Battle Road (5 page)

“We'll have investigators look into your records more thoroughly. It's merely a formality at this point. Let me be the first to say congratulations on your new job Mr. Fraser,” Agent Goodman said, leaning across his desk to shake Dylan's hand.

“
Thank you, sir. I appreciate your confidence. You're not going to be disappointed,” Dylan said. He put on his best poker face trying to hide his excitement.

NINE

At quarter to seven Friday evening, Brooks pulled his car into the driveway outside of Dylan's high rise in the South End. He pulled into the only outside guest parking spot that was available and revved the engine a couple of times to prevent the car from stalling out. Satisfied the engine wasn't going to die, he pulled out his v-phone and called up to Dylan. “Yeah I'm down in front now,.... OK, good.”  His old Ford didn't have a built in computer with an in dash video phone. A standard feature in every new car. Actually, his vehicle didn't have much of anything that was still working.

Brooks tapped his fingers on the console while he waited. The glow of the dashboard instrumentation illuminated his face in shades of greens and oranges. A few minutes later Dylan opened the passenger side door and got in. “Hey,” Dylan said, carefully putting a bottle of expensive French vodka on the floor behind his seat. Brooks replied with a quick, “Hey,” before putting the car in reverse. Dylan fumbled with the seat belt. The pulley mechanism that retracted the seat belt was another thing on the list that needed fixing. “Brooksie, man, you need to get a new ca'h, a BMW like all your lawyer pals drive,” Dylan said. He finally managed to get the seat belt clicked into the buckle.

Brooks looked over at his friend and smiled. “How many times have I told you I'm not really into cars. Why waste my money on these things. I walk everywhere I need to go or take public transportation. I should just get rid of this old shit box.”

Dylan shook his head slightly, “With that kind of socialist attitude, no wonder why they never let you join the Party.”

Brooks looked over at Dylan, “You know I love you brotha'h. But you have to quit with that Freedom Party bullshit.” The two friends went silent. They've had this conversation many times. Each recognizing that their friendship was more important than their political differences.

“Open the glove compartment, I've packed the vaporizer with some of that Kamikaze weed I was telling you about,” Brooks said. Dylan banged on the top of the compartment with his fist. The door flung open. He searched through papers and other crap before finding the vaporizer. “I'm good, I already took a hit,” Brooks said.

Dylan took a long look at the vaporizer, shifting the device around in his hand to view it from different angles. “Just what I needed. I was out. I didn't have the chance to get to the store,” Dylan replied. He hit the 'ON' button and waited for the green light.

They headed towards Joanne's apartment in West Cambridge. The party was probably already getting started. As they drove, Brooks told the full story of the military assault he witnessed at the fraternity. It was the first time he had the chance to talk to Dylan about it. “Once I saw that there was nothing on the news about it. I didn't think it was a good idea to say anything over the phone. The last thing I want is my phone conversation flagged by Homeland Security.”

Dylan looked puzzled. “Are you sure about what you saw? Because something like that would have had to be on the news.” Brooks was ready for his friends obvious point. “Exactly! That is the most troubling thing. I mean, the deaths of those student's was bad, of course. But the really troubling thing was why this wasn't reported in the news. I didn't know whether to call the TV stations and find out or just keep my mouth shut.”

Dylan was taking it all in, “Well you were smart not to call anybody.” Brooks thought about what he saw for a few more seconds before adding, “Something really bad is going on. Why wouldn't that have made the news? I mean any news. I searched everything.”

The two friends became silent again as they drove over the Longfellow Bridge towards Cambridge. Dylan wondered to himself if Brooks really wasn't exaggerating an ordinary police bust. He just didn't know what to make of it.

