[b]Arratzu, Spain[/b] "What do you want from me?" Julio Zuraban groaned, his voice rasping from want of water. He couldn't remember the last time he had been fed. A bruised and cut face once swollen and puffy had shrunk around his cheekbones. Another week without food, without so much as a glass of water, he would be dead. He couldn't wait. "Your resume has a three-year hole since your departure, Senator Zuraban." The ever-smug interrogator, that torturous bastard, reminded, preparing another cocktail of truth serum at his desk in the corner of this 5x6 meter dungeon. A syringe needled pierced the membrane cap of a thimble-sized vial of cloudy white liquid, mixing with the other components within the syringe in a milky cloud as the interrogator drew the plunger up. "I need you to fill that if you'd ever like to leave." Julio knew full well that he would never leave this place; not alive. His first reaction was irritation, he was in fact aggravated that the interrogator could say something so blatantly false to him. Even after half of a dozen mind-burning administrations of truth serum to his spinal column, he still found that such an obvious lie could sting almost as much as the injections.There was no question that Julio would die in this place; no one who had seen the monstrous things carried out within the walls the Institute of Arratzu could ever be allowed to live. Why could they not admit that to him? Why could they not simply give Julio the closure that his days in this office, strapped to this horrible seat bolted unto the cold concrete below, would be his final days? Perhaps this was all part of the punishment: a more subtle castigation than the needle and the fire in his mind - a calculated torment that was so perfectly executed. Or perhaps also that Julio's interrogator was, in a certain respect, being truthful - merciful even. If Julio could tell them what his interrogator wanted to know, he could be free. Free from Arratzu, anyway. And after all he had suffered in this place, it mattered not whether he escaped this place in life or death. "I left Spain by ship from Alicante on the night of August 12th, 1977. I arrived at Bandar Abbas in Persia on the 2nd of September that year. My compatriot was Claude Lemaire. I was Erzurum in April of 1979. The African was Samel..." "I know. You have told me all this many, many times." The interrogator handed the syringe over to his associate to inspect as he approached the seat to which Julio was strapped. "You have told me the same story time and time again, each time without inconsistency. I see no reason to doubt the veracity of your testimony." "Then you know I have committed no crime against the Republic. I have [i]never[/i] colluded with communists." An unfounded fear, I can see now after extensive questioning... but you are hardly innocent. You're an enemy of the state now, Senator. I have no other option than to dispose of you." "Then do it." Julio snarled with grim purpose. "Kill me, and let me be rid of this place." "That comes later." The interrogator denied, refusing Julio even the respite of death, accepting the syringe back from his assistant and twirling the needle-tipped vial in his fingers. "I have one more battery of questioning for you. One more administration." "What for?!" Julio contested, suddenly bolting upright in his seat against the restraints. "You told me yourself! That I have told you everything! I am nothing but a waste of resources! Kill me, damn you!" He struggled against the bindings holding him down into his seat with what little strength was left in him. On the padded strap pulling against his forehead and holding his nape into the headrest, Julio felt a looseness. The strap was by some means unfastened. He could feel it giving slightly against the tugging of his neck. Each strain against the leather band loosened its grip. Slowly but surely the band was coming loose. "This last questioning is simply to iron out any discrepancies among each of your testimonies. Today will be devoted to completing the official statement for the Oficina, and after that, we will be finished here." The interrogator's eyes flitted across the room, to his partner who had gone ahead and begun preparing the antidote injection - the follow-up drug that kept the truth serum from destroying Julio's mind after each interrogation. "No need for that." The interrogator called out, interrupting him. "No antidote this time. This one's going to Doctor Guijon as well." Julio's struggling intensified. "What's wrong, Senator? You said yourself that you did not wish to be a waste of resources, did you not? If we don't need you for further questioning, why then would I waste a vial of the antidote on you?" "Don't listen to him!" Julio pleaded to the assistant. "Prepare an antidote!" The interrogator shot his assistant a dismissive shake of the head, as if to tell him to ignore the whining of a spoiled child. Julio's struggling against the seat, making it clatter and jingle. The seat's base bounced against the bolts holding it down into the concrete, clashing and banging with each jerky motion Julio made. The interrogator sighed at his indignance, and then made his way around to the back of the chair to inject serum into Julio's neck one last time. As the he approached, Julio pushed with all his might against the loosened band against his head. With the most satisfying sensation of loosening, the band gave way under the force of Julio's head. As soon as he felt his head was free, he craned his neck over to his side and swung his face at the interrogator's arm. Instinct guided is open mouth onto his tormentor. With a soft, popping sound, Julio's teeth found their mark on the interrogator's left hand squarely under his pinky finger. The interrogator wailed in anguish as Julio's teeth sunk deeper and deeper into the flesh