Unspeakable, p.2
Unspeakable, page 2
“Such a rare and exotic animal you are,” Miles mused aloud. “Invaluable for the work.”
The fork paused. “And just what is this work, might I ask?”
A nod at the butter knife his companion picked up, presumably to sample the mango jam, and Miles asked, “I imagine you’ve heard of the Phoenix Program?”
“One of the CIA’s better ideas. Nothing like out-terrorizing the terrorists when it comes to interrogation and assassination—with a little help from our Australian and RVN friends.”
“Take ‘er up a notch. Make it ten.”
A dark eyebrow rose. “Go on.”
“Well, pardner, essentially what we’ve got here is a top secret research and teaching institution that could benefit from your particular expertise: Killing. Torture. Psyops. Political mayhem. More coffee?”
“No thanks. Please proceed.”
“You, Jerry, have singular abilities and skills that your government considers to be extremely useful—that is, if those abilities and skills can be focused and directed in a more positive way than you’ve directed them before. Let’s be frank with each other. You screwed up. You got caught. And why? Because you lacked focus. You lacked direction. You weren’t able to harness the wild horse inside and got bucked off. Big time. I can help you learn to harness that horse and realize your true potential.”
“Oh, really?” The predator leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms. “And just how would you go about doing that?”
“I am a neuroscientist and a clinical psychologist. But in your case what’s most important is that next to research, I like to teach. Only if I have a motivated student, mind you, who is driven to succeed.” Miles lingered over a sip of his own coffee, letting that sit between them before he laid down his aces. “The thing is, though, how much can anyone enjoy their success when they have to go around constantly pretending to be someone they’re not because society doesn’t appreciate what they do best, or who they really are? What I’m offering you is something you’ve probably always wanted but gave up on having a long time ago: You can do your thing and not be locked up for it forever. You won’t have to hide who you are or what you are. Far from it, my friend. You’ll be rewarded for it, handsomely, and you can live freely.”
The lithe and powerful arms that had been crossed slowly uncrossed. An elbow that could easily knock out a windpipe came to rest on the table while a deadly thumb and forefinger thoughtfully stroked a ridiculously chiseled chin.
“Seriously?”
“Seriously,” Miles confirmed.
“You know, from my experience, anything that sounds too good to be true, usually is.”
“That’s exactly what I thought when I first heard about you. Upon doing my research, I came to a very different conclusion. The CIA—or more specifically ISIC—believes you have the potential to be the ultimate model for our Future Elite Modern Warrior. As Director of the Institute, you could even say that I’ve staked my reputation on it.”
As Jerry remained silent, pretending to consider—because, really, what was there to consider when he’d just been handed the keys to the kingdom vs life in the dungeon of a locked ward—Miles could feel his senses sharpening. Expanding. His earlier 1ml micro dose of LSD was kicking in, and so was an idea that got him to wondering what might happen if he did a little sideways experimentation with this Future Elite Modern Warrior… if that elitism might be sped along with a little help from the God of Drugs.
“So…?” Miles prompted.
Jerry’s answer was a sharp salute, before he extended a palm across the table.
“Yaaa-hooo!” Miles whooped and pumped Jerry’s hand until he realized that only one of them was still doing the shaking and it wasn’t his prized recruit. “Now, how about a little tour of our school before it gets too warm? You are welcome to bring the cutlery with you, but I did salvage this if you’d rather have it instead.”
He placed Jerry’s personal combat knife between them.
“A tour sounds good.” Jerry took the knife. Handed Miles his hat. “Lead the way. Pardner.’”
CHAPTER 2
The "tour" promptly proceeded with “just call me Miles” going into all kinds of detail about the flowered landscaped gardens he said were spread throughout the ISIC facility—which the doctor clearly took great pride in as well, gushing, “It is a beautiful campus!”
