Tadaaa! Update!
Thank you all for waiting so long! I had rather too much fun writing this, although I'm sure poor Virgil didn't enjoy it one little bit.
Warning ahead: Without wanting to spoil too much, there are some semi-graphical descriptions of torture in this chapter. I didn't want to go too into detail in case this put people off. If you're okay with the level here and don't mid something more graphic than I'm very much able to write it – just let me know in a review ^_^ On the other hand if you really don't like it or think that I wrote it badly please also let me know. It can be a vote of sorts.
So, without further ado, and no more gilding the lily - the latest chapter:
"Do you believe in anything?" Virgil asked hopelessly.
There was a long pause before he finally heard his companion's quiet answer. "I never used to. But now I believe in Hell."
MWMWMWMMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMW
Scott sat in the comfortable armchair, watching the television screen with haunted eyes.
There were tear-tracks on his face that he hadn't bothered to wipe away, and they had dried to leave itchy salted trails behind.
"…The UN is sticking by its decision, despite growing pressure from both the public and the international community." The Sky news reporter had suitably schooled her features into a concerned-yet-serious expression, but her eyes betrayed the utter glee of such a riveting headline. Needless to say, the wolves of the media circuit would be slaked in the bloodlust for months with this story.
Fed up with the repeat footage the young man flicked channels.
"..And once again we must ask ourselves if this is truly the best course of action if even International Rescue can not reach out to help these people…"
And again, onto a CNN channel which was playing a dubbed version of the ransom video.
"…Whilst the UN discusses negotiations there are rumours that the Pentagon are hiring experts in data encryption to try and identify the IR operative in this video. It is hopeful that his family will come forward so as to receive the counselling and care they will need in this trying time…"
"BULLSHIT!" Scott didn't realise that he had thrown the remote until it hit the wall with a loud crack and the back fell open. The absolute gall of those people! All that "Come forward to receive care and counselling" crap! It was just a blatant attempt to find the identity of a Thunderbird. They didn't care about Virgil as a person, didn't care what he or his family were going through; all that mattered to the media circus was finding the scoop of a lifetime:
Naming an International Rescue operative.
The tiny silver lining was that there was very little chance of anyone successfully retrieving a good quality image from the video to run through facial recognition software. Brains had already tried and had confirmed that if he couldn't do it, no one could.
"Don't take it out on the remote, Scott."
The young man looked up to see his father standing in the doorway. Jeff seemed to have aged thirty years since he'd seen the first transmission, the lines of care on his face deepened with worry.
"This publicity may be a blessing in disguise." He said quietly.
Scott glared at the television. "I don't care. They shouldn't be allowed to use this as an excuse to dig for more information on International Rescue!"
For that's what the main international response had been.
John had been hounded by calls from the press demanding statements on the matter and what the Thunderbirds' official position was. In the same vein, civilians had been calling to ask for information that they believed the media was withholding from them. It had reached the stage where John had been forced to issue an emergency broadcast that he was closing the main channels of communication due to the nuisance calls.
"…And conspiracy theorists have exposed that it is indeed the same mountain range – Tora Bora – that was the centre of the hunt for Bin-Laden in December 2001..." The news reader was still prattling on, an expression of fake concern across her face. "…Which has led to questions being asked about the morals of International Rescue when faced with this crisis. Indeed people are already asking if it is possible that the Thunderbirds will be coerced into working with the Taliban in an effort to retrieve their comrade-"
Jeff hit the power button before Scott imploded with rage and the TV screen went dead.
"How dare they!"
"Scott…"
"They just accused us of siding with terrorists Dad!"
"I know, Scott. There's not exactly anything we can do about it."
The young man took a deep breath and nodded, obviously trying very hard to keep a handle on his temper. He slumped back in the chair, running a hand across his face.
"Sixteen hours…Has John come up with anything?"
"Not yet. Virgil's GPS was completely destroyed – as we'd guessed – so there's no real way to track his where-abouts." Jeff rested his hand on his son's shoulder. "At least, not this instant, but believe me, John is working himself to death to find a way."
