some business, Major Smith.”

The Iranian started to leave.

“What’s going to happen to me?” Smith asked.

“Possibly, you will be put on trial. If that happens. I will be your advocate.”

“Who are you?”

“You may call me Iman or Teacher. I am your advocate,” said the Iranian. He swept from the room, the two brown uniform and half a dozen Somalians in tow.

Goddamn faggot Iranians,” Melfi told Jackson. “Least they could have done was beat the shit out of us.”

“Yeah,” said Jackson.

He’d been shot in the leg and Gunny could see the pain hit him in waves. Worried Jackson might pass out, the sergeant continued to talk and joke, hoping to keep him from going.

“Stinkin’ pilot’s probably making a deal for us right now, what do you think?” said Gunny. “Bet we’ll get dancing girls and blow jobs.”

Jackson snorted. His eyes started to close.

Gunny jumped up from the bench. Ignoring the two Somalians standing near the basement steps, he grabbed Jackson by the shirt and shook him.

“Yo, stay with me, boy. Yo, you’re mine, shithead. Don’t go nowhere.”

“I’m okay, Gunny. I’m just tired.”

“Hey, you douche bags – get me a fucking doctor here, okay?” Gunny yelled to the men. “You faggot bastards, don’t you understand English? Hey! Hey!”

The door to the basement opened. Still holding Jackson, Gunny watched as a man in a long robe descended the stairs. It was the Iranian who had questioned them earlier. Several other Iranians and Somalians followed him down.

“Hey, Ayatollah, where the fuck is that doctor?”

The others rushed around the two Americans. One grabby Gunny; before he could slug the SOB, his arms were pinned behind him.

“We need a fucking doctor,” Melfi told the Imam.

“Your soldier will received what attention is available,” said the Iranian. He nodded, and two of his men lifted Jackson up and carried him away. The Marine’s head flopped to the side. “The wound does not appear serious.”

“I’ll tell you what. Give me a fuckin’ AK-47 and you can find out how serious it is.”

“Your false bravado is hardly appropriate.”

The Iman nodded again. Gunny was thrown to the floor. Before he could manage to get up, his arms and groin were pinned by heavy boots.