Brooks turned the car onto Joanne's street. At that time of the evening, they'd still be plenty of on street parking available. Most of the residents of the upscale neighborhood were doctor's, lawyers, and other workaholic professionals. “I don't see any spots,” Brooks spoke as he drove slowly, looking for a space. “Over there,” Dylan called out, pointing to an empty area between two cars. “Nope,” Brooks responded after seeing the fire hydrant. They drove past Joanne's apartment building unable to find a space. Brooks continued driving to the end of the street, still nothing. He was about to take a left and try the next side street when Dylan spied a car leaving from the corner parking spot, “On your right, he's leaving.” “Excellent,” Brooks said with a big grin on his face.

After Brooks pulled into the spot, Dylan looked at his friend, “Timing is everything.”

“That's true, hey you want another hit before we go in?” Brooks asked.

“
Nah, I don't wanna get too fucked up. You know me. I can't talk to people when I get really high. I have a nice mellow buzz going right now.”

“
Me too. Just right,” Brooks added.

Dylan reached back and grabbed his bottle of vodka before climbing out of the car. Brooks pulled out a case of still cold micro-brewed beer from the back seat.

They walked towards Joanne's place carrying the booze. Dylan spoke first, “Lets not talk about the shootings you saw the other night. Let's just have a good time. We'll talk more about that later.” Brooks was in total agreement. “Absolutely, I intend to get laid tonight. I'm not about to bring up any dreary topics that will bring everyone down, including myself.”

“
Great, so lets party,” Dylan said. He let out a loud howl like he was a college kid again.  

Brooks did the same.

They reached the porch entrance to Joanne's apartment. It was an old triple decker that was beautifully restored, located in one of the last remaining historic neighborhoods of Cambridge. Joanne lived on the third floor. Brooks rang the bell and turned to Dylan, “Oh, I forgot to mention, Joanne has a slice lined up for you tonight.” Dylan shot back, “Yeah she mentioned it to me. But I told her I didn't want to get fixed up. I'd meet her, but no expectations.” Brooks let out a hearty laugh, letting his friend in on the secret, “You don't know women at all do you. Of course she's going to have expectations. She'll just be more nonchalant about doing it.”

Joanne opened the door before Dylan could respond. “Hey you guys. Come on in,” she said. Joanne was feeling good. She looked as if she'd already had a couple glasses of wine. She gave each of them a big hug as they entered the doorway.

The party seemed as if it had been going for quite some time as they made their way through the open doorway to the third floor apartment. Every room had groups of men and women partying while they tried talking to one another over the classic rock music piped in by the sound system. The smell of marijuana floated through the air. Joanne tried to introduce Brooks and Dylan to everyone within earshot as she led them around. People looked up or over and said their “hello's”, though nobody was going to remember each others names.

The apartment itself was decorated in the artsy revisionist 2020's style; big shapes with squares and circles, dominated with the use of vibrant colors. It looked as if a revisionist art student had free reign with the decorations. A little overdone, but overall it gave the apartment a hip atmosphere.

A banned rock tune by The Slashers started playing on the sound system, “Pay up, pay up, pay through your nose.....” Joanne pointed down a hallway, “The bar is in the kitchen over there. I'll catch up with you later.” “Alright, thanks,” Dylan replied. Brooks was already half way down the hallway, still carrying his case of brew.

Dylan caught up to Brooks in the kitchen, who was by then trying to put his beer down on top of the kitchen counters that were already fully packed with everyone's party supplies. He just ended up pushing the case into everything, hoping nothing would come crashing down on the floor. “You want one?” Brooks asked his friend while prying open the top of the case. Dylan found a home for his bottle of vodka, putting it next to several other bottles of booze by the sink. “No thanks. I'm gonna have drink,” he said.

While Brooks opened his beer and took a swig, Dylan surveyed the kitchen. A twenty something African American man with wire rimmed glasses sang along with the music as he fixed a drink at the makeshift bar at the end of the kitchen counter. “Rock your bed, as they steal your dead....” An exceedingly attractive young blond swayed to beat of the music as she waited for her drink. She was well on her way to catching a buzz. “Thanks,” she said, as the man handed her the drink to be made. She eyed Brooks while heading out of the kitchen. Giving him a big flirtatious smile. Once she was out of sight, Brooks turned to Dylan, “
Oh, yeah, she's mine tonight. But first I gotta keep these beers cold.” He started pulling the bottles out of the cardboard case and bringing them over to a galvanized steel tub filled with ice and beer on the floor next to the refrigerator.