Scott nodded again, although it didn't really seem that he'd actually heard the quiet reassurance. What family was prepared for this, after all? As International Rescue they had mentally readied themselves – insofar as that was possible – for one of their members to be killed in the line of action, but this was something unprecedented. Fire, flood, storm, mudslide, asteroid; they had thought they'd covered everything. Even hostage situations had been postulated. But no-one had ever thought about a hostage situation involving terrorists.
"How are Alan and Gordon?" The young man asked quietly.
"They'll be alright. Brains removed the shrapnel but it will be a day or so before Alan's back on his feet. Gordon's in better shape, but his broken arm will take its time to mend." Jeff glanced down at his eldest son. "How's your leg feeling?"
Scott shrugged listlessly. "Fine."
"Did Brains get the bullet out?"
"Yes. It hadn't hit anything major."
"Scot…"
"Dad, please. Right now there is only one thing I care about and that is getting Virgil the hell out of that nightmare!" Scott ground the heels of his hands into his eyes with a groan. "I just want to get back out there and-"
"You know you can't." Jeff sat down on the arm of the chair, his shoulders slumped forwards. It was harrowing how much this was affecting him; even his military bearing had been eroded down. "The Tora Bora mountain range was extensively searched – not to mention blown apart – back in '01. If the US couldn't find Bin-Laden's hide-out, we're unlikely to come across it."
Scott snorted, still with his head in his hands. "You saw the video – they're some little fraction group, not even affiliated with the Taliban. Why won't the UN or NATO or someone help?"
And that was the big problem. International Rescue was, well, just that; International. Maybe if they'd been allied to a particular nation there would have been less of a problem – even if they had declared themselves autonomous and therefore part of the UN it would have helped. But the Thunderbirds were private, secret, alone. No-one wanted to stick their neck out for the altruistic saviours.
And then there was the simple fact that the demands were completely unfeasible. The release of all jailed terrorists, removal of all foreign troops from Afghanistan, it was something that could and would never be done. Such demands had been made for years – for soldiers, aid workers, journalists, tourists, any unfortunate who were unlucky enough to be captured – and obviously none had ever been met. If the world wouldn't pay out for a full company of soldiers, they were hardly going to meet the demands for a single man.
Sometimes hostages just faded out of knowledge – assumed dead because there was no proof of life. Occasionally, oh so very occasionally, the hostage-takers gave up and let the person go, sometimes in exchange for money or arms. And then there were the kidnappers who made threats and carried them out, on video, show-boated to the world.
'He. Will. Burn!'
It wasn't hard to guess what Virgil would be facing in four months' time.
"How long did you say you'd been here?" Virgil asked. His voice was quiet, but in the sucking darkness hearing compensated for loss of sight and the question seemed unusually loud.
Robbie sighed. "Nearly two years. My unit was captured while out on patrol. Car bomb took out our truck."
"What happened to the rest of them?"
"Dead."
"From the bomb?"
"Two from that, the others died here."
Virgil leant back against the rough wall, trying to bite down the feeling of panic. His head was still throbbing, although the heavy nausea caused by the concussion was slowly ebbing away. Had the situation been any different he would have been worried about the effects of the repeated head injuries, but in his current state there were more important things to be worrying about.
Surely his family were looking for him?
He knew that that was a silly question. Of course they were looking. They were probably tearing the surrounding countryside apart with their bare hands trying to find him. His hand strayed to the hem of his jacket, fingers having to do the work for both touch and sight in the darkness as he located the GPS tracking dot sewn into the lining. It felt undamaged, but he knew that it would have been knocked out by the concussion grenade.
Useless.
No matter, his family would still be able to find him. They had to be able to find him.
"I don't want to die here…" He hadn't meant to say it out loud, and the words sounded pitiful to his ears.
"It may not come to that. Are you politically valuable? Will anyone kick up enough fuss to the government to try a trade?"
Politically valuable? He was priceless under the right circumstances. "My family will be doing all they can, and my Father has a lot of influence with the senate." It was true at least; Jeff moved in circles with a lot of powerful people, either due to his prestigious background with NASA, or as the head of Tracy Enterprises.
For a wonderful moment Virgil felt the wild surge of hope. His Dad had enough political clout to get backing from numerous American senators in trying to arrange a trade or rescue.
Rescue.