As he swept a lab-coated arm to encompass the French colonial style quarters where they had done their deal on the veranda, Jerry could only think: Holy fuck! Had he actually died and gone to heaven? There had to be a catch somewhere because it was too good to be true… but then again, he did have exceptional talents and skills, and sure, like the doc said they could run a little wild sometimes, get out of control, but… what if?
“Now adjacent to this fine dining room—told ya, you’d like that omelet!—if you go a little ways down that path, we have a luxury theater and an excellent drinking club. Anything and everything you want, all top shelf. What’s your pleasure, Jerry? No, don’t tell me…Jack! Got a case of it waiting for you after our little tour. Now let’s go check out the rec area.”
From one winding cobblestone path to another they moved on until arriving at a first-rate workout room and full-on gymnasium with gleaming hardwood. The nicest locker room he’d ever seen emptied out to a tennis court that looked like it belonged at Wimbledon. Nearby was a plot of white sand with a volleyball net, which led to an Olympic sized swimming pool, surrounded by a tropical landscape filled with bird of paradise and an explosion of exotic flowers that climbed over a tall stretch of formidable fencing. No doubt to keep the VC out and whoever wanted to get out, in. Though, at this point, Jerry couldn’t imagine ever wanting to leave.
“The School is obviously not hurting for funds,” he noted.
“Wait till you see the rest, it only gets better! C’mon!” The doc kept up his running patter until they reached a very modern, highly equipped clinic, complete with a surgical procedure area and recovery unit with seven hospital beds.
All of the beds were occupied. None of the patients looked particularly good with various appendages missing, faces either disfigured or wrapped in gauze, and either appearing comatose or groaning in misery.
“Just think of it,” sighed Miles, almost dreamily. “Think of how much information is in each and every one of these brains, in all of our brains—obviously some of us have more in them than others—but with just the right techniques, which we’re still perfecting…wait. Wait. I have something even better to show you. This way.”
Into an adjacent dental clinic—“also used for research”—they went.
Several chairs were occupied. Each of the “patients” had an attending “doctor.”
Miles, clearly in charge, shooed one of them away.
“Now, Jerry, I know you just got here but given your aptitude for such things I think you’ll find this as fascinating as I do. It’s amazing, absolutely amazing, how cooperative people become with their mouth clamped wide open…” As the wide open mouth he pointed to gagged out a plea for help, Miles launched into a demo of “how just a little water poured down a clamped open mouth can physiologically trigger the choking reflex because, you know, it’s an extraordinarily powerful vulnerability. Remarkable, really, just watch how this tiny bit of water overpowers the brain no matter what…” and as the body in the chair responded as if electrodes had been placed into his head and an electrical switch thrown, Miles exclaimed, “See? POW! BOOM! There goes that choke reflex and your body believes, absolutely believes it is dying. You’re not of course—see, he’s not really dying—but you are drowning as far as your brain is concerned and that is all that matters. Amazing isn’t it?”
Apparently, the doc was equally amazed at teeth drilling and how, “It takes really very little actual drilling for nerves once that mouth is clamped open again to get someone saying just about any secret you would want to hear from them. Just think of it…”
The guy kept saying "just think of it" and damn if you didn’t just “think of it” even if you did not want to. Even for Jerry it seemed kind of creepy, and for anyone half normal of course it would be VERY creepy, but the way the doc delivered it you did start to think about it because it sounded kind of scientifically interesting, and if you showed any interest at all he launched into way too many descriptive details that even the famed Ghost Soldier finally needed a break from.
“Thanks, doc, but mind if we move on?” he prompted when Miles started for another chair.
“Oh, sorry! I’m afraid I get carried away sometimes. Once I’m in `The Zone’ I forget that not everyone shares my enthusiasm for my particular area of expertise.”
Given the doc’s motor mouth, Jerry wasn’t sure if he should ask. He did anyway.
