Chapter 1
“Enter!”
Eric Summer could tell he was in trouble, and there was nothing he could do about it. Summoned in the middle of the night in his quarters, the First Sargent slammed open the door and growled like a hungry wolf deprived of food until the Warrant Officer pulled himself out of bed. He was commanded to adorn quickly in dress uniform, which Eric did, then was told that he didn’t need to present himself to their commander until later that morning. Snarling in contempt of the First Sargent’s little joke, Eric removed the hastily pulled on uniform and went to the showers to make himself more presentable.
An hour later Warrant Officer Eric Summer of the Head Hunters Sniper Division stood outside the commanders room, gulping in anticipation of what was to come. He wished he had his weapons on him, for the Warrant Officer’s heart pounded in his throat as if he was about to march into a cave to hunt down a fearsome bear with his bare hands. He didn’t enjoy this feeling of being scared, but could not shrug off the shroud of weight from his shoulders. It was one thing to be summoned to the commander’s office; something typical in the military, but to be summoned while dressed in dress uniform in the middle of the night always spelled disaster. He could smell the wrongness in the atmosphere outside the office door; stern, discipline of generations of tradition imprinted into the air waiting to be summoned into the bears lair, but it was different today. Glancing down to inspect his wrists, Eric couldn’t see the phantom chains attached to thick wrists; clinking sounds of heavily weighted steel pressing down on flesh, and imagined that other shackles wrapped themselves around his form. His heart pounded in the throat once again, and for once the sniper could not control it with breathing techniques.
“Nervous are we?”
Eric glanced to his right and studied the First Sargent’s mocking face. A face only the drunkest of mothers could love. He smiled before he could stop himself, remembering telling him that once before.
“And what do you find funny about this, Corporeal?”
“First Warrant Officer actually,’ He snapped back, with steel imprinted in his emerald eyes. ‘You are required to address me of my proper rank, according to military jurisdiction.”
The First Sargent snickered, picking his nose with a thumb. “Not for much longer.”
He inhaled sharply and was about to retort, when a commanding voice used to giving orders stopped him.
“You will enter!”
According to protocol, Eric was supposed to knock on the door and await permission to enter the office. His commander however, had other ideas. He glanced to the side once more and found the aging First Sargent smiling, not wanting to share the secret behind his amusement. He figured he had moments before he reached the door, so he mumbled a reply to the earlier insult, and smiled while the door closed to the fuming face of the First Sargent. “Your mother must have slept with a pig, to have birthed you.”
His self-satisfaction didn’t last for long however, once he faced his commanding officer. Eric gulped a shocking squib from forming in the throat before it escaped between his lips and pissed off the Colonel. A face of thunder clouds swarmed with the horrible scabs of past wounds greeted the Warrant Officer, spitting thunder and lightning bolts sure to skin a man should he step wrong. It was Colonel Rittuck’s eyes however that scared Eric. Deep blue like the ocean with cream colored pearls scattered across the surface stared deep into the Warrant Officer’s own eyes, feeling like he face the Judge, Jury, and Executioner. He could feel his soul being peered into and panicked, losing discipline drilled into him since boot camp eight years ago. He was deathly afraid. The commander of his division was a well-loved man: a father figure that stood tall above all others and disciplined his children with a stern hand, but well respected for his down-to-earth approach between superior officers and those below. This was not the commander though, but someone else entirely.
“You will maintain discipline in my presence, and present yourself in front of me. Do you understand, Warrant Officer?”
“Yessir!”
He still felt the chill of fear embedded in his bones, but maneuvered himself forwards to stand in front of the desk and saluted. Eric knew he could have performed the action better, but moved with enough skill and ingrained discipline to cover the minor mistakes. He did winch however, and prayed to god that the Colonel didn’t see the infractions.