The simple word put out the flame of hope so suddenly that it was almost like a physical blow.
Jeff was powerless because it wasn't Virgil Tracy who had been taken hostage; it was an International Rescue operative. The Tracy family could act as nothing more than concerned bystanders.
Virgil slumped back against the wall with a groan of despair. "No. Scrap that. No one's coming for me." He wasn't used to feeling as helpless as he did now, and consequently didn't know how to cope with the overwhelming sensations of panic.
Robbie shifted in the darkness and the American vaguely wondered what his new companion looked like.
"So, what are they ransoming you for?"
It also occurred to Virgil that the soldier had been without friendly contact for nearly two years – he was obviously going to want to talk.
"I don't know." He sighed. "I can't speak Dari. Or Punjabi, or Urdu."
"Do you speak anything useful?"
"Hindi and Guajarati? I don't know how much use they'll be."
"I think a couple of the thugs around here speak Hindi, but Dari's the main one in these parts."
Virgil snorted. "Right now I'm finding English hard enough to remember." He said drily. The statement was truer than he'd have liked; despite slowly recovering from the initial concussion his head was still ringing. "I don't suppose they've given us any water have they?"
"Sure, we're more useful alive at the moment." There was a clank of metal on stone as Robbie tried to find the water in the darkness. "It's filthy though."
"Right now I don't care." He found that he really didn't. The brackish water had the sharp taste of tin – probably coming from the pewter tankard it was in, but Virgil gulped down a couple of mouthfuls anyway. Logic said that he would probably regret it later, but in all honesty an upset stomach was going to be the least of his worries.
"So. Where are you from?" Robbie's voice wasn't really helping Virgil's headache, but he could understand the other man's need for friendly human contact after so long.
"The States, West coast." It seemed a whole world away right now. "What about you?"
"Yorkshire. That's northern England."
"I know the place. There's a cathedral there isn't there?"
"A minster, but close enough."
Minster, cathedral. Was this really the time and place to debate the finer points of architecture? Virgil supposed that at least it gave the semblance of normality. He'd actually been to Yorkshire and seen the minster in question – there'd been a fire down one of the mines in the region and the Thunderbirds had been called out to rescue the two dozen or so miners trapped underground. Afterwards they'd stayed for a few extra hours – Penny had a country manor near there – and had had a quick look around the city of York.
A fairly small place now that Virgil came to think about it.
They talked quietly for some time; there was no way of knowing how long. The conversation was light as the two men discussed themselves and their families, each trying to gauge if the other would be of any use in trying to find a way out of the nightmare. It appeared that whilst they came from wildly different backgrounds financially speaking, they were actually very much alike.
Like Virgil, Robbie had studied engineering at university and had a keen mind for the mechanical. Upon joining the army he had been assigned to the bomb-squad and had completed two full tours disarming road-side and hidden explosives. He'd been in the middle of a third tour when a car-bomb was remote detonated as his team had approached it in their truck. The survivors had been taken hostage.
Robbie's blasé description of the attack and his summary of the following two years as a captive – five months of which had been in complete isolation – chilled Virgil to the bone. As an International Rescue operative he'd been trained and exposed to an extraordinary amount of extreme situations, and even so couldn't imagine being quite so calm and collected as his companion.
Conversation turned to the outside world – the young soldier was desperate for any news Virgil could give him on the progression of the war, and of any large developments in the political or economic climate. There wasn't too much to tell, but the normalcy of their discussion was in sharp contrast to their setting.
At least an hour had passed before Robbie suddenly shushed the Tracy with alarm.
"They're coming."
A spasm of dread shot through Virgil's body. He hadn't realised just how afraid he already was of the faceless protagonists who had locked him up down here. There was the heavy thud of boots outside and the young man shrank back against the wall, biting back his fear so that he could at least present a brave face.
There was a grating noise of a key in the lock before the door was pushed open, scraping over the rough floor. The torches the men carried were not very bright, but after the pitch black of the cell they were almost blinding and both men had to shield their eyes against the painful light.
The group framed in the door-way were as heavily armed as they were when they'd shot the hostage video, and still wore the face-covering masks so that only their eyes were visible. Pointing at Virgil, one barked out a statement that caused the young man to shake his head incomprehensively. He couldn't even guess the language, let alone the meaning.
