The Major Incident
Chapter 10
Saturday 7.00am (4th day in).
Hutch had had a difficult 24 hours. After his rude awakening from the dream he had had, he had hot footed it to the Metro. Unsurprised at seeing Dobey in his office at such an early hour, the blond detective pushed the door closed behind him and flopped down into the chair, suddenly feeling a wave of tiredness wash over him.
The dark skinned man looked over to him, concern showing in his big brown eyes. 'What's up with you, Hutchinson. You look like you haven't slept in weeks'.
'Feel that way too Cap. I don't know if I'm coming down with something. I can't get warm, I feel shivery an' thirsty, and………' he stopped himself short of telling Dobey about his dream. Surely it was just a dream, his mind coming to terms with the fact that his partner wasn't there.
Dobey put down his pen and set the papers he was reading down on the desk. 'You're worried about Starsky?'
'I can't help it Cap. Every time I close my eyes, I see him, like he's trying to tell me something, but I don't know what. Guess I'm just being paranoid. That General Sharpe really creeped me out'. The blond ran his hands over his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. 'Starsk was supposed to phone me, but he hasn't been in touch. It's not like him'.
'I know how you feel' replied Dobey, surprisingly. 'I had a weird dream last night too, and Edith said I was tossing and turning all night. What do you want to do about it?'
Hutch looked up. 'You think there's something wrong too? I thought you'd just tell me to shut up and get myself together'.
The senior officer smiled. 'With any other pair of detectives, I would. But you two are different. I'll go with whatever you want to do'.
Hutch was up and pacing the room. 'I haven't had any travel documents yet, but I do know where the camp is. Starsky pointed it out to me on a map. Said Sharpe had said its location was secret, but that he wasn't going to keep that kind of secret from me. Can you pull any strings to get me up there early?'
Dobey was already reaching for the phone. 'Leave it with me son. Whatever happens you'll be on some kind of plane as soon as possible'.
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And so now, Saturday, Hutch was on the 7.00am from LAX to Guatemala City. He sat back in his seat and went over the rest of the events of yesterday. His unease had got worse as the day progressed and Dobey was unable to get any sense from the Army authorities regarding General Sharpe. The most he had found out was that Sharpe was still on the army payroll, but had been on paid sick leave for some time, and that he was out of the country. No, the army said they knew nothing of a camp in Guatemala, or the fact that a Major Starsky's service had been reactivated (but they might say that to a civilian, if the matter was top secret). The only thing that Sharpe had told them that was true and verifiable was that Starsky had indeed been a Major, and that he had run four secret missions in Vietnam.
Dobey had slammed down the phone and immediately asked Minnie to get a plane ticket booked for Hutch, and to arrange a hire car at the airport. He wasn't happy that Hutch wanted to go alone, but as Hutch reasonably pointed out, if this was just a big stupid mistake, why take more men off the street. Eventually, they had agreed that Hutch should be at the camp by mid afternoon Satyrday. Allowing for travel times, and a chance to find out what was going down (if anything), Hutch should ring Dobey by 7.00am Sunday morning. If he had sent no word, Dobey would send in the troops, so to speak.
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It had been a long, dark and intensely painful night for the object of Hutch's fears. On the Friday evening, as Sharpe told him they would be continuing to 'Chapter 4', the soldier carrying the black belt approached Starsky, and secured it round his waist. Starsky started to sweat, knowing what was coming next.
Sharpe looked on in a bored manner. 'Do you remember this Major? This is a REACT belt. The Remote Electronically Activated Control Technology belt. You remember how it works, don't you? It will apply 50 kV to the muscles in the area of your kidneys, pulsed over 8 seconds. It is a product of a company in Cleveland, Ohio. You advocated its use for 'prisoners displaying particular recalcitrance'. I've adapted it a little, of course and added a few refinement. I can vary the intensity and duration of the current now, and its on a timer'.
'You mother fucking bastards. I'm gonna kill the lot of ya, d'ya hear?' Starsky spat the expletives at the two soldiers, struggling with them as much as he could.