of his hand, the syringe in his hand fell upon the floor. A salty, metallic bitterness flooded Julio's mouth as his dry mouth was rinsed with the interrogator's blood. Determination and anger kept his jaw clamped down upon his hand, even as the blood trickled down into his throat. The interrogator yanked against Julio's head, but every tug severed bands of tendon and muscle, all of which burned in sharp pain. Julio's canines cut down into his interrogator's carpals, grinding down against the very bone, even as heat beat against Julio's face with his free arm in a desperate bid to free himself. With his jaw locked down on his hand, Julio tugged against the interrogator's hand and threw the rest of his body weight toward him. The chair's bolts strained under the duress before finally slipping out of the concrete. The assistant, thoroughly horrified, watched dopily as the interrogation chair leaned over and fell amidst the struggle. Julio lost his vicelike grip on the interrogator's hand as he fell with the chair, thoroughly mangling the interrogator's hand as he went down. The headrest of the chair collapsed on top of the syringe vial, pulverizing the glass and spraying the hateful truth serum all about the floor in a small puddle mixed with glass shards. The interrogator fell against the cinderblock wall, sliding down as he stared down wide-eyed at the blood-soaked mess that was his left hand. A pair of guards dressed in hermetic rubber suits and gas masks barged through the door and bore witness to the interrogation-gone-awry. Before asking any questions, they bore down upon Julio, blood dripping from his lips, with their cattleprods. It was Julio's turn now to be agonized. "Get him on the bus!" The interrogator shrieked hysterically. "Get him on the bus with the other refuse! Do not let him die! I want him cognizant when Guijon has his way with him!" [b]Port Said, Egypt[/b] A warbling rumble thundered through the bridge of [i]La Ira de Dios[/i] as the propellers of two Halcon fighters buzzed past the Spanish flagship. They displayed their undersides, before soaring back up into the haze of smoke and dust above the twin ports at the mouth of the Suez. Aside from the funnel-esque intake on their undercarriages, their undersides were bare; no ordinance to slow them down in their reconnaissance sorties over the canal. Their first flights had brought good news to Admiral Santin's ears: the Ethiopian formations were largely retreating in the face of the Spanish bombardment. But their good news was soon overshadowed by less fortunate tidings from the battle. Blasts muffled by sheer distance rang across the water from within the city. It could only be the [i]Aksum[/i], returning fire upon the Spanish attackers at last. Santin could not see where the shells landed, even as he scanned across his fleet with a pair of binoculars. But as he searched for the telltale geysers of vaporized water racing skyward, the Spanish admiral witnessed something that could put the entire invasion in jeopardy. Plumes of dust burst forth from buildings on the shore of the canal as a rain of crumbling concrete and debris splashed down into the canal. The Ethiopians were going to seal off the canal. "Carajo!" Santin spat, smashing his binoculars down upon his console. Anemic though the Ethiopian defenders were, they were perhaps more clever than Admiral Santin had given them credit for. They were goading him into their trap, he was certain. The Ethiopians wanted nothing more than for a number of cruisers to storm the mouth of the canal, where they would no doubt fall victim to some trap they had laid for the Spaniards. Unwarranted haste had doomed the Spanish twice this century - one mistake that ended the monarchy at Coquihatville, and another that nearly ended his own life at Helsinki. Santin would not permit another debacle here in the Suez, not when he had other options at his disposal... "Grijalba, put me in contact with General Ponferrada, at once." "Immediately, [i]almirante[/i]." The ensign acknowledged, immediately busying himself with the radio console to reach the general's ship. Santin could do naught but grimace as a second round of explosions dumped ever more debris into the harbor. Every ton of debris that fell into the canal threatened to halt the Spanish advance. It would take but one errant hunk of metal scrap or concrete to block the entire fleet from passing through. Salvage divers with specialized equipment would have a to be procured from Spain to clear the canal again, and that would take days, weeks perhaps. It would give the Chinese time to mobilize and come to Yaqob's rescue. The [i]Aksum[/i] threatened to foil Sotelo's plan for Africa. It had to be destroyed. "[i]Almirante[/i], I have the General on the line." The communications officer reported, his hand cupped over the phone's mouthpiece. Wordlessly, Santin took the phone. "General, do you see what has happened in the canal?" Santin asked, foregoing any sense of pageantry and decorum expected of high-ranking officers meeting with one another. //I have. I heard the Ethiopian vessel open fire.// "That, and they are imploding a number of buildings into the canal. They intend to render the waterway impassible for our fleet, and I fear that if I were to mobilize an assault against the mouth of the canal, they would spring a trap or otherwise hasten their efforts to scuttle the canal." //I see.// "The [i]Aksum[/i] must be neutralized if we are to proceed, and I know of only one option at our disposal to do such a thing." //I understand. Let me get into contact with Madrid and relay our situation to General Velasquez. The Ejercito should be able to prepare a task force and provide insertion by 20:00 local time.// "The Cazadores, I trust?" //Yes. They would be the only ones qualified for such an endeavor.// "Perfect."