“Warrant Officer Eric Summers,’ He said, allowing the advantage of his driven fear into Eric to simmer a minute longer. ‘You are summoned before your commanding officer to face trial for murder, possible treason against your country, and the discharge from the Marines.” His eyes became tempests of storms, before delivering the remaining speech to the dumbfounded Warrant Officer. “I will be your Judge, Jury, and Executioner. You will not receive a fair trial, and you will be stripped of all rank, privileges and honor. How do you plead?”
Eric had to admit, though he hated to, that he was quite shocked. All of his discipline went out the window, alongside his nerves, and he still could not reply. He began to shake violently while standing front-and-centered before his commander, and opened his mouth as if a trout outside it’s natural environment. Sweat soaked through his shirt, and Eric’s mind was ablazed in confusion. Why was this happening to him? How did it happen, and why did fate have to burden his shoulders with this punishment! He couldn’t even begin to understand the schematics of the charges set against him, and was positive that he would ever.
“Your silence will be your answer, guilty, if you do not voice your decision.” Colonel Rittuck said.
Eric continued to flounder his mouth in dumbfounded flabbergasting, causing the Colonel to declare his own decision.
“You will plead guilty in the crimes set against you.’ He said. ‘Guards, detain this man and have him brought to the MP’s building for lock up!”
He snapped out his trance and searched around doggedly for an escape, noticing several MP’s heading toward him while another leveled his M16 at his chest. He fought for several seconds until clobbered on the head with something and was handcuffed. Then he was brought out of the office to his new home for however long the trials lasted. And the phantom shackles were no longer, replaced with very real steel.
Eric Summer wanted to die. He had been behind cell bars for over a week, for a crime he was sure he did not commit. The MP’s did not believe him of course, convinced that the individual in their care was a murderer and deserved to be treated as such. All because of the Colonel’s order. He felt pride swell in his chest from the discipline and dedication of duty these men demonstrated, but soon fell victim to his own sorrows. Eric made the effort to adapt-and-overcoming this harshness, setting for himself a rigorous schedule of discipline that taxed him mentally, physically, and spiritually and often left the man gasping for breath on his cell floor. His meals consisting of watered down soup, spoiled bread and water did little to give him enough strength for the day, and his training regiment of cross training burned through the little calories remaining like brush fire. But he would not concede to the crimes against him. Instead, Eric Summer fought. Hard.
This morning Eric was performing a double, back-to-back count of one hundred burpees around 0400 hours and was soaked thoroughly. He knew he could do more, when he was a free man, but decided to space his cardio throughout the day for better results since the MP’s usually interrupted. It was also a means of keeping him busy, his mind focused and sharp, so he didn’t lounge around all day on the cot. Sure enough however, Eric was interrupted on the eightieth count of his second set.
“Stand up, turn to the wall, and extend your hands through the bar.’ A First Lieutenant hollered, hammering a baton on the bars to capture his attention. ‘Hurry it up now, we ain’t got all day!”
Eric mumbled something unintelligent, and did as he was asked.
“You said something, murderer?” The officer asked, pellets for eyes hidden behind fat eyelids.
“Yeah, I did,’ Eric snapped while pushing his hands through a slot in the bars. ‘I said you’re one ugly looking f**, I’m surprised your wife agreed to marry you, despite how much you paid!”
Something rapped on the backside of Eric’s skull, causing his vision to swim and stars to shoot around the room. He dropped on bended knees, crying out in anguish pain, and began screaming at the officer. “You ******** piece of s**t! Are you trying to addle my brains? You are violating my rights! The commander will hear of this!”
“You will behave and show proper deterrence of my rank.’ Eric’s abuser spoke with a mouth full of porridge. ‘And you have no human rights, murderer.”
“Go stick that baton up your a**, f**. I know you will enjoy squealing over that!’ Spitting out a tooth, Eric stood up and rubbed the point where his skull was hit. ‘So which of these transvestite’s a*****e did you eat from to sound like that?”
“Wh-why you!” Eric never had the chance to see what happened next, for something bounced off the bridge of his nose and made him lose consciousness.