“I’m not really into torture.” The assertion was so absurd that Jerry covered his mouth and pretended to cough. “It’s true,” he insisted. “While it might appear otherwise, torture….no, let’s call that persuasion, such a kinder word… is simply a means to an end.” Gone was the Texas twang and so was the cowboy in a lab coat. The Doctor-Doctor was IN. “My expertise, Mr. Prince, is mind control. While interrogation techniques are in the upper echelon of funding and research by the CIA for security purposes, it is, shall we say…” his voice dipped low, confidential, “the meat and potatoes of ISIC, but rather bereft of true intelligence, creativity, and ambition. They can do much better than the silly little demonstrations I tired you with just now. That’s why they hired me. My professional qualifications are quite extensive and I am happy to provide you with a CV, but for now suffice it to say that given your own unique qualifications, we could be quite the Dream Team. That’s what the CIA is banking on—and you can see how heavily that banking is in every direction you look, so…shall we proceed?”
Well. If this didn’t just get more and more interesting. Jerry tipped a pretend hat and affected the Texas twang the doctor had dropped. “Aftah you, doc.”
The doc was enjoying the tour so much Jerry had to wonder how often he got outside company. Not that a school created for perfecting mind control and torture techniques was the sort of place that issued an engraved Open House invitation unless you worked there or were one of the poor saps being worked on.
“About those guys in the beds and dental chairs,” he interjected when the doc paused for a breath, “How did they draw the lucky straws?”
“Primarily they are VC, and any other kind of political opposition to the present regime as you may have ascertained from—”
“But a couple looked, you know, like they could be from other countries.”
“And indeed, they are. Our government’s enemies aren’t restricted to the North Vietnamese.” Miles slid him a sly grin. “You know.”
Jerry chuckled. At least the guy had a sense of humor.
“Makes me wonder who decided I should be put on the payroll instead of being strapped into one of those chairs.”
“It came from the top. The Ambassador. Phillip Jordan.” Stopping at the edge of what looked like a little town square, Miles hastened to add, “But of course I lobbied aggressively on your behalf. After reviewing your records, I helped convince him that you could be invaluable to The School. And Jerry, I truly believe it.”
A spark of something, so deep down he really didn’t know where it came from, maybe from something good that happened in his shitty freakshow of a childhood, felt like a strange little flutter. It was like…like he didn’t want to let the doc down?
At least he didn’t want to kill him. And he did sort of like the place. Even the little village off the town square with more cobblestone streets and tidy white bungalows with red tiled roofs for “staff living quarters” was kind of homey and cute. Certainly, compared to a life of institutions, foster homes and barracks.
“But you won’t live here, of course,” Miles advised him. “This is where the lesser personnel live. Not that they aren’t important. Everyone selected to be a part of The School is important. Like family, just with different roles to play.”
“I’m sure you all get together to play Scrabble on Friday nights.”
Miles guffawed and slapped Jerry on the back. “We always do a head count. You never want to risk being missed!”
From there they veered off in a south-bound direction that eventually led to a jungle path, carefully camouflaged to the naked eye. Gone were the cobblestone streets and walkways. The jungle path ended in a circular clearing that literally reeked of squalor.
“And here we have our lovely Dungeon area. This is where they—they being the hunters and gatherers you will be supervising—initially bring most of the poor souls procured from the Phoenix Program. As you said, one of the CIA’s more effective capture and interrogation programs with their waterboarding and such, but obviously falling short of certain desired outcomes, which isn’t all bad since that is why we have The School. It is like a rather tropical Dickens setting, wouldn’t you say?” He paused just long enough for any personnel within hearing distance to nod. “I am sure that to some degree the prisoners are happy, or let’s say grateful, to be sent to our nice, clean hospital facility if it means leaving the filth and hunger here...” A sniff. Another sniff. “Not to mention the stench! Actually, I am glad to be showing you around as I have not been down here in some time and now that I see how they have let this place go... Yes. I am now, RIGHT NOW, officially declaring this a clean and sanitary dungeon. You—Lieutenant!”
