The Living Will Envy The Dead (44 page)

“I think that he’s definitely one of their senior leaders,” Mac said, glaring down at his captive, who glared back at him.  A real hard case, I decided; someone who really believed in his Cause, or at least in his divine right to do as he pleased.  He might break easily, with the right sort of pressure, or he might refuse to break for hours, even under the worst pressure that we could devise.  “Everyone allowed him to lead us down to the stables, even though the merest MP would have sensed that something was badly wrong; hell, boss, they were scared to death of him.”

I nodded slowly, watching the piggy eyes as they tracked back to me.  A sociopath-type personality, then, one that would never be allowed to reach high levels under normal circumstances.  He acknowledged no limits, no restraints on his power, and now that law and order was just a memory, had the ability to snatch as much as he could from the crumbling world.  Prophet Zechariah had found an excellent servant, just as Hitler – I remembered Thomas’s lecture and winced – had found one in the unprepossessing Himmler or Ribbentrop.  He would probably have plans to overthrow the Prophet, one day, but until then he would be the most loyal and craven person in the Prophet’s force.

I came to a decision, one that I hated.

“Brent,” I called, sharply.  Brent came running over at once.  He looked just as pleased to see Mac as I was; Mac had been popular among the army, even though some had called him a slave driver behind his back.  I didn’t care; easy training, hard mission, or vice versa.  It wasn't a real choice for anyone with a commitment to building a real military.  “Detail off a platoon and one of the trucks to transport this piece of shit to Stonewall.  Once you get there, inform Richard that he is to be kept in solitary confinement and on full suicide watch; I want him strapped down, unable to move except under full supervision.  He’ll know what to do.”

“Yes, sir,” Brent said.  He looked past me at Mac.  “May I say, sir, that it’s good to see you again?”

“It’s good to see you too,” Mac said, wryly.  “Now, you have your orders, so get on with them.  We’ll have a proper party to gloat over my…”

“Our,” Dutch put in.

“Great escape later,” Mac said.  He winked at me.  “We’re going to need something to keep our morale up after this.”

I grinned.  “It’s good to see you back,” I agreed.  “I missed you.”

“I’d take another shot, if I were you,” Dutch said.  We shared a laugh.  “I’d better get back to my people.  Once Mac’s story starts being told, everyone will think that he took on and defeated the entire army of Warriors on his own, without any back-up at all.  Next year, we’ll discover that he did everything, without any help from us, and that he  has an admiring horde of teenage groupies who do everything he tells them to do.  A century from now, he’ll be…”

“Arrested for strangling a fellow officer if he doesn’t shut up,” Mac said, wryly.  His voice darkened.  “Ed, they did have teenage love slaves at the FOB, serving some of their soldiers.  I saw some of them being forced to…service some of the men, those who survived the battle, in any way they wanted.  Whatever these bastards are, Ed, they’re not religious at all.  They’re monsters.”

I shuddered inwardly.  The needs of most men are basic. They wanted sex and security and the Warriors offered both.  The system might end up being run by a group of hypocrites who didn’t believe in the faith, but were adept at promoting it, by any means necessary.  It was oddly comforting, in a way, to know that the Warriors would probably go that way.  Every other religion on Earth had gone the same way.

“I know,” I said.  “Dutch, go get medical attention and then see to your men.  I’ll debrief you later on what you saw while you were a prisoner.”

“Yes, sir,” Dutch said, touching his head in what could charitably be called a salute.  “I’ll see the nurses at once.”

I watched him go and then turned back to Mac.  “For God’s sake,” I said, rolling my eyes.  “Don’t do that to me again.”

Mac smiled.  “Don’t do
what
to you again?”

“You know what I mean,” I said.  “I thought that you were dead!  I thought that I had abandoned you to your fate!  I ran in the damned convoy and all I could think of was ‘
brave Sir Robin turned about, and gallantly he chickened out’
…”

“Bravely taking to his feet,” Mac put in, “he beat a very brave retreat.”