Dylan approached the apparent bartender, “Hi I'm Dylan.” The two men shook hands. “Hi, I'm David Whitney. What can I get for you.” Dylan looked around the makeshift bar. “I think I'll have a vodka tonic. How about using that vodka, it's pretty good.” He pointed to the French vodka he brought. “Pretty good? This stuff is wicked. My personal favorite,” David said. He picked up the bottle and looked it over carefully, as if savoring the sight of the label. He had  obviously consumed a couple of his drink creations already.

“Dread, dread, off with your head” David sang the last line from The Slashers tune as he handed the vodka tonic with a wedge of lemon to Dylan.

He took a quick sip, “Awesome drink, man. Thank you.”

“All in the line of duty, my friend,” Whitney said, taking a sip of his own nearly empty drink.    

An attractive forty something woman with short blond hair wandered into the kitchen. “Can I have one of your world famous martini's, David,” she said.

“Certainly, madame.”

Dylan leaned back against the kitchen counter sipping his cocktail. He stood there awkwardly for a moment before introducing himself to the woman. “Hi, I'm Dylan.” He reached over and shook her hand. “I'm Stephanie. It's nice to meet you.” The two exchanged small talk until David handed her the martini with a raspberry. “Thank you, Sir,” Stephanie said, before whisking off.

“Now you know why I like being the bartender,” David said, taking a sip from his cocktail. Brooks had finished putting his beers on ice and walked over to the two men. David took another sip from his drink, finishing it, then swirled the ice cubes in the glass before putting it down. He leaned back against the kitchen counter in the same position as Dylan was in, eying out the various bottles of booze next to him.

“
Who was that blond that was here earlier,” Brooks asked, without introducing himself.     

David let out a quick laugh. “Yeah she's tasty, alright. Her name is Marla,” he answered, then picked up the bottle of French vodka that Dylan had brought. He took another look at the label, thinking of what kind of drink he'd have next. He looked at Brooks again, “She has a boyfriend, man. A big guy. Somebody you don't want to mess with.” Brooks smiled a big shit eating grin, “They all have boyfriends. Think that's ever stopped me before my friend.” Brooks gave the men a nod and walked out of the kitchen in search of Marla.

“That must be Brooksie. Joanne told me he was a dog,” David said with another quick laugh.

“
Well, he's not the Don Juan he pretends to be. But yeah he is a dog.”

David smiled. “I'm going to have to keep a close eye on him tonight. See how he does it.” 

The two men let out a hearty laugh. “Changing the subject,” Dylan said, “That song that was just playing, that you were singing along to, that song in banned. Do you know that?” David let out an even bigger laugh than he did earlier. “Of course, man! By the Patriot Communications Act. Everyone knows that.” He then began making himself another drink. Dylan pressed the subject, “Aren't you at all worried about being arrested?” David's playful demeanor changed to a more serious tone. “You're just as guilty as I am, dude. The government doesn't care if you like the music or not. They'll arrest you for just listening to it. But don't worry. The neighbors are all cool.”

TEN

The interrogations of the latest group of terror suspects went on all day and into the evening. Deep inside Building 6 of Homeland Security headquarters, Senior Agent Mike Goodman stood with several plainclothes officers behind the one way glass mirror of the command room. The group of four men and three women were silent as they peered into the adjacent interrogation chamber.

The chamber was bare with unpainted cement brick walls and a single steel door that was just starting to rust due to the cold and dampness. A single spotlight shone over the naked male prisoner in an otherwise near pitch dark room. From the ceiling a stainless steel chain dropped down from a mechanical pulley. The prisoner hung by his hands, with leather straps securely attached. Two Homeland Security Detectives dressed in black uniforms stood to either side of the prisoner while the Senior Detective beat him with a hollow rubber baton.

