Scarecrow Returns

DRAGON ISLAND 4 APRIL, 1230 HOURS

SCHOFIELD WAS slapped in the face and he awoke.

To find himself handcuffed to a steel bed frame that stood upright. His hands were spread-eagled, cuffed to the upper corners of the old bed frame. His feet were tied to the lower edge of the frame by a rope. He looked like a warped version of Christ on the Cross.

Typhon stood before him. “Wakey, wakey, Scarecrow . . .”

Schofield took in his predicament with not a little horror.

He was bare-chested. The upper half of his one-piece snow-camouflaged drysuit had been slipped off his shoulders and rolled down to his waist in the same way a car mechanic might roll down the upper part of his overalls.

Schofield shivered in the cold.

His parka, weapons belt and combat webbing had all been removed. Curiously, his boots and socks had also been taken, leaving his feet bare. His high-tech wrist guard was also missing but his old Casio digital watch, clearly so crappy it was unworthy of taking, remained on his wrist. His weapons and Maghook were gone, but not his reflective glasses: they had been perched comically on top of his head.

He looked around.

He was in a small room with ceramic tile walls, drains in the floor and showerheads on the walls: a shower room of some sort.

Suddenly, the roar of a crowd came in through the only door to the room. Schofield couldn’t quite get his head around the sound. Cheering?

Typhon slapped him again. Harder. “He’s awake.”

A second man stepped into Schofield’s field of vision.

Schofield recognized him instantly. It was the man who had taunted the Russian president on the video link, the one who called himself the “Lord of Anarchy.”

He was older than Typhon, in his mid-fifties maybe, but he was fit, strong, still in shape. The acid scar on his left jawline was very prominent when seen up close. And his eyes: they were a strange pale gray, oddly hypnotic.

And they weren’t like Typhon’s. They were not psychotic; not empty of pity or care. In fact, they were the opposite of that: this man’s eyes seemed designed solely to detect emotion, feelings, pain. They gleamed with intelligence and they saw right through you. Typhon was an enforcer. This man was something else, something more.

The Lord of Anarchy gazed at Schofield—crucified half-naked on the vertical bed frame—analyzing him, evaluating him.

“So this is the famous Scarecrow,” he said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. My name is—”

“I’m guessing you’re Calderon,” Schofield said. “Marius Calderon. From the CIA.”

Calderon smiled sadly. “That, I fear, is a sliver of knowledge that means you cannot, ever, leave this island alive.”

“You like that piece of knowledge?” Schofield said. “How about this one then: that this whole thing was a CIA setup. You assholes at the Agency let the Russians steal the plans for this facility, knowing that they would build it. That’s how you knew there was an extra sphere down in the bunker, because our people designed this whole complex in the first place. And now that China is an economic powerhouse threatening America’s dominance, you created this fake terrorist army to set off the atmospheric weapon.”

Calderon smiled wanly. “This terrorist army isn’t fake. Its foot-soldiers are real, or at least they think they are part of a real terrorist army.”

“What about you? The ‘Lord of Anarchy?’ Let me guess, that acid scarring on your face isn’t real, is it?”

Calderon touched the foul scarring on his left jaw. “A good bit of plastic surgery, no? It’s like your eyes: it’s all anyone notices. When I go home, my skin will be repaired and my tattoos removed. So, too, these striking gray contact lenses. One does have to be something of a chameleon in this line of work.”

Calderon leaned in close to Schofield, pinned to the bed frame. “In the end, Captain, I do all this, including changing my face, only for the betterment of the United States of America. A newly rich China threatens the livelihood of three hundred million Americans. The Communist Party of China is a brutal and corrupt regime. Do you really want it ruling the world? There are many things wrong with America but as a world leader, we are a much better option than China. But it seems you would prefer to see China as the leading superpower in the world. I thought you were supposed to be fighting for America.”

“I do fight for America,” Schofield said, “but when it comes to the leadership of the world, that’s not for me to decide. If America can’t maintain its dominant status fairly, it doesn’t deserve to be the world’s leader. If America has to annihilate any country that threatens its dominant position, then we’re as bad as the Chinese.”

Calderon nodded. “Then it would seem that you and I are at an ideological impasse. A shame, really. You’re bright and determined. If our goals were aligned, you and I would make a powerful team.”

And right then, quite abruptly, Schofield realized something.

“You haven’t found the spheres yet,” he said. He glanced at Typhon. “That’s why your boy here didn’t kill me on the spot.”

Calderon nodded philosophically. “My men are scouring the island as we speak for your civilian colleagues, Mr. Weinberg of DARPA and Ms. Dawson from the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration.”

Schofield was surprised that Calderon might know Zack’s and Emma’s names. While his own details could be found quite easily on a military database, theirs would have been harder to come by. His surprise must have shown.

“You’re wondering how I know their names,” Calderon said. “You notice details, Captain, even in your current circumstances. I’m impressed. Here is how I know. Lance Corporal?”

At that moment, at Calderon’s call, into the shower room—uncuffed and totally free—walked Mario.

“Mario,” Schofield breathed. “You didn’t . . .”

“He did,” Calderon said. “Shot your other young Marine in the head from point-blank range. Lance Corporal Puzo and I speak the same language. I made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.”

“Mario . . .” Schofield said again.

Mario eyed him indifferently. “Sorry, sir. Had to choose a side and I chose the one I thought would win.”

“And the Kid?”

Mario shrugged. “He died quick.”

“You fucking piece of shit,” Schofield said.

“Captain,” Calderon said, “I know Mr. Weinberg and Ms. Dawson are somewhere on this island—on this base, no less—and my men will find them. But I am hoping that you will assist us in speeding up that process.”

“I can’t see myself doing that.”

“Captain, please,” Calderon chuckled. “You may know my name but you clearly do not know who I am. While you may deplore my methods, over the last nine years, I have personally prevented six 9/11-scale acts of terror on American soil by extracting information from captured terrorists. I am that worst of things: a necessary evil. I am the dark side of America’s psyche.

“And for nearly thirty years now, in my quest to keep America safe, I have been a student of the human mind and the effects of torture on it—how to motivate a captive, how to hurt him, how to give him hope, and in some cases, how to break him. Right now, you need not concern yourself with doing anything to help me. Because what you are about to experience is not about what you will do. It’s what we will do to you in order to get Mr. Weinberg and Ms. Dawson to reveal themselves.”

Calderon nodded to Typhon. The tall XO stretched some duct tape roughly over Schofield’s mouth.

“And solely for my own amusement,” Calderon said as Typhon slid a rolling hand truck under the vertical bed frame, “I intend to break your mind while I torture you.”

Then, led by Marius Calderon—now once again in his role as the Lord of Anarchy—and trailed by the treacherous Mario, Typhon wheeled Schofield’s bed frame out of the shower room, where it was greeted by an enormous cheer from the crowd massed outside.