“You introduced me to that,” I said, angrily.  He had, too.  His fondness for British television had kept us both entertained while we’d been in hospital.  “I thought I’d left you behind.”

“You care too much,” Mac said.  “You’d make a lousy General.”

“I had noticed,” I snapped.  “Mac…”

“Listen,” Mac said, firmly.  “I went into battle knowing the risks as much as you did, maybe more.  I knew that I could get killed back there, or if not there, somewhere else.  I knew the dangers and I went to do it anyway.  You know that as well as I do.  I took the risk of sneaking around their encampment because it had to be done; you left me, also, because you had no choice.  If you had stopped to pick me up, you would have lost the remainder of the convoy and the entire force.  As it happened, you saved them to fight again.  Honestly, Ed, you can’t carry the whole weight of the world on your shoulders.”

“I know,” I said.

“Good,” Mac said, and clapped me on the shoulder.  “Let’s go inspect the survivors, shall we?”

The interior of the warehouse was coming alive as the soldiers picked themselves off the floor and stood to attention when Mac entered.  As I might have mentioned, he was popular and had been sadly missed when he had been reported missing.  The wounded looked as if they wanted to stand up as well, but the nurses told them firmly to remain lying down.  Some of them were within their power to heal, but others would never recover without the use of a proper hospital, which we didn’t have.  Kit would be able to do something for some of them, but not for all of them.  In Iraq, we’d been able do amazing things for soldiers who hadn’t been killed outright, but now…now, we were back in the days of the First World War.  The living might envy the dead.

“We can’t stay here, of course,” Mac said, afterwards.  I nodded in agreement.  The redoubt was useful as a rendezvous, but it didn’t have half the natural defences of the FOB the Warriors had booted us out of, although with heavy casualties.  We couldn’t have held it without more weapons and supplies.  “We may have to pull all the way back to Ingalls.”

“Or Stonewall,” I said.  The prison would be easier to defend, but if we were trapped there, we were screwed.  There wouldn’t be a second escape under fire.  The Warrior rank and file might have been composed of fanatics, but the leaders would probably learn from experience.  “I don’t know how long we can hold out, Mac.”

“Depressed, Ed?”  Mac asked.  He frowned at me, genuinely concerned.  “That’s unlike you.  Are you sure you’re feeling all right?”

“We don’t know enough about the Warriors,” I said, grimly.  I didn’t want to think about what we’d have to do, but we didn’t have any choice.  Kit was going to hate me.  So was pretty much the entire population when – if – they found out about it.  “Now, however, we have someone who does.  It’s time we asked him a few questions.”

What's one to make of a politician, one who has experienced torture personally, to all appearances a decent and brave man, who can say in one breath that “People will say anything under torture,” and in the next say, “Torture doesn't work”? He's either dishonestly pandering to the crowd (Am I being redundant by saying ‘politician’ and ‘dishonestly pandering to the crowd’? I suppose I am.) or he's too dumb to realize that, if torture's that bad, and with a modicum of ability to spot-check for truth, the victim of torture will also tell the truth rather than risk more torture. One has to wonder about the fitness for high office of such a man. I mean, really? It's being neither
cleverly
dishonest nor
honestly
stupid.

-Tom Kratman

“I want it noted,” Kit said, “that I don’t want to be here.”

“Duly noted,” I said, tightly.  I didn’t want to be here either.  I didn’t like Stonewall under the best of circumstances and the Maximum Security Wing was one of the most unpleasant environments imaginable.  I wondered if Kit could sense the ghosts of those who had died – who I had had killed – here.  I could have sworn that I heard something whispering right at the limits of my perception.  My imagination always plays up when I’ve got something to do that I’m not looking forward to doing.  “I don’t think we have a choice.”