“Who gave you authorization to fire upon this prisoner?” Someone questioned in the distance, sounding like Eric’s ears were filled with wool. “I do not recall such orders being assigned, no matter how vulgar his language becomes.” He sounded real pissed off to Eric, who was coming to from his little excitement of head trauma, and he was sure to make a note to dull his tongue whenever speaking to this man. Opening his eye’s he grimaced in silent pain, blinded by an ocean of highly florescent beams of light concentrated on him. Still, Eric wanted to know where he was now. Little by little, he opened his unfocused eyes while flexing his body to regain feeling before he had enough control to peer around. He couldn’t see much. Two pairs of expensive polished shoes stood in front of Eric with mirrored surfaces that bounced light into his face. Each belonged to two, if Eric had to guess, Marine officers in dress uniforms who conversed with no concern of the prisoner on the floor. He was unable to see their faces. Glancing around the room Eric could see the familiar shape of furniture to one side and a door leading out. He guessed he was in a small cell where prisoners spilled their secrets, for the walls were too close and the concentration of lights on him spoke volumes of his suspicions. He wished he knew what was happening.
“I believe our ‘friend,’ is awake,’ One of the officers stated. ‘Perhaps you should safeguard your tongue.”
“Stop sniveling like an old hag,’ The other officer replied, mumbling around a corn pipe. ‘About time he decided to bless our presence. I thought he would sleep forever!”
Eric sniffed in defiance and pulled himself upright. “Who the hell are you?” He asked of the Marines, exhausted of being careful. “I demand answers, who are you, and what in hell do you want?” His brain still hammered inside his skull, but Eric had more control of his limbs now. A blinding headache was beginning, the aftermath of the lieutenant’s baton to his skull. Doggedly shaking his head, Eric stood to his full height and glowered. “Well?”
“Quite lively, isn’t he?’ Corn pipe said. ‘Even restrained as he is.”
Eric jumped with the comment and confirmed the officers words. Sure enough, Eric was bound in plastic cuffs that bit deep into his skin cutting off circulation to his arms. No wonder he couldn’t move his hands and did not notice the restrains. Cursing his carelessness and how shallow his iron will was, Eric’s lips pulled back into a feral growl.
“Now, now Mr. Summer,’ The first officer chided with soothing movements of his hands. ‘Is that really necessary? We rather think it’s not. How about we settle this like civilized gentleman, yes?” He moved forwards in the blinding light, his features blending together to resemble a human face once he stopped a yard from Eric. Manicured hands reached deep inside his coat, causing Eric to jump defensively back in fear of a gun and made the man smile.
“Lieutenant Joel Brown,’ He said, introducing himself. ‘I work for J.A.G., which I’m sure you’re familiar with, yes?” He removed a silver hammered case, propped it open and selected one cigarette. “Would you care for one?” Needing no answer, Lieutenant Brown placed one of the case’s contents in Eric’s lips, igniting its end after his own. “And this fine gentleman is Major Artur Sicilis. One of C.I.A.’s best.” ‘Corn pipe’ Sicilis sneered in Eric’s face, moving forwards without his knowledge. He could smile the foul tobacco when the Major exhaled, smelling of rotten dough, eggs, and, surprisingly, rich soil. Eric averted his face from the offense on his senses and spat.
“Would you mind backing off?” He growled. “You’re boyfriends fragrance is killing me!”
His comment earned him a slap across the face bringing him to the floor once more. Growling like a bear Eric shot back up and stood toe-to-toe with his assaulter. “Bin Laden screwed little boys harder then you hit.” Once more he was fallen to the floor and this time it toke several moments for him to climb back up.
“That is enough Sicilis,’ Lieutenant Brown said, stepping in between Eric and Corn pipe. ‘We are not authorized for physical torment, if you remember. Even then, the Geneva Code forbids such tortures.” Lieutenant Brown turned to Eric smiling without emotion, boiling furnaces in his eyes betraying what he felt about him. Eric knew from that moment that this was the man he cautioned against using his sharp tongue, and realized that he mistaken Sicilis for the danger out of the pair. He spat once more, covering the concrete near Sicilis’s shoes, before he followed Brown to the tables. Sicilis jumped and harrumphed loudly, glaring in hatred to Eric. He blew him a kiss.