One strode forwards and thumped the butt of his gun into the side of Virgil's head, stunning him. He heard Robbie exclaim in anger, swiftly followed by a thump as someone silenced the soldier. As stars burst across Virgil's vision he was hauled up to his feet. Dizziness caused him to be unsteady on his feet, so he was not well equipped to fight back against the people who pulled him out of the cell and back into the rough-cut corridor. He managed to catch one on the chin with a swift punch before his arms were dragged behind him and wrenched up his back until the threat of his wrists breaking was enough to subdue him.
Virgil was dragged through a length of tunnel, lit only by the torches carried by the small group of men. The journey was brought to an abrupt end as the young man was thrown into a chamber at the end of the passageway.
It was dimly lit by fluorescent strip lighting across the ceiling, illuminating the rocky floor and bare walls. With his hands still free Virgil was able to cushion his fall and quickly scrambled back to his feet, backing into the rough stone wall as he spun to face the group.
One of them laughed, before saying something that again Virgil couldn't for the life of him comprehend.
"I don't understand you!"
The man's laughter died and he scowled at the American's declaration. Striding forwards he rammed the butt of his rifle into Virgil's stomach, driving the Tracy to his knees. The same angry statement was barked out and again meant just as little.
"I don't speak your language!" The use of English only resulted in another sharp blow, this time to his shoulder before the barrel of the gun was rammed up against his elbow, pinning it to the wall. The man gestured at the weapon, making it very clear that he was going to fire it if Virgil didn't begin to cooperate. Years of fire-arms training told the American that the shot wouldn't kill him, but would blow his arm to smithereens.
Terror hot-wired every cell in Virgil's brain, trying to find a way out of the situation. He couldn't speak whatever they were yelling at him, and they either couldn't or wouldn't speak English. That didn't leave many options. In desperation Robbie's advice came to mind and Virgil gambled on the only other language he knew that could possibly be of any help.
"I don't understand you!"
Hindi.
The pressure of the gun barrel eased slightly, although it was still a very real threat.
"I don't understand you." Virgil repeated, pulse thudding as the man's eyes narrowed at him.
"How about now?" He asked, switching to the same language.
"Yes."
"Good. Means you can now scream in a language we can understand. Not that filthy English." The man nodded his head at the others – who presumably weren't up to speed on Hindi. "You two, grab him."
Virgil had just enough time to wonder at that before the rifle's barrel was swung like a club into his stomach, driving him to his knees. The men seized him by his arms and dragged him across the chamber to where a small chair was stood.
Much to his horror the Tracy saw half a dozen pails of water alongside it and realisation dawned.
"No!" He began to struggle wildly, despite the pain flaring up from his injured back muscles. The men pushed him down onto the chair, tying his arms behind his back and securing his ankles to the legs.
Panic was making it hard to think, but he was well aware that it was also the worst thing he could do in the situation. His mind knew what was about to happen and was already trying to tell him how to survive it and not let it work.
Easier said than done.
A hessian bag was pulled over his head, plunging him into darkness despite how hard he struggled against the bonds. Instinctively he tried to slow his breathing to make the most of the limited oxygen inside the heavy sack, but panic was contradicting logic.
Why were they doing this? It wasn't even like they were interrogating him!
The question was answered in the form of a familiar electronic beeping somewhere a few feet away; an old-fashioned camcorder.
They're filming this!
Added incentive to the death-threat already hanging over Virgil's head, it was another piece of publicity for the terrorists. Look at what we can do to the famous International Rescue, look at what we can subject them to.
As the water began to pour over his face and his brain began to scream that they were actually going to drown him only one thought could remain in Virgil's mind:
Please don't let my family see this.
The gentle hum of the medical instruments changed slightly in tune, the heart monitor picking up its pace and disturbing Gordon out of his depressive daydreams.
He was sat in bed in the medical bay, arm in a sling and scowl on his face. Alan was lying in the next bed along, heavily bandaged and hooked up to various machines that were now proclaiming that he was slowly waking up. Gordon almost wished that the younger Tracy could stay unconscious for a little longer, just to preserve his ignorance of the current horrific situation. Just to be spared the blind panic that the rest of the family was going through.
