Chapter 11 Resistance is Futile
The sudden glare of light hurt Jason's eyes and made him wince for a second before he could force his face back into its regular casual look. It had been almost an hour and Jason was beginning to think the entire interrogation would be in utter darkness, that maybe they developed some new unknown technique. He was relieved the good old bright light in your face routine was still popular with the governments of the former United States of America. And they were government. Jason could smell it. From the near masochistic order and cleanliness of the place to the obeying of commands without question, they had written bureaucracy written all over them. The one thing that worried him was the efficiency of the whole operation. Quick, silent, they did what needed doing and no excuses. And that made them unlike any government agency he had ever encountered.
-/-
The strange zeppelins that had surrounded the Damocles had been the same. Silent, efficient, black. The boarding party had been equally bizarre to match. A black twin-engine passenger aircraft and two flanking sleek black Furies, all unmarked, slid across the sky like ghosts towards them. The larger plane docked with the crippled Damocles and spilling out of her came a group of a dozen men sporting strange automatic weapons. They looked a bit like chrome plated Tommy guns mixed with those bulging alien ray guns from the Amazing Stories magazines the crew was so fond of. All of the men were clad in black coveralls with black combat boots and black sunglasses. There was almost no way to distinguish one from the other. Jason had a feeling this was very much their intention. One of them, seemingly at random, detached himself from the group and spoke in a loud, commanding voice.
'Your zeppelin is hereby confiscated. We shall take command and you will be transferred to holding cells aboard the strike carriers. If you come quietly and calmly, you will not be harmed. Resistance is futile.'
Their captors, or the "Spooks" as Jason now thought of them, had brought hand cuffs shackles. They organized the entire evacuation of the Firebirds as if they had planned and practiced it beforehand. All bound and shackled, they were transported off the Damocles in groups of ten, each group guarded by two men with their weird guns. Jason and his pilots were among the first group of them to be escorted off their flying base. Upon launch, he spotted another black passenger craft trailing the zep, waiting to dock as soon as the first left.
Spying inconspicuously for a chance to seize control, Jason quickly glanced his crew mates doing the same and, one by one, coming to the same conclusion. There was no way out. For the time being, they had no other choice but to obey. Resistance had been futile indeed.
-/-
A gruff voice spoke out of the darkness.
'We know of your involvement, buddy. Might wanna tell us everything now you still have the chance to cooperate. Might look good for you too.' The voice paused, 'Mind you, you'll tell us everything when you don't cooperate as well.'
Jason could hear the smirk in that voice and he strained his ears to learn as much as possible. Slight Chicago accent, male, middle-aged, probably a smoker as well as a drinker, judging by the smell, maybe just a hint of irritation and above all, a bad bluffer. Geez, what a weak line, he thought. Let's see how he responds to the old 'You Got The Wrong Guy' tactic.
'My involvement in what?' he shrugged, 'Come on, the Firebirds are small-time. We got our butts handed to us by those weird Ruski's. We have nothing you need fussing over.'
'We'll be the judge of that. In fact, in here, we can be the judge, the jury and the… executioner.'
Jason didn't like the complete absence of humor in that last comment, but damned if he let up his bravado now. It had been a long journey coming here and he wasn't going to give up that easily.
-/-
The Spook zeppelin had flown for a long, long time. Judging by the size of the zep, the sound of its engines and his watch, Jason estimated they traveled for hundreds of miles before touching down. The only allusion their captors ever made to their destination was that they were heading towards the "Estate".
As they were marched off the strike zeppelin, they found themselves in deserted meadow land dipped with low green hills and completely clear of trees. At gunpoint they headed towards an old and neglected farmhouse. It must have been an impressive example of Mid-Western architecture once, but now it stood wasting away amidst an unruly yard with weeds growing abundant. The one or two remaining glass panes stressed the gaping holes that once were windows. Rotting curtains swayed beyond like mournful ghosts. Peeling dust-white paint revealed bare graying wood. A vine covered barn, its once red paint faded to the color of diseased blood, stood behind the farm with its roof collapsed half way. Was this the dreaded "Estate" they had been heading for all this time? Jason had seen how his crew reacted in the same way he thought. What a dump!
-/-
The splash of icy water came out of the black behind the lamp. Jason startled involuntary from the stab of cold in his face.
'TELL US ABOUT THE RUSSIANS!!' roared the voice out of nowhere. There was no mistaking the anger this time.
'What about the Russians!?' Jason sputtered, 'There we were, minding our own business all peacefully and then they just jumped us out of nowhere!'
The blow came from behind him. Something that felt like a jackhammer connected with his jaw and smacked him right over, chair and all.
'Don't get cute with me, son,' the voice continued. 'We've been trailing those damn Commies for months and they don't 'just jump' anybody. What do you know about R.A.D.A.R. systems? You'd better tell us. It's better then losing the ability to, you know, chew your food.'
'R.A.D…what? What the hell are you talking abou-'
Before he could continue, a kick in his ribs knocked the wind out of him. Pain stabbed through his chest. It felt like a rib or two might be cracked.
'I warned you', came the voice, 'I warned you twice! Now we'll teach you the price of pulling our chain.'
-/-
As they had approached the seemingly dilapidated buildings, they saw more details come into focus. The barn's big doors stood wide open, showing thick supporting beams holding the supposedly collapsed roof firmly in place. A score of black cars was parked inside. Amongst the weeds and tall grass, Jason spotted thin wires strung crisscross throughout the yard. Thin metal cylinders with a small lens set in them jutted from the roof, turning this way and that.
Camouflage, that's all it is, he thought, Tripwires, periscopes, I bet the place is a fortress inside!
Once inside, nothing but warped floorboards and the depressing smell of mildew welcomed them in. Jason was just about to think he might have been mistaken after all, when a tremor ran through the wood they were standing on. Suddenly the derelict farmhouse rose up around them as the entire floor groaned and creaked and sank away into dark shadows.
When they finally came to a shuddering halt, they were marched into an endless sterile corridor. Naked light bulbs burned behind metal frames, marking their way across the painted floor in a cold bleak light. Stark doors were set in the walls, each of them marked by stenciled words in military style. From the corners of his eyes, Jason saw them passing rooms marked with things like Operations, Communications or Medical.
Their escorts opened up a primitive cellblock for them two flights of stairs lower. Apparently, the Spooks even anticipated large groups of prisoners. The crew was split up into two groups, one male, one female. Each cell, about as big as a baseball court, held no windows, no ventilation grilles and no furniture except a hole in to ground for doing one's private business in full sight. When Patrick tried to sneak into the woman's cell for what he called "their comfort", he was quickly treated to a merciless choke hold and thrown into the men's cell. Yet Jason had been hauled off in another direction, only to be dropped off at a door marked 'Interrogation'.