“You Marines are something else.”
“You have no idea.”
Sitting down on the steel folding chair, Eric finished his cigarette. On the border of the perimeter of flood lights, Eric could now see how small the room really was, and snorted. After addling his brains with a baton, the MP’s must have declared Eric a threat to their safety and decided to toss him into this small, cramped cell for their protection. Or his own apparently. It must have been 25 feet by 25 feet of concrete walls, seeming bigger since he was thrown into the corner where all the flood lights were concentrated and a sleeping Eric was unaware of his visitors. On the opposite wall of him, one-way reinforced glass reflected his image; where several people were sure to be watching, and he gasped. His handsome face was ruined, bruised in hideous colors of some mad artists imagination climbed from the neck to his temple. He winced now, adrenaline running low with the confrontation over with, and removed his fingers from the flesh. Eric had some fractured bones, he was sure.
“Would you like some beverage?’ Brown asked, pushing one manicured finger down on a buzzer. ‘we have water, coffee, pop of all choices, but no alcohol. Sorry.” Eric could see that his apology didn’t hold with any value like a cup of water without a bottom.
“Water,’ Eric mumbled while wincing. ‘Then some coffee. Black.”
Brown nodded, and a MP brought what Eric asked for. He mouthed his thanks and drained the water in one gulp, then proceeded to sip on his coffee, enjoying one lost privilege he missed most. Eric smoked cigarettes once a while, but he did not indulge in alcohol. It was something of the devil’s creation to muddle a man’s brain and cause him to act stupidly. He sipped the coffee once more, noting the almond taste. He smiled, washing down his caffeine need, and the taste of 2% milk. “I believed I said black, without cream.”
“Oh, I apologize. I will reprimand the Corporal immediately.”
He grunted in the knowledge of knowing Brown lied once again. “Well, what’s the purpose of your visit?”
Both J.A.G. and C.I.A. remained silent, observing Eric while he drank his coffee. Concentrating on his coffee cup with their entire soul, Eric became suspicious. But it was much too late. Becoming drowsy once again, Eric jumped to his feet, spilling coffee over the floor. “The hell did you do!” He collapsed on the floor, consciousness slipping from his paralyzed fingers. He had been drugged.
Chapter 2
He felt someone prodding him with a cold piece of metal. Wrenching his hands from his sides, Eric tried to brush it away and found his arms bound. He tried kicking his feet out, and found them also restrained. Opening his eyes, Eric found half a dozen flood lights blazing down into his eyes, burning them like hot needles piercing flesh. He screamed, struggling all the harder to escape until someone punched him in the face to cease the mindless yells.
“Will you quit that?” Someone sounding like Brown asked. ‘It is really setting my nerves on end.”
Eric forced his eyes open and searched around for the J.A.G., finding him to his right. He glared pure hatred for the man like a cornered dog. Once more he growled deep in his throat wanting nothing more than to rip out both man’s throats with his teeth. Eric could sense the sameness of the room he was in before, realizing that they wanted only to drug him to gain control of him. He jumped, remembering the coffee. “You bastards!” He screamed, flailing around in his chair as if a caged animal until it tipped over on its side. Eric continued screaming every curse word, vulgarity, and insult he could remember throughout his years, ignoring the blood dripping down over the right eye. He kept this up for another minute until Brown stomped his face into the concrete floor.