However, such wishes weren't possible, and Alan began to stir, his eyes flickering.
"Hey there." Gordon left his own bed – knowing that he'd be very much told off for doing so – and sat down on the edge of Alan's mattress. His brother's sluggish gaze slowly met his own and a tired smile crossed the blonde's face.
"Hey Gordo.." The youngest Tracy swallowed, a grimace crossing his expression. "Head hurts…"
"Do you remember what happened?" Gordon asked quietly. He watched in concern as his brother frowned in concentration.
"Afghanistan..?"
"Well done." That was a relief at least – amnesia on top of everything else would have just been too much. "You were hurt on the rescue; we were attacked and you were shot."
Alarm crossed Alan's face. "Shot?" He blinked rapidly, as if trying to process this. "In the head?"
"Well, I think it was technically shrapnel. But it didn't actually pierce your skull, just took a large chunk out of the back of your head." Gordon felt a little more relief at the wan smile Alan gave him.
"Is that meant to make me feel better?" He asked hoarsely.
"It was meant to."
The younger blonde nodded slightly, closing his eyes again. "I assume I'm already on the maximum amount of painkillers?"
Gordon had to smile at how articulate the injured man was. "I'm afraid so."
"Damn." Alan's tired gaze focussed on the red-head again and moved over the sling on Gordon's arm. "Were you badly hurt?"
"Broken arm and a bit of shrapnel. My main issue was dehydration after I flew Two back."
The younger Tracy nodded again, obviously reassured by this. "Good." He leant back into the pillows, pain crossing his face again. Then confusion coloured his expression. "Why did you fly Two? Where was Virgil?"
Gordon's mind raced.
What to do? Stall? Lie? Tell him…?
His emotions must have shown across his face because Alan tried to sit up, suddenly alarmed.
"What's happened to Virgil!"
It was cold. And wet.
He was shivering, although he was pretty sure that that was not solely due to the low temperature.
Suspended by his arms between two armed men, Virgil was dragged back through the maze of tunnels that led to where-ever he was being kept. Awareness had become a casual acquaintance, but the memory of what had happened circled around his head like a vulture.
He was scared and in pain, but above all he was ashamed.
Logic said that he had nothing to be ashamed of; he'd stood his ground far longer than most men could boast. But there was something – maybe growing up with five boisterous brothers, maybe being a member of International Rescue – that made him thoroughly ashamed that he had shown any weakness to these men. Or maybe it was just the shear mortification that not only had he been tortured and humiliated, but that the whole thing had been filmed and was even now probably showing on all major news channels.
His family would be heart-broken to see it and if anything else, he didn't want them to know just how much of a nightmare he was in.
There was the rasping scrape of metal on rough stone which jarred him out of his semi-conscious state and made him slightly more aware of his surroundings. The door was the same – and now regrettably familiar – one from when he was first locked up and he could only surmise that he was being thrown back into the same cell.
"Wait until the world sees you now, International Rescue." One of the men spat as he was thrown bodily into the fetid darkness. "That film will be all over the internet."
Virgil landed face down on the rocky floor, but rolled over in time to see the door grind close behind him, the men's laughter cut-off as the heavy metal locked in place. For the briefest of moments all that he could really feel was fury, then the pain took over again.
God what didn't hurt?
At least two ribs were fractured, of that he was certain. Bruises over laid the wounds from the rescue, although – and here dry humour began to act as a mental safeguard – at least the water-boarding had ensured that any open wounds were clean. The thought made him want to laugh.
Or cry – it was hard to tell which.
And then Robbie's accusing voice out of the darkness brought a whole new terror to the situation:
"You're a member of International Rescue?"
Until next time dear readers. And please, please drop me a review to let me know if I've managed to pull this off. There are so many emotions running around every characters head that I really don't know if I've successfully portrayed what's happening.
Also, if there's any one who's not really been in the lime-light enough, also let me know and I'll see if I can stick them in :D
And if you're too lazy to write a review (I know that I all too often can be) it needn't be an essay, even a quick 'it woz gud' will be fine for me. Or 'it wox crp.' Either way :D