“Sir, yes, sir!”
The 2nd LT that had been summoned gave a sharp salute to the Director of ISIC who had probably never worn a uniform outside of a lab coat.
True to form the doc went into way too much detail about how clean he wanted the place to be by this time tomorrow. Apparently, the dental chair business was common knowledge because the LT blanched and started calling out guys who looked like a crazy anthill of cleaners.
Jerry busied himself with a little tiger cage-to-tiger cage investigation. He was familiar with tiger cages having once visited ugly Con Son Island during his Special Forces training. Most of these were that style with the small concrete trenches and bars on top, typically a regulation 5 feet wide, 6 feet long and 6 feet deep. And, typically, they housed five to seven prisoners that would be poked and prodded and beaten with sticks or rifle butts through the upper grate. Typically.
Some of these weren’t your typical tiger cages. They were smaller, constructed out of bamboo, and looked like they really were built for containing one four-legged animal. The four- legged animal would be able to stand up and lie down. A two-legged human would not ever be able to stand up or ever stretch out lying down. They lay cramped and constricted in their own filth covered in flies. He counted twenty.
Pausing in front of one to get a better look at the emaciated creature in the mud and excrement, the pitiful mewing inside the cramped space was joined by a heavy sigh behind him.
Company. Guess who?
“This is what is left of an evidently brutal interrogation before arriving here. And they expect me to work on this? Ridiculous,” grumbled Miles. “From now on, I’ll be counting on you to bring me much healthier subjects. Especially the intelligent ones. You know, the teachers, lawyers, activists, Buddhists, politicos. That is what we want to work on. You will be much better at this than your predecessor, won’t you?” He actually winked when Jerry frowned. “No, no, no just joking! This poor thing was not your predecessor. Ha-ha got you with that one!”
It kept on like that until Jerry’s head felt like a 33 record spinning on 45. He had a certain feeling, one he hoped was right, that him and the doc would not end up being huge buds, and therefore not hanging out a lot together except for business... at least he hoped so. This place reminded him of a severe grown up version of the worst kind of foster home, where you had to live with the kind of people nobody ever liked to be around and didn’t want at their house, but you’re stuck living together anyway. Sure, you could feel a little bad for some of them, but there were just too many with bad habits, particularly the mean, bullying kind. Just throw that group together running a prison facility in a boring, scary place like this and you had so much potential ugliness right away.
Eventually the endless tour backtracked to where the jungle path began. As if there were a fork in the road determining if you were heading straight to Hell or receiving a heavenly pardon, a north-bound path meandered through a bamboo grove where they crossed a small footbridge and entered another lovely garden, much older than anything they had previously seen. Sited perfectly within the garden was a large marble fountain with cascading water that found its way to a koi pond filled with exquisite koi and inviting, nearby benches. Perhaps fifty feet from the pond was a tall stucco fence with a scrolling iron gate.
“Just so you know, past that gate is another road, a bit rough and only wide enough for a jeep, but it cuts over to the dungeon area, maybe a five minute ride. Close enough to get there quick if need be and far enough away not to hear or smell anything unpleasant. Tell you what, I’ll show you the library and classrooms tomorrow, they are really something, but we’ll wind this up with an introduction to someone who’s looking forward to meeting you.”
Miles swept his hand toward a gleaming-white vintage French Colonial villa with a wide and welcoming veranda. As Jerry took the short flight of broad stairs leading to the expansive porch, he felt an acute sense of anticipation. A large rattan bladed ceiling fan circled slowly over a nearby table with an embroidered tablecloth. Seated at the table was a man of military bearing, smoking an unfiltered, aromatic cigarette, a French Gauloises. Long black hair slicked back, he had an impressive mustache and very white teeth when he smiled, stood, rested the cigarette in a crystal ashtray, and reached over to shake Jerry’s hand.