He was manhandled over to the chair and forced down into it, the struggle taking most of the remnants of his energy. His arms and legs were secured to the arms and legs of the chair with rope, and a wide stiff leather collar was fastened tightly round his neck, forcing him to sit upright and look straight ahead. One of the soldiers came forward with a set of electrical leads. He attached one end of the leads to the power pack of the belt. The other ends of the leads were finished by small wicked looking aligator clips. The soldier knelt in front of the bound man and quickly and painfully clipped the four clips to Starsky's scrotum, the jagged teeth drawing blood.
Forced by the collar to stare straight ahead, Starsky faced a blank white wall, which suddenly sprang to life with a moving cine film. It showed a jungle, which the weary man immediately recognised as being somewhere in Vietnam. It showed pictures of his two team mates from his last mission there. They were smiling and waving, relaxed and jovial. The picture suddenly changed to one of two broken bodies, blood flowing from their faces and chests, and there, interjected into the gory sequence, a subliminal vision of a blond man, laughing.
Starsky looked at the picture. Hutch, Oh God, Hutch, I need you buddy. As a wave of searing pain shot through his back and genitals. He threw his head as far back as the leather collar would allow and screamed, his whole body spasming and his muscles straining to their limits. Eight seconds, that seemed like eight thousand years later, the pain stoped and Starsky groaned, the pitiful sound coming from deep in his chest. His eyes fluttered open, but there was no one in sight, just the constant cine file, silently mocking him.
Throughout the next ten hours of the night, the pattern did not change. Periods of painfree viewing, showing happy laughing individuals, birds, animals, then pictures of carnage; broken, bloody bodies, severed arms and legs, and always that image of the blond man laughing. The last always accompanied by the deep searing pain, which left Starsky jangling in his chair, muscles cramping involuntarily as sweat flowed down his face and torso. His voice had long ago gone, screamed away, to be replaced by a hoarse whimper, and his spasms becoing all the weaker as the long night drew to a close.
As time wore on, he came to hate that blond image. Hutch. That was his name. He was laughing at Starsky's pain. He was laughing at the bodies of his friends. He was the cause of the pain. As the next set of pictures came round, and Starsky braced himself for the pain he shouted out in anger 'Fuck you Hutchinson', what was left of his voice raw with emotion, before his lungs gave out, his body rebelled against the constant stimulation, and darkness claimed him, blessedly.
And in the next room, watching through a two way mirror, Sharpe clasped his hands in glee.
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The soldiers who came to collect the sweat soaked body from the small room were impressed. 'He's one tough son of a bitch' said one, admiringly. 'He's been in here ten hours now. I've seen 'em crack after three'.
'Hm', agreed his friend. But look at him, he's one hell of a mess'.
The soldiers looked down at the body they carried between them. The face was lined in pain, even though he was unconscious and the body still twitched occasionally as over stimulated muscle groups fired automatically. Sweat soaked the body which was now a mass of black and purple bruises, back and front. Blood flowed from between the detectives legs, where the aligator clips had been removed, and where the electric plates of the belt had come into contact with Starky's back, there were oval shaped, angry red burns.
The soldiers carried him into an adjoining room and laid him on a medical examination couch. They left as Sharpe entered the room. He walked over to the broken body on the bed and gently stroked the mahogany coloured curls from the wet forehead. Starsky moaned at the touch, 'Hutch?' he whispered, and after a moment, indigo blue eyes fluttered open. He looked up at the General, who smiled down at him.
'It's OK, son, it's over for the moment. Just rest and sleep. Here, drink', he said holding a cup to Starsky's dry and cracked lips.
The detective sipped the water, allowing the coolness to sooth his raw throat, before looking up at the face above him, gratitude shining in his eyes. 'Thank you Sir', he whispered, before his eyes closed and he fell into an exhausted sleep.
Sharpe exited the room and gave cursory orders to the two soldiers waiting there. 'We're doing well. He'll be following all my orders without question by the time Hutchinson gets here. Give him till 9.00am, that's two hours, then wake him and put him back in stress. You can leave him there till he falls down'.
And with that, he swaggered down the corridor to his comfortable offcie, hot coffee and bagel.