The Senior Detective was a large, overweight man in his early fifties. He looked to be at the very least two hundred and eighty pounds. He scowled at the prisoner, emanating a viciousness designed to instill fear into his victim. The two junior associates were learning the ropes. One was a leathery faced man in his mid twenties with a shaved head. The other was a heavy set muscular woman in her late thirties, with closed cropped blond hair, and a tattoo of a winged serpent etched upon her the side of her neck.

Goodman was directing the interrogation from the command room that night. Usually the Detectives did the work themselves without interference from senior officers. If a command officer was overseeing the work of the Detectives, it was usually carried out by an officer at Agent level. It was rare for a Senior Agent to bother themselves with overseeing the interrogation of terror suspects. With his promotion to head of counterinsurgency in New England, Goodman was intent on overseeing all of the interrogations of the terror suspects rounded up from the college frat house a few days prior. Also, it would be a good chance to train the junior officers in interrogation techniques.

Goodman looked over the group of officers assembled before him. “The point is to make the suspect feel as helpless as possible. You always start with an hour or so of water boarding before commencing with beating the prisoner. Not severe. Just enough to soften them up. Give them a whiff of things to come,” he said, checking to make sure the officers were all listening. “Your interrogation methods will differ depending on whether the prisoner is male or female.  For men, you begin by stripping them naked. During the interrogation, you threaten castration. Women, you leave fully clothed and strip them during the interrogation. Removing one article of clothing at a time. All the while giving them the impression that they'll be raped if they don't cooperate.”

One of the female officers cut in to ask a question, “What if they won't talk even with these kinds of interrogations?” Goodman gave the younger woman a stern impatient look, “I've only explained how to start the interrogation. We have a lot ground to cover, we'll get to it. Just keep in mind, we can make anyone talk. We just have to find and exploit a prisoners weaknesses and fears. The problem is the subject can only tell us what they do know. Let's take our seats and get comfortable, shall we?” Goodman made a gesture with his right arm towards several chairs in the room that sat behind the two way mirror and the control desk containing video monitors and other digital equipment.

After the officers settled down, Senior Agent Goodman began his lecture once again, “As I said, we can break anyone. The problem is our enemies have come up with some clever defensive strategies. As you know, the rebels have organized themselves into small guerrilla   fighting units or cells. These cells contain no more than six or seven members. Usually each member only knows one or two other cell members. Then, only one or two members know the identity of their cell commander. And only the cell commander knows the information on their upper command officers.” The junior officers glanced back and forth between Goodman and the activities in the interrogation room.

The Senior Detective stopped beating the prisoner, handed the baton over to one of the associate Detectives, and began his 'bad cop' routine as he's done thousands of times before. Grabbing the prisoners hair and pulling his head back, the Senior Detective leaned over and spoke menacingly into his ear, “OK, so you know I'm not fuck'in around here. You're going to tell me what I want to know. No fucking bullshit either. Got that motherfucker!”

The prisoner winced with his head pulled back but refused to speak. The female Detective slammed her fist into the prisoners stomach. She played the second 'bad cop' in the DHS interrogation tactics of 'bad cop – bad cop'. She stepped back as the other junior Detective leaned forward to yell at the prisoner, spraying spit across his face, “I didn't hear you motherfucker!”

The prisoner shook his head up and down wearily, “yes, yes.” His face betraying his agony and terror. “What's your name?” the Senior Detective yelled as he once again pulled the helpless man's head back. A few seconds later the man was able to speak coherently, “I have rights. I'm an American citizen. You can't do this to me.”

All three Detectives stepped back a couple of feet while mocking the prisoner with laughter. They each paced in a circle around the prisoner while continuing their taunts. The Senior Detective managed to blurt out between his laughter,  “What a dumb fucking idiot you are.”  The tattooed woman stepped up and landed another punch to the prisoners stomach. Shaking her hand after wards, demonstrating how much she enjoyed punching the young man.