“I told you to shut up!” The man yelled, annunciating each word with a stomp. “You deserve no better than this, criminal. So shut up when told to, or I will end your miserable life where it lays!” Once finished, Brown brushed his fingers through his hair putting it back in place. Visibly relaxing with several deep breathes, Brown stared down at his boot in disgust, and used its toes to life Eric’s chin. “Now look at what you did! You ruined a good pair of shoes! These cost me almost a fortune to purchase, now what will I do with them?” Brown moved outside of the lights and disappeared, but was quickly replaced by a grinning Sicilis carrying a needle. Three MP’s flanked the C.I.A. and moved to stand beside Eric, stooping over to lift his chair upright. Once finished with their task, the MP’s moved to their next task of holding him down. Sicilis moved forwards and still grinned like a maniac, holding out the needle to Eric’s bicep. Eric struggled harder, mind filled with fanciful imagination of what was inside that syringe. He closed his eyes. The needle pierced inside the elbow and Eric cried out, but soon became quiet once the narcotics did their job. Now Eric stooped down in his chair, muscles relaxed and his will to resist broken by the Truth Serum.
Brown returned to the floodlights dry washing his hands, a sign of nervousness, but walked with the swagger of a rooster in a hen house. “Is everything ready, Mr. Sicilis?” He inquired, pulling free a cigarette from inside his coat. Igniting it, Brown inhaled the toxic smoke into his lungs, and exhaled with a breath of enjoyment, before removing a tin flask from a pocket. Sicilis nodded in amusement, eyes twinkling because of Brown’s actions and his own enjoyment of what was to come. Turning back to Eric Summer, he pulled out a knife and snapped it’s serrated edge open before proceeding to strip the traitor’s clothes off. In moments he was a smiling nude, head swimming in the sweet cocktail of narcotics, and mumbling away with numb lips. Sicilis frowned. He was positive that he filled the syringe with the correct dosage of truth serum, but Eric was reacting as if he was overdosed. Is this man, a proclaimed sniper feared by third world nations, this weak? He thought. Oh well, it won’t be my fault if he dies. Besides, no one will care. He glanced to Brown, who nodded. It was time to begin.
An hour later Sicilis had Eric screaming in terror, willing to confess anything to the C.I.A. operative to make it stop. He had gained some valuable information from Eric, beside his name, demographic history and other tidbits of crap that filled the mans head, and inhaled in the ecstasy of such knowledge. Sicilis had names, units, classified operation intel, worth millions on the black market. Perhaps even billions in blackmail. He snapped out of his day dream, wiping immaculately clean fingers across his lips to remove the bloodied phlegm Eric spat upon him. Grabbing an ordinary appearing instrument on the table in anger, Sicilis brought it to Eric’s throat with determination to end the bastards life. Brown grabbed hold of his wrist, stopping him.
“We need him alive, remember?”
Sicilis grunted, but continued to press the blunt instrument into the adams apple, satisfied only when Eric screamed again. Then he removed it. Returning to the table, Sicilis picked up another syringe and stepped forwards once more to stand in front of Eric and smiled. Pushing the air out, Sicilis grabbed hold of Eric’s shoulder and stabbed down the needle point into the available vein and drained the syringe. He waited for several moments for the mind altering drug to take hold, then spoke.
“What is your name?” He asked carefully.
“Er-eric summer.”
“Your rank, social security number and unit?”
“Warrant Officer, 053-67-0910, Head Hunters.”
Sicilis nodded, then removed himself from Eric to be replaced by Brown.
“Warrant Officer Summer,’ Brown drawled. ‘Do you remember you crimes?”
The Warrant Officer stared at him in confusion for several minutes; thoughts muddied by the narcotics in his system, and tried to respond. He flapped his lips like a fish on dry land attempting to breathe, but uttered no words. Brown peeled back his eyelids to check the pupils of the tormented soldier and mechanically slapped him.
“Mr. Summer, you are testing my patients.”
“I-I murdered an Isrealian General on October 22nd. 2008. “
“Good. Good,’ Brown replied, excitement dripping off his lips like honey. ‘And which operation was this?”
“Operation Brush Fire.”
“And who authorized this operation?”
“General of the Armies Pandersen.”
