Captivity

         Diggs sat on the wrong side of a two-way mirror, bouncing a rubber ball of his reflected forehead. Two in a row.. Three in a row...Four.  He stood, then walked to the glass and rapped lightly with his knuckles.

         “Anybody home?” Hopefully loud enough that someone on the other side might hear.  No response.  He cupped his hands and attempted to peer through.  Blackness.

         “Diggs, you might wanna settle in.  These things can take a while to play out sometimes.  Lie down.  Take a nap.  I'll wake you for the inevitable torture fest.”  Martin grinned slyly like he does when he thinks he's being clever.  “But seriously, you're stressed and that's stressin' me.”  He propped himself up on his elbow, stretched emphatically, then placed his free hand down the front of his pants. “ Hello, boys.”  There was that grin again.

         “Look at you. Leading by example, as always,” Diggs said dryly.

         “As an officer in the naval forces of the United States of America, I strive for excellence every day with regards to my honor, my courage, and even my commitment.”  While the sarcasm in his voice was palpable, he actually was the embodiment of the navy's core values and he did strive for excellence every day.  Lieutenant Jake Martin pawed at his ear, rife with cauliflower, a token hard earned from years of wrestling, first in east Texas and then at the Academy.  The others were beginning to stir now, awoken by the banter.  It was unclear what had been used to incapacitate them.  Halothene, neothyl, penthone... all of these were possible, but why had they gone through the trouble at all.  Petty officer Stokes sat up.

         “Fuck me.  Any chance this is all a bunch of bullshit and I'm actually dreamin' right now?”

Lieutenant Martin attempted a quick pinch, but Stokes was faster and deflected it with a slap. “Fuck off ,sir, respectfully.”  They both smiled.

         The room they were in was completely white on all sides with the exception of a mirror that took up an entire wall.  There did not appear to be any penetrations to their holding chamber.  No apparent ventilation or doors.  The walls, ceiling, and floor all consisted of the same smooth plastic material, and the sides curved together in such a way that there were no corners.  The lighting fixtures were flush with the rest of the ceiling, and emitted an eerie, sanitized white light.

         “I feel like a lab rat,” Diggs said, “and I don't know if they just wanna try some make up on me or if they wanna chop my nuts off and see if I grow tits.”

         “Spoken like a true navy SEAL.  I, on the other hand, like to think of myself as a caged lion.  I may look depressed and pathetic and harmless, but if they open that door, I'm rippin' the face off the first mother fucker I see.”  The lieutenant was no longer smiling.  He continued. “And Diggs, next time you feel the need to vocalize your insecurities, don't.  First, I don't want to hear it. Second, I don't want them to hear it.”  He spoke softly now, not that it mattered.  Normally, he would go out of his way to attend to the needs of his men.  A healthy mental state is imperative for an able warfighter, and venting is an effective way to offload some of that stress.  But not right now.  Not when any weakness could be used to exploit you, to single you out.  Not when every word was being analyzed, and there was no doubt in his mind that someone on the other side of that mirror was listening very closely.  Diggs sat back down, half pouting, and tossed the rubber ball back and forth between his hands.  The rhythm was calming and therapeutic.  Penquite was the first to notice this oddity.

         “Where'd ya get a rubber ball from?”

         Diggs glared, “ I keep one or two stashed up my ass, ya know, just in case I'm in need of a good time.”

         It was Penquite's turn to glass.” Seriously, though.  Where the fuck did you get that thing?”

         Diggs pointed to the far side of the room.  There rested five more rubber orbs, slightly smaller than tennis balls.  Five distinct colors: red, blue, green, yellow, and black.  Penquite went to retrieve one for his own.  “Green's my favorite color.  Dibs.”

         All five of his men were now awake and fully alert, and it was as good a time as any to discuss his expectations for their conduct for the duration of their captivity.

         “Alright, guys.  Huddle 'round and listen up.  As you are all acutely aware, our mission was a giant fuckin' failure.  You are also probably aware that you, and me, and all of us are now prisoners of the country of China.  I think it's quite apparent that we are now stashed in some sort of overtly creepy holding cell.  It's supposed to be unnerving.  Don't let it bother you.  I want to make it clear to each of you that your actions over the past several days have been nothing short of valiant.  You all acted as professionals.  The mission was rushed and fucked and poorly planned from the beginning, but that's the nature of our profession. We don't always have months to spend on work-ups.  We go where our country needs us and when,” the lieutenant looked down briefly, then back at his men.  He'd never realized quite how young they all looked before.  “I expect each of us will endure a certain amount of interrogation.  Torture.  It's likely they will use some certain techniques to get out whatever they can.  Each one of you will abide by the code of conduct to the letter.  No exceptions.  No excuses.  Period.  I want each of you to recite your response to any and all enemy questions.  Once out loud to me, then to yourselves.  It needs to be engrained in a way that you can repeat it regardless of state of mind.  Stokes, recite the fifth article and your response.”

         “Aye, sir.  The fifth article of the Code of Conduct is 'When questioned, should I become a prisoner of war, I am required to give name, rank, service number, and date of birth.  I will evade answering further questions to the utmost of my ability.  I will make no written statements disloyal to my country and its allies or harmful to its cause.' Brendan J. Stokes, petty officer first class, 411394833, July 17, 1987.”

         “Penquite.” Martin gestured to his chief.

         “Jason L. Penquite, chief petty officer, 248593153, June 5, 1988.”

         “Grimshaw.”

         “Kevin C. Grimshaw, petty officer second class, 160992456, February 12, 1990.”

         “Diggs.”

         “Robert P. Digsley, petty officer third class, 751390023, January 15, 1992.”

         “Lin.”

         “Michael C. Lin, petty officer third class, 411232415, March 20, 1993.”

         “Jake T. Martin, Lieutenant,  639599475, January 13, 1985.” Martin nodded, satisfied. 



         There was a click followed by white noise. The sound seemed to be coming from all directions.  The men looked around, startled.  It was an announcing circuit.  More static, then a voice, Chinese and incomprehensible to them all. “Chinese blah blah”  The voice seemed sad.  Why did it seem so sad?