Allowing the prisoner to recover somewhat from the last body blow, the male Detective leaned over and shouted in his ear, “Should I call a lawyer for you. Would you like that?” The young man shook his head up and down, naively thinking for a moment there was a possibility of being given due legal process. That was, until all three detectives let out a another roar of laughter.

The Senior Detective moved over to stand directly in front of the prisoner. “You really are a fucking idiot, aren't you college boy? Alright, I'll spell it out to you then. The only rights you have are what I give you. As of this morning, Homeland Security Federal Court ruled you to be an enemy combatant. Unless you cooperate with us, no one will ever hear from you again. I mean that, fuck face. I can put a bullet into your fuck'n brains right now and no one would give a rats ass. In fact, my colleagues here would prefer that so they can get out of here and go home for the night.”

The Senior Detective stepped backed again. His associates repositioned themselves on either side of the prisoner. The Senior Detective took a deep breath, waited a full second, and spoke with a more calming tone, “So, let's start over. There's no reason why you have to be here and put yourself through all of this unpleasantness. Just tell us what we want to know. Nobody will know it was you who talked. I promise you that. We'll get you out of here right away and into the infirmary. So, lets start off with an easy question. What's your name?” The prisoner stared dead into the eyes of the Senior Detective, then glanced slowly over at the woman Detective, then back at at the lead torturer, “Fuck You is my name, you piece of fat, fucking filth.”

Quickly flicking a switch on the console to speak into the microphone, Goodman stopped the Senior Detective from striking the man in the face. “Stop right there Chief. Use the pain sticks, then start the questioning again.” The Senior Detective begrudgingly lowered his fist upon hearing the instructions through his communication earpiece.

Goodman turned to his officers, “As you can see our detectives like their jobs a little too much. It's important to keep them in line. A suspect with their bones broken or skulls crushed in doesn't do us a lot of good. The pain sticks are effective at this point. It's basically a highly charged cattle prod with lots of voltage and very little current. The subject will experience extreme pain, but it won't kill him. It's just the next step in our bag of goodies.”

Satisfied that his orders where being carried out by the Detectives in the interrogation chamber, Goodman continued his lecture. “As I mentioned, we can break anyone. The problem is the terrorists have been using hypnosis to protect their organizational structure. Individuals are hypnotized to erase all memories of who their fellow cell members are. Cell commanders are hypnotized to delete all knowledge of their upper command structure. In most terror cells, there's a core group consisting of the cell commander and one or two individuals who know each others identities. They work together, bringing in the other members of the cell only when required. All communications are done with prearranged codes.” Most of the officers shifted their attention away from the interrogation and onto Goodman. Finding his words of more interest than the activities in the torture chamber.

Goodman shifted his position in the seat to get more comfortable. “Basically all of these terrorists are programmed with only the knowledge they need to carry out their assigned missions. So when we do break one of these motherfuckers, they can't tell us a god damned thing. And that's really the entire reason why we haven't been able to crush the terrorist rebellion.”

He paused to make sure the officers understood what he was saying. “So catching ordinary criminals like this young man before us tonight gives us our best chance at identifying existing terror cells or stopping new ones from being formed. In all likelihood he's been in contact with terrorist rebels that were trying to recruit him. Yet, he wouldn't actually be a soldier at this point and wouldn't be hypnotized. He's really just a terrorist wanna be. We've been successful numerous times with this approach.”

Goodman rubbed the back of his neck. “If there aren't any questions at this point, lets head over to the next interrogation room.” He stood up, motioning his officers to follow. Before leaving he turned on the microphone once again, “Detective, I'll be over in interrogation room seven. If you learn of anything important contact me immediately.” The Senior Detective turned to face the mirror. “Yes Sir, understood.”

While the officers were leaving the command room, the junior male Detective finished spraying the prisoner with a water. The female Detective, having already checked the charge levels on the pain sticks, handed them out. The three detectives paced once again in front of the subject. “I think we're gonna have a lot of fun here tonight,” the Senior Detective said with a smile. A bit of saliva dripped from the left corner of his mouth.