Test Pilot's Daughter II: Dead Reckoning (18 page)

The man squinted, raised his hand and slapped her across the face. She felt the sting of calloused digits, and her knees buckled. In broken English he barked, “No speak! Whore!”

She began to fear what might happen next as two men grabbed her arms and another knocked her to the cold floor. They took her feet and drug her out the door, down the hallway and into another room, much larger. As she looked around, it was her worst nightmare. There was electrical equipment, wires and a large meat-hook hanging from the ceiling. A pungent smell filled the room. It smelled familiar. The odor summoned images of an exploding car. She cowered at the smell.

Oh God, no!
she screamed silently.

The man motioned for her to sit in the wooden chair as he stood in front. “You talk. No worry, we no rape bacon-eating pigs. We, what do you call, torture? No dogs, no water-boards, no music, just ‘lectricity! Ha ha, lots of ‘lectricity in the bad places.” He roared with laughter as he stared between her legs. The other men shuffled around trying to get a good view.

She struggled to force her knees together.

“‘Lectric push. . .” he didn’t seem to know the word, so he used his hands to show something shooting out from the face. He pointed at the meat-hook with a big grin. “See?”

He was obviously trying to scare her, and it was working. Totally constrained, she was at their mercy, and they didn’t look like merciful types. She looked around the best she could, but there were no obvious means of escape.

He slapped her again, and she could feel blood trickling from her nose and over her lips. She welcomed it. Vision impaired by large patches of blackness, she was on the edge.
One more punch and I’m out of here.

“What ‘bout Soyuz two-three. . .Jihad-one?”

“Nothing,” she almost screamed, her whole body twitched at its own pace. “C’mon, hit me again, you little bastard, and harder this time. What are you, a pussy?”
She had never been trained in interrogation resistance. She knew it was just a matter of time, so she decided to spill her guts and see how he reacted.

He raised his hand again and asked, “What know ‘bout the drod?”

“Drod? You stupid son of a bitch, you mean DROID? I know everything about it,” she said. “I designed the goddam thing.” She wasn’t at all sure he understood her English, but all of a sudden his expression changed; he looked pleased.

All three men looked at each other and laughed. Yacking back and forth, it looked like at least one understood and translated to the other two. The slapper repeated an earlier question, “Rhani?”

“Okay, okay. . .yeah, I went into his apartment, so what? I loaned him my copy of the Quran, and he forgot to give it back, so I decided to go get it myself.”

They yacked at each other again.

“Quran?”
His eyes lit up. “What ‘bout Quran?” His expression suddenly turned mean, shouting, “You filthy sow, you lie!”

Slapper dipped his head motioning to the others. They grabbed her, tied her feet together and wrapped her arms and torso with tape. They lifted her by the feet and pushed the rope over the meat-hook. She could hear someone cranking a hoist,
click, click, click,
as she was drawn up to the ceiling hanging upside down like a bat. All the blood rushed to her head, and she felt it would burst. They came at her with electrodes as she struggled. There was no use; she was completely helpless. They tore strips of clothing away so the wires could be attached to bare skin. There were four large alligator-clips, one clipped to her left breast, one between her legs and two across her face.

“What do you want to know?” she said as the men laughed even harder.

Apparently they were having too much fun to respond. The leader walked over to the equipment and threw some switches. He turned a large knob, and her whole body convulsed in a huge spasm. It hurt big-time
.
She never thought it was really possible for someone to be tortured in the United States of America. As the pain racked her entire body, she hoped death would come. The man turned the knob back, and the spasm subsided. He walked over to her with a big smile and one hand over his groin.

Asshole, pervert.

Another man positioned his face no more than three inches from hers, albeit inverted. His breath smelled like kerosene. Then came the speech in decent English, “Infidels know nothing about pain. Your spineless men are weak like woman. Your leaders pledge not to torture. Isn’t that nice. Ha!
You think
this
is bad?
N
othing!
Your body will take big pain before you die. We keep you alive while you beg for death. You tell me everything I want.” He walked over to the machine again and put his hand on the control. She could see him out of the corner of her eye.

“Okay. . . okay! I’ll tell you!” she gasped for air in short bursts. It was difficult to breathe, and she could see the blood from her nose pooling on the floor.

He looked into her bulging, inverted face and grinned like the Cheshire Cat. “Allah wants you to convert to Islam, but first we must get the Son of Mary out,” he said calmly. He walked back to the table and cranked up the juice.

The pain was beyond imagination. The smell of burning skin accompanied smoke that rose from each probe. Sparks flew from her body. All her muscles convulsed in continuous spasms, blood poured out of her nose, and her eyes bulged. She was like a fish suspended on a hook, flopping midair. She tried to scream, but it was not possible.
Oh God almighty, take me. Take me now!
She went black.