Brown slapped Eric across the face, snapping his head around and audibly jammed the sharpened end of a SureFire into the sternum. He growled.
“No, that is incorrect. Is it not Mr. Summer?”
Eric nodded in agreement, wanting to please his tormentors to end the pain. Salty tears burned his eyes.
“Yes, you’re correct!”
“Then who authorized this operation?”
“N-no one! I went on my own and assassinated the General!”
The J.A.G. operative stepped forwards and laid one gloved hand on Eric’s face, caressing him as if a pet dog. He smiled in spite of the horrible situation of the Marine and departed his side, nodding to the MP’s. “You can return the criminal to his cell, now that we have a confession.” Brown walked outside of the perimeter of flood lights to the one-way mirrors and knocked on it’s surface. A buzzer went off indicating the opening of the door to the outside world. Moments later, he was on the other side of the mirror with one other gentleman. He was dressed in an expensive suit that was well tailored to fit his muscular frame, but still present a professionalism ideal to his career field. Salt and pepper hair was cut short to the scalp in a High Top common to Marines, and a five 0’clock shadow was already beginning to show on the battle hardened expression of the General. At fifty five years old, General Pandersen still appeared to be ready to do his part in the trenches and show a thing or two to the younger generation. It has to be a jarhead thing. He supposed. Brown came to the window next to the General, nodded in respect and observed the activity happening inside the room he departed. Eric Summer was being doused in ice cold water to remove any lingering effects of the narcotics that made him talk, bucket after bucket being upended over his head until the fiery passion of the Marine returned. Satisfied with the results, Sicilis moved forwards and grabbed the criminal by the throat and squeezed hard causing him to be unable to breath. Choking because of the lack of oxygen, Eric opened his mouth to gasp for air. Sicilis toke advantage of the situation to shove into his mouth Methamphetamine in powder form, pinching the nose and massaging the throat to induce swallowing of the highly addictive stimulants. In time Eric swallowed enough of the illegal drug to feel the effect , though a quarter or more caked his lips or was spat out.
“We will have to edit out some parts,’ The General said, beginning the conversation. ‘especially the coercion.”
“It will be done, sir.”
“Good.”
Chapter 3
For several weeks Eric Summer was feed powdered Methamphetamine with every meal. He could not remember who he was, or what he had done to be in this predicament. All he knew was the endless craving for more of the drug in his veins, boiling to the point of being extremely painful until the MP delivered his meal. Then he scurried over on all fours to inhale. Sometimes he did not receive any of the drug because a Corporal thought he could make extra cash on the side by selling it. But all of that stopped when either Brown or Sicilis paid a visit and got to the bottom of it. He lived each day in torture, wanting to die. Several times he considered ending his life by biting down on his tongue, but the craving for more Methamphetamines was much stronger. He spent his days curled up in the corner of his cell crying or screaming, wanting to die, but wanting the ecstasy of drugs more. One day his First Sargent came to pay him a visit, but was disgusted at the sight of him and instead passed on word of summons from his commander to the MP’s. They had two days to get him prepared.
He needed a bath. Since the First Sargent’s visit, Eric received one from the end of a hose, industrial powered and painful, he was soaked in seconds. Then several MP’s held him down while two others scrubbed him down. It felt like steel tipped wool on his naked skin and made him scream in agony, but he was cleaned. This happened every day, and he needed help for every little task to maintain his hygiene. Finally the day came.
Eric Summer dressed in his dress uniform, but without proper rank insignia, and stood once again in front of the commanders door. He appeared more haggard then last time, 5 o’clock shadow hidden beneath several bruises on his face and dull, lifeless eyes sunken in their eye sockets. He had no hair since the MP’s found lice on his body and decided to shave every particle off of him, and his skin was white like pearls. The MP’s decided a bleach bath was in order to prevent future attacks of pestilence. And once again the First Sargent stood beside him, silent and observant.
“The hell happened to you, Summer?” He demanded, breaking the ice.
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