The Major Incident

Chapter 9 – More darkness to follow

Thursday (2 days in)

Starsky couldn't feel his fingers any more. The aching down his arms and the sides of his chest had intensified into a burning agonising blaze – fire coursing through his body. It was echoed by a similar pain in the small of his back. He had no idea how long he had been made to stand in the stress position. He tried to think back to the book – he was sure it advocated no more than four hours at a time. Jeez, has it only been four hours. It feels more like four weeks. Just keep goin' Ya can do this. But then a darker thought. But this is only the beginning.

He was aware that there were still people in the room with him. He had tried to move once, but was stopped by a hard object (felt like a baseball bat) being pushed into the muscles of his back. Again, no words, just the painful action, then nothing more.

He was aware that his mind was drifting. There was nothing to fix on, no point to anchor him to reality as the blindfold was still in place. In the past, if he'd been in pain, he'd stared at a point on the wall, or a picture, or anything, to focus his mind away from what his body was telling him. That wasn't possible in this sense deprived horror and only the face of the blond kept him from caving in.

Suddenly the hard object was back, this time twisting into his stomach muscles, pulling him away from the wall. Although his arms were exhausted, the muscles rebelled and he was unable to lower them all the way to his sides. His fingers didn't exist any more, and he was more tired than he'd ever been I his life.

He flinched as the blindfold was yanked from his eyes, and he screwed them up, then opened them to try to focus. His first view was of General Sharpe, standing in front of him, smiling.

'What an accomplishment! We managed chapters 2 and 3 there, Major, all in one go. Did you remember what you'd written, because if so, you'll be able to follow the next few days so much the better. Oh, I have added one or two modifications here and there, but we can 'discuss' those as we go along, can't we?'

Starsky had managed to get his arms down to his sides now, although there were still knife edged pains flashing down his sides and back. He stood unaided but swaying. He felt disorientated, like he didn't belong in this world. It was strange, but although he knew he hated this man, he was pitifully thankful that finally someone was talking to him – recognising he was there.

Wearily, he pushed his chin from his chest to look Sharpe in the eyes. 'What exactly is this all about. What the hell's going on here?' His voice was thick, the words sticking in his throat. He was dry as a bone and suddenly realised he hadn't had anything to eat or drink since the food on the plane on the way to the camp. How long was that? A day, a week, last year? Starsky's mind refused to function on any level other than the here and now. He didn't even register that he was still bone cold, or that he was still wet from the last pail of water.

'I would have thought you would have guessed by now, Major. You upset my life plans completely. Now it's my turn to ruin yours'. Sharpe nodded his head to the soldier standing behind Starsky, who came forward and calmly beat the weary detective into unconsciousness.

Friday (3 days in).

Hutch's dream shook him awake. He was still cold, even though he's turned off the air conditioning during the night and pulled an extra blanket over his bed.

He'd read his books until about 2.00am, then forced himself to close them, turn out the light and try to sleep. His dreams had been vivid, and all had been of either his partner, or the two of them together. The dreams had them doing nothing extraordinary, just cruising the streets, eating burritos, standing on the beach looking at the ocean. He was enjoying the last dream of the sea. He sat side by side with Starsky, feeling the grains of sand beneath his bare feet, watching wave after wave run lazily up the beach, before halting, reversing and loosing themselves in the sand. It was peaceful and warm………and then he could swear he heard a blood curdling scream. He'd looked towards his partner, who was on his feet, white and shaking, pointing at ………..and then he'd woken.

Sitting up, Hutch forced his legs over the side of the bed, and sat panting. Come on, idiot. What's this all about? He's been undercover before and there haven't been all these histrionics. For Gods sake pull yourself together. He'll ring today, and everything will be fine.

Hutch scrubbed at his face with his hands and looked at his watch. 8.30am. Well, I've had some sleep. He pushed himself out of bed, feeling dizzy and disorientated, and thirsty. Turning the tap in the bathroom, he cupped his hand under the cold water and drank.

He still couldn't get past the unease he felt. It was more intense than he'd ever felt before. Hutch had learned over the years to listen to his instincts, and now they were literally shouting at him to do something.

OK Gordo, I'll run with this. Something isn't right and I need to find out what it is. Getting dressed. Hutch ignored breakfast, got into his car, and set off for the Metro.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Friday 17.00

Starsky awoke in a small cell. Still naked, he was in a heap on the floor, exactly where the two soldiers had dumped him however long before. He took a moment to try to remember where he was and why he was here. Army. I'm in the army? Did I do something wrong? God I hurt. What time is it? How long have I been here? He couldn't remember anything other than the fact that he was so thankful he didn't have to stand against that shit awful wall any more.

The door opened, and Sharpe walked into the cell. He stood staring down at the heap of humanity on the ground for a moment. Starsky looked at the boots, not having enough will to raise his head further.

'It's against regulations to remain seated when a senior officer enters a room, Major' Sharpe began.

The dark haired man levered himself unsteadily to his feet and stood swaying, somehow not wanting to disappoint the tall man. All his muscles now protested every movement, and as Starsky looked down he realised that most of his chest and abdomen were now blue and purple, the bruises showing lividly against his otherwise tanned skin.

'That's still not quite right is it? Where are you manners?' His tone changed, as he barked 'Stand to attention when I speak to you'.

Uncertainly, Starsky drew himself up straight, placing his feet together, arms by his sides.

'That's much better. Now, stand at ease'. And once again, his captive complied. Feet, a regulation eighteen inches apart, hands behind the back and cupped in the small of his back. Starsky stared fixedly straight ahead.

Is this right?. Am I doin' it right? Should I be doing this? A flash of a blond head and a smile, and in his imagination he heard that oh so familiar voice 'You OK Gordo?'

Sharpe was continuing. 'You may have a drink Major. You must be thirsty by now'. A soldier entered and handed a cup of water to Starsky, who took it uncertainly, then downed the contents in one. The feel of the cool sweet water running down his throat was beautiful, and Starsky stared in thankfulness at the tall General.

'Now, I think we can progress to chapter 4, Don't you?'

Swiftly the soldier grabbed Starsky from behind, pinning his arms uselessly behind him. He saw two others bringing a large wooden chair into the room and setting it down at one end. It reminded Starsky almost of a throne, with its wooden arms, stout legs and high back.

One of the soldiers also carried a black belt which he brought over to the now trembling prisoner. Starsky eyed it disbelievingly, suddenly remembering what chapter 4 had been about.