* * *

One eyelid cracked open as Christina awoke in the fetal position on the cold, concrete floor. Hands to her face, all she could do was cry, sobbing as tears ran between fingers
.
It was dark, and there was one single thought rolling through her head, only one viable strategy.
How can I end this?
She wanted to fight, but how? As hard as she tried to think of a plan, nothing materialized. Maybe it was the electricity, but it seemed impossible to concentrate. She could only worry how long they intended to torture her. It wasn’t even a matter of giving them information. She was willing to tell them anything, to admit anything, to make up anything, anything at all they wanted to hear. But it didn’t seem to matter. In their twisted minds she was the devil, the enemy of Islam: female, Christian, American, astronaut, everything that threatened their stupid, archaic beliefs. They weren’t interested in information, they wanted the worst kind of justice.
They want to see me squirm, for God only knows how long.
Her mind reiterated a mantra she remembered from the Quran:

On that day, their treasures shall be heated in Hell-fire, and their foreheads, and their sides, and their backs shall be branded with them.

She was ready to die, but the options were few.
If I could only stand in that wet bucket and reach the light socket,
she thought. But the ceiling was at least nine feet. She had even tried standing on the bucket, but it was still too high. Starvation was too slow. It seemed dehydration was the only choice. From her time on the island, she knew that such a fate would be horrid, but
what could be worse than slow electrocution?
They had pushed bread and water through the lower slot, but she hadn’t touched it.
Unless they inject an IV, I can end the suffering in four days.
She stared at the bottled water like it was toxic waste.

As she lay on her side, it was difficult to listen for clues. The trauma of the beatings and electric shock had placed a squeal in her ears. It was constant, and it wouldn’t go away. She had heard of the horrible symptoms of tinnitus, ringing in the ears, a never ending chorus of one single, high pitched note. It made her more than anxious. Every muscle twitched with anxiety.

She had done a lot of praying in the dark, besides there wasn’t much else to do. But her undying pragmatism made it difficult to ask for miracles. She was taught to make her own miracles. Her dialogue sounded more like that of Job.
God,
w
hy are you doing this to me? What did I do to deserve this? Could it be Dr. Steve Weston?
she wondered.
Could it be that I dumped him in the Atlantic Ocean in a Cessna. But he was a scumbag, Lord, a child molester. It was simple justice.
Okay, maybe it wasn’t up to me, but he was going to get off Scot free.
Lord, you don’t have to save me, just let me go. I beg you for only one miracle, the miracle of death. Why hast thou forsaken me? Don’t let these vermin have the upper hand. They hate Christians, Lord; they hate your people, the Jews. You saved Jerusalem over and over, even when they messed up. Why can’t you save me? I’ll do whatever. I’m good for it.
Why me
?

Christina came to attention in a panic. Over the ringing in her ears she heard the horror of footsteps.
Oh no, Jesus, please no, not again.
The upper slot opened and closed, and the door blew open just as before. It was the same four. She pulled at her wrists trying to free herself. Swinging her bound fists, she hoped to hit something, anything, anyone. She felt like a wild animal, trapped and wounded, but alive. She wanted to sink her fangs into someone and make them bleed. They scrambled around trying to stay out of her way.

Something else from the Bible flashed through her mind,
There will be much weeping and gnashing of teeth.
It was Jesus describing hell.
He got that right,
she thought. She reeled in a circle like a mad dog and caught Slapper by the arm, sinking her teeth to the bone. The wounded man ripped it back shouting Arabic curses in agony. Blood flew all over the room. The other men roared in laughter, punching each other and making Slapper the brunt of their jokes.

“You’re gonna have to kill me, you bastards.” She meant it. “You’re gonna have to kill me right now!”

One man lunged from behind and tackled her to the floor. Two others piled on top until she couldn’t move. They taped her once again like a large cocoon, grabbed her feet and drug her down the hall. She squirmed with the little energy that remained trying to pull free, but they just jabbered on.

No!
she thought, as they pulled her into the room. It still smelled of seared skin, hers. The hook had been removed and there was a large chair in its place. It looked just like the electric chairs she had seen in old movies, wired to the hilt with a metal cap extending from the top.
Good,
she thought,
they’re gonna kill me now.
Thank you, Lord.

“Eyes,” the man who could speak English chortled. “Time to see those filthy eyeballs pop out. Just enough ‘lectric to feed you the eyes.”

She was in full terror mode as they separated her arms and legs and strapped her to the chair. Mouth taped over, she gasped for air through bloody nostrils. They forced the metal cap over her head and secured more straps under her chin. Completely restrained she could only move her facial muscles. Straining her eyelids she thought,
Gonna hold ‘em in, not gonna give those bastards the pleasure.
As the man walked over to the control unit, she gripped the lids tightly over her eyes and strained all the muscles in her face. Determined to resist, she held them for as long as she could wondering what was taking so long. After what seemed like an eternity, she slowly cracked her lids. The scene was blurry, but there seemed to be no one there.
Where the hell did they go?
she wondered.
What the?

She sat there the longest time awaiting the return of her executioners, but there was only dead silence. After a while limbs grew numb, and she drifted in and out of consciousness. She began to dream of ghosts, evil creatures and the depths of hell.
There will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.