“That’s not your decision to make,” Kit snapped, more angry than I’d ever seen him before, even when someone from the Constitutional Convention proposed that homosexuality be made illegal.  “I am a Doctor, sworn to help the sick and injured, not to watch as someone is…hurt.”

“Be grateful that you don’t have to do it,” Mac said, dryly.  “I do understand your reluctance to take part, Kit, but we don’t have much choice.  We need the information locked inside our friend’s brain and he’s not going to give it to us if we wipe his bottom with silken sheets and provide him with a concubine to share his bed.”

I nodded once.  I’d had to go through a course on prisoner interrogation and, truthfully, we might achieve better results if we had had no time limit and could break him down gradually.  Making friends with him, as some terrorist interrogators had done, could lead to all kinds of interesting developments, including a new double agent.  It could – and had – also lead to the intelligence services being hoaxed by the enemy.  Stockholm Syndrome worked both ways.

But we didn’t have time to be gentle.  By my most optimistic estimate, we had less than a fortnight before the Warriors of the Lord restarted their advance towards Ingalls…and the centre of our new government.  None of that time would be wasted, but it was hardly long enough to make Ingalls utterly impregnable…and even if they couldn’t get into the town itself, they could seal us inside indefinitely.  We would either have to launch a costly offensive against them, where they would have all the advantages, or allow them to starve us out.  They might also seal us off and destroy the other Principle Towns instead.  We needed intelligence and I was past caring about how we got it.  We just had to be careful that we weren't fooled.

“Here,” I said, as we reached the final cell.  It was twice as large as the other cells, for a reason that Richard had proven surprisingly reluctant to discuss, but it was large enough for our purposes.  Our prisoner sat on a chair, his hands and legs firmly secured so that he could barely move a muscle, preventing him from committing suicide.  It might have been an extreme precaution, but some of the harder terrorists we’d taken prisoner had committed suicide, just to prevent us from learning what they knew.  The media had promptly claimed that their deaths were due to mistreatment, as if preventing them from hurting and killing hundreds of innocent victims counted as mistreatment.  “What do you make of him?”

“He’s got an incredibly small dick,” Kit said, finally.

“All terrorists do,” Mac said.  We shared a look of sly amusement.  The Iraq War would have gone the other way if the terrorists hadn’t gone out of their way to make sure that everyone knew just what a terrorist victory would have meant for Iraq.  It would have made Saddam look mildly maladjusted.  “All you have to do, Doctor, is be there if he needs sudden and urgent medical attention.”

“Sure,” Kit said, angrily.  “How can you two be so calm about it?  Are you all just mindless killing machines?”

I ignored the jibe.  Under the circumstances, Kit had every right to be annoyed with us – me.  Mac had other ideas.  “I saw their camp from the inside, Doctor,” he said.  “I saw what they do with their captives, including people we have sworn to protect.  They won’t hesitate to kill you because of your sexuality, the same way they won’t hesitate to kill Rose or Deborah for being women who know how to fight, and we have to do what we can to protect you.  That…fucker in there isn’t an innocent victim, or someone brainwashed into following the Prophet, but one of their leaders, one of the people who are trying to spread the nightmare everywhere they can reach.  He is as guilty as they come and we do not have time to be gentle.”

“Yes,” I said.  “I’m sorry, Doctor.”

“Excuse me then,” Kit said, “if I don’t watch.  I’ll wait outside until you call me.”

I didn’t blame him.  The thought of interrogating a prisoner rigorously – torture, in other words, if you don’t believe in mincing words – isn’t one that everyone can stand.  It’s not easy to construct a moral case for administering pain to a fellow human being, even with so much at stake.  There are too many questions that need to be answered, starting with the simplest of all.  Did we have the genuine criminal, or did we have someone we’d picked up by mistake, innocent of any crime?  The only reason, or so I told myself, that I was accepting the need for torture was because I knew we had a real member of the enemy leadership.  There was no risk of making an innocent man suffer.